QfatttcU Hniuetaitg SItbtarg 
 
 3tt)ata, Nem fork 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE 
 
 SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 
 HENRY W. SAQE 
 
 1891 
 
PR 6025.A779G7W ^""'" 
 
 3 1924 013 653 351 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013653351 
 
The Greatest of These 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 THE HOUSE OF MERBILBES 
 
 EXTON MANOR 
 
 THE EUJEST SON 
 
 THE SQUIRE'S DAUGHTER 
 
 THE HONOUR OF THE CLINTONS 
 
 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH 
 
 WATERUEAuS 
 
 UPSIDONIA 
 
 ABINGTON ABBBT 
 
 THE GBAPTONS 
 
 RICHARD BALDOCK 
 
 THE CLINTONS AND OTHERS 
 
The 
 Greatest of These 
 
 By 
 Archibald Marshall 
 
 Author of 
 
 "ExTON Manor," "The SguiRE's Daughter,' 
 
 "The Eldest Son," etc. 
 
 New York. 
 Dodd, Mead and Company 
 
 1919 
 
COPTRIGHT, 1914, B7 
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGB 
 
 I. AFTER CHURCH I 
 
 II. IN gosset's parlour II 
 
 III. MORTON HAS HIS SAY 25 
 
 IV. SIR RICHARD FRENCH 36 
 
 V. MISS BUDD AND MRS. STENNING ... 48 
 
 VI. IN LADY ruth's DRAWING-ROOM . . . 60 
 
 VII. GEORGE BARTON 71 
 
 VIII. A theatre and a chapel .... 86 
 
 IX. DR. MERROW 98 
 
 xT HOME 109 
 
 XL PROBLEMS 123 
 
 XII. THE BALL AND AFTER . . . . .134 
 
 XIII. TWO DISCUSSIONS I46 
 
 XIV. AN ARRIVAL 160 
 
 XV. RODING CHAPEL 174 
 
 XVI. DR. MERROW AND GOSSET . . . . 184 
 
 XVII. PERCY GOSSET 1 99 
 
 XVIII. THE RECTOR AND DR. MERROW . . .213 
 
 XIX. SOME CONCLUSIONS 226 
 
 XX. CHARLES MERROW 234 
 
 XXI. THE YOUNG MAN 249 
 
 XXII. STEPS UP 267 
 
 XXIII. IN THE TRAIN 279 
 
 XXIV. SIR RICHARD AND DR. MERROW . . . 293 
 XXV. THE HOLIDAYS 3OI 
 
 XXVI. DISCOVERIES 314 
 
 XXVII. THE RECTOR AND LADY RUTH . . . 323 
 
 XXVIII. MISS BUDD CONFRONTED .... 335 
 
 V 
 
vi CONTENTS 
 
 CnAPTES '*0E 
 
 XXIX. THE STORY SPREADS . . . . . 349 
 
 XXX. FRIENDS 362 
 
 XXXI. GOSSET AGAIN 377 
 
 XXXII. AT THE RECTORY 388 
 
 XXXIII. MRS. MERROW AND CHARLES .... 4OI 
 
 XXXIV. HOW THEY lOOKED AT IT . . . • 4^1 
 XXXV. THE LAST 422 
 
The Greatest of These 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 AFTER CHURCH 
 
 The choir sang a verse of a vesper hymn, unaccompanied, 
 and the least little shade flat, the schoolmaster, who was 
 also the choir-master, emphasising the tenor part; the con- 
 gregation remained kneeling, while the organist, taking up 
 the last note, rambled softly and lingeringly over the 
 keyboard of the swell, and, upon the raising of heads, broke 
 tumultuously into the March from " Athalie," which he 
 had been practising during the previous week. 
 
 The choir filed out to these triumphant strains. Behind 
 the boys and men walked the curate, a young man with a 
 plain, honest, open-air face, and behind him the Rector, who, 
 from the chancel ' steps, threw a momentary glance down 
 the well-filled nave of the fine church. He was a handsome 
 man of middle-age, with a look of mingled pride and 
 benevolence, answering nicely to the aristocratic and the 
 priestly of which he was compounded. 
 
 The little procession passed the length of the rectory pew, 
 which Was in front of the rest. If the habitually complaisant 
 look on the Rector's face was stamped there in any part by 
 satisfaction in the appearance of his family, which was 
 ensconced there in full force, it was so far justified. His 
 eldest son was like what he must have been himself at 
 twenty-five, but with possibly plainer indications of intellect ; 
 the boy and girl of nine and ten, who stood on either side of 
 their young-looking, pretty mother, had inherited points from 
 both their parents ; the girl of one-and-twenty, who was next 
 to the little boy, had the charm of amiability to give expres- 
 
2 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 sion to her regular and delicately rounded features; the boy 
 of sixteen at the end of the pew, though at a confessedly 
 unhandsome age, showed candour, and the family quality of 
 tractability, which was apparent upon all these young faces. 
 
 The church emptied itself slowly, the Rector's family 
 passing out by a door in the north aisle. A paved path led 
 through the churchyard to a door in an old stone wall, on 
 the other side of which was the large garden of the rectory. 
 
 A bitter wind was blowing, and they hastened with heads 
 bent to get into shelter. The children clung to their mother, 
 who ran with them, all three chattering and laughing. 
 
 One of the choir boys had dropped a hymn-book during 
 the sermqn, and Mr. Vigo, the schoolmaster, had given him 
 " such a look." Their mother did not rebuke them for being 
 on the look-out for such beguiling episodes. She had hardly 
 been able herself to refrain from laughing at Mr. Vigo, who, 
 obviously startled out of sleep, had sat up very suddenly and 
 very straight, looking like nothing so much as an aroused 
 terrier and had ended his glare of reprisal with a deprecatory 
 glance at the rectory pew. 
 
 Once inside the house the slight aroma of ecclesiasticism 
 which had hung about this happy, handsome family in their 
 semi-official pew disappeared. The large drawing-room 
 into which they trooped, to stand for a minute or two before 
 the fire, was richly furnished and bright with flowers, al- 
 though the month was January. All of them were very 
 well dressed, the mother and daughter especially, as if clothes 
 were an important item in their well-being. There were 
 those in the parish of Roding who said that the Rector's 
 family dressed and lived much more expensively than was 
 fitting; but the general opinion was that their position in the 
 world justified such expenditure. 
 
 The Rector was brother to Sir Richard French, and heir 
 to his baronetcy; for Sir Richard was unmarried, and likely 
 
AFTER CHURCH 3 
 
 to remain so. His wife was daughter to the Earl of Hamp- 
 shire; and a temperamental inability to comport herself as 
 the busy wife of a busy clergyman was regarded indulgently 
 for the sake of her title. 
 
 The living of Roding was a poor one, considering the 
 stately church and the bygone importance of the old town; 
 but the rectory was a large Queen Anne house standing in 
 the midst of grounds of some acres in extent, and possessing 
 all the amenities of a not unimportant country house. A 
 few concessions were made to Its clerical character: there 
 were, for instance, no indoor men-servants, and there was 
 supper instead of dinner on Sunday evenings. Otherwise, 
 it was as one of the houses in the country round, and treated 
 as such by the country neighbours. 
 
 The Rector, however, took his profession seriously, was 
 diligent in good works, and never forgot that he was a priest 
 as well as a gentleman. 
 
 In a few minutes the group in the drawing-room was 
 joined by George Barton, the curate, who came in, and was 
 greeted as if he were one of the family. He wore a frock 
 coat, and a white tie round a high layman's collar. 
 " Where is father? " asked Sylvia, the elder girl. 
 " Miss Budd had something to say to him," replied 
 Barton. 
 
 Lady Ruth threw up her eyes. The two children looked 
 at her and at one another with eager amusement. Ronald, 
 the second boy, said ' in a voice of mimicry, but without 
 smiling: " Mr. French, I think it my duty to tell you, as 
 Rector of this parish, that the bag was handed to me this 
 evening by a sidesman with soiled finger-nails. I mention 
 no names, but I think it is right that you should know of 
 these things." 
 
 "What's the trouble this time, George?" asked Ralph, 
 the eldest son. 
 
4 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 " I don't know that there's any trouble." 
 
 " You have no observation, George," said Ronald. " You 
 could have told by the w^ay her upper lip fitted on to her 
 low^er." 
 
 " Well, I hope she won't keep him long," said Lady Ruth. 
 " We must go up. Sylvia, I am not going to dress. It is 
 too cold." 
 
 George Barton went up to Ralph's room with him. They 
 were of about the same age, and had been friends at school, 
 and at Cambridge. Barton was a distant cousin of Lady 
 Ruth's. 
 
 " I heard rather an interesting piece of news this after- 
 noon," he said as he washed his hands, while Ralph quickly 
 changed his clothes. "Who do you think is coming here 
 as minister at the chapwl ? " 
 
 "How should I know?" 
 
 " Dr. Merrow — Dr. Edgar Merrow." 
 
 " The man who preached for them in the summer, that 
 they had all the bills out about ? " 
 
 " Yes. I met Gosset this afternoon. He was in a great 
 state of excitement about it. He said, ' Well, Mr. Barton, 
 you're not going to have it all your own way now. The great 
 Dr. Merrow has accepted a call to our church, and will 
 commence his ministry in a month's time.' " 
 
 " What on earth can he be coming here for? They only 
 paid old Thompson a hundred and twenty a year. Hasn't 
 this chap got a big place in London ? " 
 
 " I hadn't time to talk long with Gosset, and he was so 
 full of the idea of crowing over me that I didn't want to, 
 much. I gathered that Dr. Merrow was ordered rest, but 
 didn't want to give up his preaching altogether. He wants 
 a quiet healthy place to settle down in. He has taken 
 ' The Limes.' " 
 
AFTER CHURCH 5 
 
 " Oh, then he must have money of his own. They couldn't 
 pay him enough for that." 
 
 "According to Gosset, his wife is an heiress; 'equal to 
 the highest,' he told me. I think that was a slap at Cousin 
 Ruth." 
 
 " Gosset is an offensive beast. There was a fellow called 
 Merrow who was President of the Union in our first term. 
 I think he was at the Hall." 
 
 " Yes, that's Dr. Merrow's son. Dr. Merrow was at 
 Oxford himself. I had it all from Gosset, whose idea 
 seems to be that Oxford is rather a higher class place than 
 Cambridge, and that the Rector and I will have to sing small 
 on that account." 
 
 " I don't know that you sing very loud as it is, old chap. 
 Dad was on very good terms with old Thompson. I hope 
 this chap won't want to be always fighting." 
 
 " I don't think so. From what I've heard I should say 
 he's one of the best of them. Besides, we're not extreme 
 in any way. We do our job as well as we can, and don't 
 worry about controversy." 
 
 Ralph looked at him with a smile of affection. " There's 
 plenty to do without quarrelling, isn't there, George? " he 
 said. 
 
 " Lots to do," said Barton, simply. " Religious con- 
 troversy is a pestilent business." 
 
 Supper was over and they were all in the drawing-room 
 again before the Rector came in. There had been much 
 conjecture as to what could have kept him. 
 
 Lady Ruth went out to him in the hall when she heard 
 him open and shut the door. It was past half-past nine. 
 
 He kissed her, when he had hung up his coat and hat. 
 His face was disturbed. 
 
 " What is it, Henry ? " she asked him. 
 
'6 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 " A bad business, my dear. Come and sit with me while 
 I eat my supper, and I'll tell you all about it." 
 
 She saw that he was supplied with what he wanted, told 
 the maid not to wait, and sat down near him. 
 
 " I wish the news had not come through Miss Budd," 
 he said. " She will make the most of it." 
 
 " You are not bothered about this Dr. Marrow who is 
 coming here, are you ? " she asked. 
 
 He laughed. " Oh, no," he said. " There is nothing 
 disturbing about that. I met him, you know, when he 
 preached here, and was inclined to like him. No ; it is 
 something that I am glad doesn't often happen in Roding. 
 You know that girl, Jane Morton, Miss Budd's maid? " 
 
 " Yes ; a pretty girl, I should have liked to have her here. 
 She is not ill, is she ? " 
 
 " She is in trouble. You know what that means." 
 
 "Oh, Henry!" 
 
 Her face was suffused. She looked shocked, and deeply 
 distressed. 
 
 " Miss Budd sent her home this afternoon. I have been 
 to see her. Her father and mother are terribly upset. They 
 are very respectable people; he works for Wetton. Do you 
 know them — they live out on the Harbury Road? " 
 
 " I don't think I do. But she was such a bright, well- 
 spoken girl. Oh, I am so sorry." 
 
 " I am afraid she has been what they call flighty, or this 
 wouldn't have happened. Miss Budd declares that they let" 
 her go out to service because they could riot look after her 
 at home,' and that she knew it when she took her, a year ago. 
 She is the only child, and would naturally be at home, for 
 Morton is Wetton's foreman, and they are quite well off." 
 
 " She is quite young, isn't she, Henry — not more than 
 eighteen or nineteen ? " 
 
 " She is not quite twenty yet." 
 
AFTER CHURCH 7 
 
 "Poor child! How cruel it is! " 
 
 She had not asked him what she might have been expected 
 to ask. He paused a moment before saying, almost 
 awkwardly: " She says that it is young Gosset. Miss Budd 
 got it out of her before she sent her away." 
 
 "How dreadful!" she said. "And I have always liked 
 him too, — much better than his father. Henry, need Miss 
 Budd have sent her away so quickly? " 
 
 " I'm afraid you must not look for any kindly action on 
 Miss Budd's part in a case like this. She is angry with the 
 girl, but still more anxious, I think, that trouble should 
 come of it for Gosset. I shall have to go to him to-morrow 
 morning and see what can be done." 
 
 "But what can be done? Shall I go and see the girl, 
 Henry? She must be in such terrible distress; and her poor 
 mother too. I think I remember her. She would not mind 
 my going, would she? She would know I only wanted to 
 be kind." 
 
 " Yes, go, my dear. The mother is very angry with 
 her now; she thinks only of the disgrace to her respect- 
 ability. She even talked of sending the girl away at once, 
 to-morrow, until after the child is born. But I persuaded 
 her to do nothing for the present." 
 
 " It is natural that she should be very much upset. 
 But with what the girl must go through it would be cruel 
 to send her away. She will want all the love and sympathy 
 that she can get. I am sure her mother will feel that when 
 she has had time to get over this shock. It will be some- 
 thing, perhaps, if I can show her that I feel very much for 
 both of them; that other women will be sorry, and not 
 hold aloof from them." 
 
 " My dear," he said, " it will be the best thing that you 
 can do. If you are kind to them others will be less likely 
 to hold aloof. Take it for granted that her mother will 
 
8 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 keep her at home. But I know you will do and say exactly 
 the right thing." 
 
 The three men were smoking in the Rector's study, later. 
 
 " Percy Gosset isn't a bad fellow," said George Barton, 
 in his slow way. " If I had only had him with the rest I 
 don't believe this would have happened." 
 
 " You don't keep your clubs to the boys who go to church, 
 do you ? " asked Ralph. 
 
 " Oh no. But Gosset has always prevented Percy from 
 coming. I had a talk with him about it in the autumn. 
 Percy played cricket all the summer; he shaped very well; 
 I made friends with him, because I liked him. He wanted 
 io join the club for the winter, and thought I might be able 
 to persuade his father to let him. But it was no' use. 
 Gosset seemed to think that I wanted to proselytise, as he 
 called it. He said that there was plenty going on in con- 
 nection with the chapel, and he wanted his son to throw 
 himself into that, — to follow in his own steps, he said. I 
 saw it was no use persisting, so I had to leave it." 
 
 " I shall have a difficult task with Gosset," said the 
 Rector. " He doesn't seem to be able to get it out of his 
 head that we live in a state of constant rivalry with him 
 and his chapel; and I am afraid he will think I am seizing 
 the opportunity to belittle him." 
 
 " Especially as he is so exalted at the moment about this 
 Dr. Merrow coming to Roding," said Ralph. 
 
 " What are you going to say to Gosset, Cousin Henry? " 
 asked Barton. " What can he do? " 
 
 " Do you want young Gosset to marry the girl ? " asked 
 Ralph. 
 
 The Rector turned uneasily in his chair. " No," he said 
 shortly, " I want him not to. How old is he? Just over 
 twenty, they tell me. God knows I don't make light of 
 his fault. But I don't want his life spoiled by it. They 
 
AFTER CHURCH 9 
 
 would have nothing in common; they might be very un- 
 happy together. The girl is attractive, but I don't like her. 
 I don't thinK she is straight." 
 
 There was a slight pause. " You are not likely to have 
 much difficulty with Gosset then," said Ralph. 
 
 " That's what I don't know. A man like that — frankly, 
 I don't understand his religious attitude. You know that 
 he gave up the off-license that he had in connection with 
 his shop a year or two ago. He certainly lost money over 
 it; all that trade goes to Barrow now. He issued a letter 
 to his customers in which he explained his reasons, very 
 temperately, not taking too much credit to himself for an 
 act which he said his conscience induced him to take. You 
 can't tell what a man like that may feel himself obliged to 
 do. I shall have to be careful. I shall not mention marriage 
 at all, unless he does. If I took up a common-sense position, 
 he would be likely to oppose it with one based on -strict 
 religious views, for the sake of making me look- like a man 
 guided purely by a spirit of worldliness. That is his view of 
 me and of the Church. We are opportunists. It is in the 
 sects only that true Christianity is upheld." 
 
 " I don't think you will have much difficulty with him," 
 said Ralph again. " He is much more likely to deny the 
 whole thing. I suppose you are sure that it is young Gosset ? " 
 
 " Yes, I am sure. It is the boy I am thinking of, more 
 than anybody. George, I want you to get hold of that boy. 
 He will be in great disgrace, with his father, and with all 
 the people about him. Gosset has made him teach in their 
 Sunday school, even preach, I believe, in outlying villages. 
 Probably he is quite unfitted for it all. I hardly know him, 
 but he looks to me like an ordinary, natural young fellow 
 who would be much better employed, at his age, in playing 
 games, and working off his steam in that way. From what 
 ^I know of their ways they will turn him out of all the 
 
lo THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 occupations they have given him. He will be at a loose 
 end. It will be the turning-point of his whole life. He 
 may very well go wrong altogether. Make a friend of him ; 
 get him to occupy himself. Don't make light of his fault — 
 I know you won't do that — but try and restore him to his 
 self-respect. That's what I really want to do with Gosset 
 — persuade him to let you have your chance with him." 
 " I'll do what I can," said Barton. 
 
CHAPTER H 
 IN GOSSET'S PARLOUR 
 
 The Rector shut to the door of his house and stepped out 
 into the clear winter sunshine. The storm had blown itself 
 out during the night and the air was still, though sharply 
 prophetic of frost to come. 
 
 The broad front of the rectory faced on to a cobbled 
 square. In front of it was a row of pollard limes; on the 
 other side, the buildings of the old grammar school stretched 
 their mellowed gabled length, and gave access to the square 
 by a doorway leading from the school-yard. The front of 
 the school was on the street on the other side, but a stretch 
 of pavement running under the wall was a favourite per- 
 ambulatory of the masters. The boys were not allowed to 
 play in the square, which was as quiet as if it had been 
 some cathedral close or college court. At one end of it 
 rose the fine tower of the church, at the other was a little 
 low-bred shop of antiquities, with a flagged passage running 
 between it and the high wall of the rectory garden, and 
 leading to the busier streets of the town. 
 
 The Rector took this passage and came out into the 
 High Street, already in the flush of its Monday morning 
 activities. He received many greetings, from tradespeople 
 busy about their door and shop)-fronts, and from their assist- 
 ants, whose eagerness to set about another week's work after 
 the Sunday's rest was probably less than that of their mas- 
 ters, but who yet showed some slight exhilaration at the 
 welcome gift of January sunshine. 
 
 The Rector accepted salutations with an air of cordial 
 
12 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 condescension. He was on good terms with his parishioners, 
 who were proud of his handsome appearance, his aristo- 
 cratic connections, and even of his slightly patronising man- 
 ner, and liked to see him going about the streets of their 
 old town, of which they were also proud, on his pastoral 
 duties. 
 
 No one stopped him as he walked down the High Street. 
 That would hardly have been done, although, if he had 
 chosen himself to stop for a word or two with one or another, 
 no press of business would have stood in their way of a chat 
 as long as he might have liked to make it. This morning he 
 would not have been averse to being stopped. He wanted 
 to know whether the story that had been brought to him 
 was yet common property. 
 
 Apparently it was not, for he detected nothing unusual 
 in the manner of the salutations accorded to him, unless it 
 was a slight surprise at seeing him about the town at such 
 an early hour of the morning. 
 
 He went in at the open door of a large double-fronted 
 shop, outside of which was boldly illuminated the legend: 
 " Samuel Gosset, Grocer and Provision Dealer." Two 
 carts, with the same inscription painted on them, stood in 
 the roadway opposite, ready for their distributive journeys. 
 Inside the shop, crowded with orderly merchandise, was 
 much running to and' fro of white-aproned and white- 
 jacketed young men under the capable superintendence of 
 Mr. Gosset himself, sleek, grey-bearded, smooth-voiced, 
 dressed in two parts of a suit of black, with an apron to 
 cover it, and shirtsleeves rolled up in spite of the chill air. 
 
 One of the white-clad young men beat a hasty retreat- 
 into the back premises upon the Rector's appearance; he 
 caught no more than a glimpse of him. 
 
 Gosset came forward. " Good-moming, Mr. French," 
 he said, with a friendly smile, in which there was a touch 
 
IN GOSSET'S PARLOUR 13 
 
 of gratification, " you have caught me hard at it ; but you 
 won't expect me to apologize for that, I know." 
 
 " I wanted to have a word with you, Mr. Gosset." 
 
 "Certainly, sir; come in here, if you please. I'll just 
 give an order or two and be with you in a moment." 
 
 He showed his visitor into a room, half office, half parlour, 
 and left him there. There was a large desk with many 
 papers on it, and with ledgers on brass rails above. On the 
 walls were pictorial advertisement cards and almanacs, inter- 
 spersed with Biblical mottoes, framed, and decorated either 
 with pictured flowers, mountain scenery, or churches and 
 churchyards under snow. On a table were books and printed 
 papers, wholesale catalogues alternating with the proceedings 
 of religious societies, trade papers with those devoted to the 
 weekly amelioration and encouragement of the collective soul 
 of the community. Above the mantelpiece was a large archi- 
 tectural drawing, showing plans and elevations of the 
 building in which Mr. Gosset worshipped, and occasionally 
 officiated. 
 
 The Rector was left alone long enough to reflect that 
 the occasion of his visit could not yet be known, and that 
 the coming interview would therefore be the more diffi- 
 cult. 
 
 Gosset came in and shut the door. " Well, Mr. French," 
 he said, rubbing his cold hands together, " you will have 
 heard our great news. I had the pleasure of introducing you 
 to Dr. Merrow last year, but little thought then that we 
 should have had the honour of welcoming him permanently 
 amongst us. I look for great things from his ministry, Mr. 
 French. We want waking up, sir, all of us, church and 
 chapel alike, and this is the man to do it — a scholar and a 
 gentleman, and what's a great deal more than either, a man 
 of great spiritual power and fervour." 
 
 " I shall be glad to welcome Dr. Merrow when he comes," 
 
14 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 said the Rector. " But I haven't come to talk about him, 
 Mr. Gosset, A very painful thing has happened, vi^hich I 
 see I must bfe the first to break to you. I am very sorry to 
 have to do so — very sorry indeed — a little for my own 
 sake, but a great deal more for yours." 
 
 He spoke in his usual full-throated, rather domineering 
 voice, which had always had its effect on this listener, causing 
 him many a time to defer unwillingly to implied superiority, 
 in circumstances in which he would have preferred to bear 
 himself as an equal. 
 
 But there was sympathy in this speech, as well as authority. 
 Gosset's face changed, showing apprehension, and a hint of 
 watchfulness. 
 
 " It is about your son. He has made friends with a young 
 girl — ^Jane Morton. She is in trouble; she accuses him." 
 
 Whatever Gosset may have expected, it had been nothing 
 of this sort. He started and crimsoned. 
 
 " What, Percy ! " he exclaimed. " What are you saying, 
 Mr. French ? Who has told you this wicked lie ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid it is the truth. I saw the girl last night." 
 
 " She said it was he? She was not telling the truth. He 
 has been brought up in a God-fearing home; he has already 
 begun to throw himself into religious work. Oh, it is a 
 monstrous accusation ! Who is this girl ? I don't know her 
 name. Who is she, Mr. French ? " 
 
 He spoke with strong indignation, and suddenly, as if 
 he had just become aware that this was a matter in which 
 he must be supported by a sense of his own -dignity, he 
 whipped off his white apron, then rolled down his shirt- 
 sleeves and put on the frock coat which was hanging behind 
 the door. 
 
 " She is the daughter of Wetton's foreman. I believe 
 they have not been very long in Roding." 
 
 Gosset turned round sharply; he was just taking his coat 
 
IN GOSSET'S PARLOUR i5 
 
 off the hook. " Oh, then I do know who she is," he said. 
 " I remember her name now. She is Miss Budd's servant. 
 She came to our chapel one evening for the week-night serv- 
 ice, and I had a little talk with her as she went out. Then 
 that accounts for it. It is Miss Budd who has told you this 
 story, Mr. French; and you have accepted it from her, as 
 against me, without any further corroboration." 
 
 " Mr. Gosset, I am afraid there is no doubt of what the 
 truth is. Your son has been with this girl a good deal of late. 
 You can satisfy yourself of that; he has " 
 
 Gosset broke in upon him with sharp emphasis: " Miss 
 Budd would rejoice beyond everything in doing damage 
 to me and the cause I represent. It is she who has put 
 this story into the girl's mouth. I say it is a wicked false- 
 hood, Mr. French, and it ill becomes you as a minister of 
 religion to accept the word of a woman of that character 
 against a man whose earnest desire it is to uplift the lives 
 of those about him — a man whom you don't see eye-to-eye 
 with — I know that well enough — but " 
 
 The Rector held up his hand authoritatively, making 
 his voice heard through the flood of angry speech poured 
 out by the other, and bringing it to a stop. " Mr. Gosset," 
 he said, " I beg you to hear me out. This is not a question 
 of taking the word of a third party; I would not dream of 
 doing such a thing in a case like this. I have told you that 
 I have seen the girl myself. I am convinced that her story 
 is true. Your son has written her letters — compromising let- 
 ters. They can only bear one interpretation." 
 
 Gosset's face showed him to have been hit. " Where 
 are the letters?" he asked. " I can't believe that they can 
 prove him to have been so wicked." 
 
 " I am afraid they do prove what I have told you. I 
 have them in my keeping." 
 
 " Have you got them here, Mr. French ? " 
 
1 6 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 " No. They are locked up. I don't wish to show them 
 to you; I don't wish to show them to anybody. When 
 the time comes I will destroy them. If you like, I will do 
 so in your presence." 
 
 " How did they come into your possession, Mr. French? 
 Did this girl give them to you ? " 
 
 " Miss Budd gave them to me. She found them yesterday 
 afternoon. I asked her to let me have them, and asked her 
 also to promise me to mention them to nobody; which she 
 did." 
 
 " Miss Budd ! " said Gosset bitterly. " It comes back 
 to Miss Budd. Yes, sir, if this story were true, she would 
 very readily promise not to mention finding letters. No 
 doubt, when the girl was out, she went searching about in 
 her room; it is what she would do." 
 
 " It is what she did do," said the Rector uncompromis- 
 ingly. " She gave me reasons for having done so, but I 
 neither defend nor censure her action. It need not concern 
 us in so serious a matter." 
 
 "Pardon me, Mr. French; it concerns me very deeply. 
 Miss Budd nourishes the deepest enmity towards me and 
 all that I represent. She would stick at nothing to damage 
 me. She poses as a strict supporter of — of your denomi- 
 nation, and I don't blame you for shielding her up to a 
 certain point. But " 
 
 Again the Rector broke in on him and bore him down. 
 " Mr. Gosset, let us leave questions of denomination aside ; 
 they have nothing whatever to do with this affair. In so 
 far as I have acted at all, I have acted with a view of 
 sparing you as much distress as possible, and my only desire 
 in coming here is to be of service to you and to your son. 
 He has committed a grave fault and must bear the conse- 
 quences of it; but while I blame him I am sorry for him. 
 And I want to do what I can to put him right with himself." 
 
IN GOSSET'S PARLOUR 17 
 
 " If it is true," said Gosset, more quietly, " it is not him- 
 self he wants to be put right with ; it is the righteous God he 
 has offended. But I don't yet believe it is true, Mr. French," 
 he added, raising his voice again. " You won't let me say 
 what I have in my mind " 
 
 " No, I won't let you say it. It is not worthy of you. 
 You can satisfy yourself of the truth of what I tell you very 
 easily. Send for your son. Ask him whether it is true or 
 not. Ask him now." 
 
 Gosset was silent, his eyes bent on the ground, his face 
 troubled. 
 
 He raised his eyes, and there were opposition and jealousy 
 in them. " If this is true, Mr. French," he said, " it is a 
 very dreadful thing. Of course I shall speak to Percy, and 
 get the truth out of him; and then I shall take what steps 
 appear to me to be best. I can't say anything more to you 
 at present — except that I should like to have those letters, if 
 you please. They ought to be in my hands, not yours." 
 
 "Why, Mr. Gosset?" 
 
 " Because they concern me and my family, and no one 
 else. I suppose I ought to thank you for getting them 
 from Miss Budd, and keeping them safe; well, I do thank 
 you. But, if you'll excuse me saying so, this is a matter 
 for me now, not you." 
 
 " I can't take that view, Mr. Gosset. There is not only 
 you to consider, nor even you and your son. There is the 
 girl herself, and her parents. The punishment will fall 
 more hardly on them than on you; you mustn't forget that. 
 I have said very little about that side of the question; but 
 it cannot be ignored." 
 
 The knowledge of the disgrace that was coming upon 
 him suddenly overcame Gosset. He had ceased to dis- 
 believe, or to affect to disbelieve the story. He wrung his 
 hands. " Oh, how can you say that the punishment will 
 
i8 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 fall more heavily on them ? " he cried. " It will fall on 
 me terribly. It will give all my enemies occasion to 
 blaspheme. I have many enemies — ^you know that I have, 
 Mr. French — people I've never wronged in any way, but 
 who hate me for the good work I am doing — people like 
 Miss Budd — even you yourself, you would be glad if I 
 were less active " 
 
 " You are talking foolishly. No man is hated for doing 
 good work. As for me, I bear no enmity towards you; it 
 is a very unfair thing to say. I have never shown it, or 
 felt it. My own work keeps me very fully employed; I 
 am not always thinking, as you seem to suppose, of the few 
 people here in Roding, like yourself, who prefer other forms 
 of religion. If there is any rivalry, it is on your side, and 
 not on mine. Let us leave your religious activities out of 
 the question." 
 
 Gosset was hardened by this speech, which did not 
 altogether lack the note of arrogance. " We have been a 
 small folk," he said with some stiffness, " but in the time 
 that is coming we shall be stronger. The Church has been 
 all-powerful here; but places like Roding do not represent 
 the religious life of the country. We shall fall more intp 
 line with the centres of thought. In my humble way I 
 shall have a share in the changes that are coming, and you 
 will not expect me, Mr. French, to shrink from speaking 
 plainly to you, as I have always done; although nothing 
 need be said or done that would cause either of us to forget 
 our common Christianity." 
 
 " No, it need not," said the Rector, with some impatience. 
 " Gosset, I wish you would put these matters out of your 
 head. They have nothing whatever to do with what I 
 have come here about. I can see as plainly as you can 
 that, coming just at this time, when you are preparing to 
 welcome your new minister, this affair must be peculiarly 
 
IN GOSSET'S PARLOUR 19 
 
 distressing to you, and you have my fullest sympathy on 
 that account. But you have done nothing wrong, man. 
 Act rightly in this matter, and no one will have cause to 
 blame you in any way. As far as it rests with me, I shall 
 take care that they do not." 
 
 Gosset put this aside. " Well," he said, with a motion 
 of his head, " I must accept what God has sent me. We 
 need not talk about that. These letters — I hope you will 
 see that it is right that I should have them." 
 
 " I don't see that it is right, and they will remain in 
 my keeping." 
 
 Gosset rose from his chair. " Then in that case, Mr. 
 French," he said, " you are acting towards me with hostility. 
 I must take my own line, and if it brings me up against 
 you, I can't help it." 
 
 The Rector sat still. " Just think a bit," he said, with 
 unmoved countenance. " I have got those letters away 
 from those who might have used them in a way very painful 
 to you. I have seen these Mortons — the girl's father and 
 mother — ^who have it in their power to damage you vindic- 
 tively, and for the moment they will do nothing without my 
 advice. Does that look like acting out of hostility to you? 
 They are the injured parties — not you — and I might very 
 well have taken their side, as against you and your son. I 
 should have done that if I had been actuated by the petty 
 jealousy that you seem determined to lay to my charge. 
 Can't you see that I am doing what I can to help you, and 
 put some confidence in me? " 
 
 " Well, sir, what you say is true up to a certain point," 
 said Gosset unwillingly. " What is It you want of me ? " 
 
 " I want you to send for your son. We are losing time. 
 The story must be spreading, even now while we are sitting 
 here talking." 
 
 " What do you want him to do ? What are you going 
 
20 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 to say to him? Oh, what a terrible thing it is! It is 
 overwhelming me." 
 
 " Send for the boy, Gosset. Send for him now, at once." 
 
 Gosset was conquered by his insistence, and by the re- 
 minder that events were moving. He went to the door and 
 called loudly for his son. 
 
 " I will speak to him," he said, coming back into the 
 room. " Let me speak to him, sir." 
 
 The boy came in. > He was a good-looking boy, with 
 fair hair and blue eyes, and looked younger than his years. 
 He was as white as the clothes he was wearing. There was 
 little need for any one to speak to get at the truth. 
 
 " Is this story I have heard of you true? " his father asked 
 him severely. 
 
 " Yes," he said, in a frightened whisper. 
 
 " You have deceived me and deceived God, and while 
 you professed to be leading a clean life, and showing others 
 the way of salvation, you have been a hypocrite, committing 
 the deepest and most horrible of sins. How long has this 
 been going on ? " 
 
 " I met her first at the Harvest Festival, in September." 
 
 He faced his father, and spoke in a stronger voice, as if 
 bracing himself to make a clean breast of it. 
 
 " Ah ! You asked me to let you go to church that evening, 
 I remember you wanted to hear the special preacher, you 
 said. And what you really wanted was to meet this girl." 
 
 " No, father. I met her afterwards, coming out." 
 
 "Well, it's all one. And it shows the effect that such a 
 service has. These excitements are not part of true religion. 
 If I had only been faithful enough to refuse permission — 
 not to have let you desert, even once, the simple service of 
 praise and supplication that gives us such strength against 
 evil!" 
 
 The Rector sat silent, but his brows were bent in a frown. 
 
IN GOSSET'S PARLOUR 21 
 
 " Well then, you began to sin then ; and you have gone on 
 sinning ever since — deliberately sinning; while all the time 
 you were professing to lead a religious life, encouraging me 
 to believe that you were becoming more and more bound up 
 in the things that really matter — teaching the young, all the 
 time foul with sin yourself, going off to lead services, and 
 perhaps even — I don't know — meeting this woman on your 
 way there and back. Did you do that ? " 
 
 " I only went once — to Blaythorpe — ^just after. When 
 you wanted me to go to Kimmering, I said I would rather 
 not." 
 
 " Don't add prevarication to your sin. Did this girl go 
 with you to Blaythorpe? " 
 
 " Yes, she did. It was before there was anything 
 wrong." 
 
 " Before there was anything wrong! You say that! And 
 you met her coming out of church, spoke to her, concealed 
 everything! Why did you conceal it if there was nothing 
 wrong?" 
 
 " Mr. Gosset," said the Rector, " I think it is clear what 
 he means. He would not have taken her to a religious 
 service after their relations with one another had become 
 guilty. He refused to hold a service after that; he was 
 not willing to add hypocrisy to his sin." 
 
 The boy threw a grateful look at him. " I am very sorry 
 for what I have done," he said with a choke. " I have been 
 very unhappy about it for a long time. I'm glad it has all 
 come out. I couldn't go on living as I have been." 
 
 He broke down and shed tears. They did not seem 
 unworthy of him; he was just like a boy had up before his 
 elders for a boyish fault. 
 
 " Well, what do you propose to do now ? " asked his 
 father rhetorically. 
 
 " I will marry her,'' said the boy, still weeping. " I know 
 
22 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 I've done wrong, and it's much worse for her than it is for 
 me. I'll make up to her for it all I can." 
 
 Gosset's face was dark. " Marry her ! " he exclaimed. 
 " You marry ! What will you marry on, I should like to 
 know. Am I to keep you and the partner of your crime, 
 and let you both mix with your innocent brothers and sisters? 
 You think that's the Way out of it? " 
 
 The Rector was conscious of a feeling of relief, mixed 
 with slight disgust. 
 
 Gosset roused himself suddenly. " You can go away," 
 he said roughly. " I can't bear the sight of you. Take 
 off that jacket and apron. Go up to your room, and don't 
 leave it till I come to you." 
 
 He seemed a different man, violent and vulgar. The 
 boy turned away to obey him, and then turned again towards 
 the Rector. " I'm very sorry for what I've done, Mr. 
 French," he said. " I'll do all I can to put it right, if 
 you'll talk it over with father. And I haven't wanted to 
 act the hypocrite." 
 
 He seemed about to say more, but his father broke in 
 on him harshly, and he obeyed his command and left the 
 room. 
 
 " He is sorry," said the Rector, immediately the door 
 had been shut. " Don't be too hard on him, Gosset. He 
 is very young, and I think we may say he has been led 
 away, though the girl is no older. Help him out of his 
 trouble." 
 
 " Yes, of course he has been led away," said Gosset, 
 still speaking roughly. " They are a wicked lot, many of 
 the girls in the town, and it's done this one no good to be 
 in service where she has, I'll be bound. But it's no excuse 
 for him that he's been led away. Marry her, indeed! A 
 pretty thing for me to have a woman like that for my 
 daughter-in-law! A pretty figure I should cut! Might 
 
IN GOSSET'S PARLOUR 23 
 
 as well go away from the place altogether, and own that 
 all I've been trying to do here is useless." 
 
 The Rector felt himself increasingly hostile, but kept his 
 feelings under. " I don't think it is necessary or desirable 
 that he should marry her," he said, " though his desire to 
 do so does him credit." 
 
 " Does him credit! " repeated Gosset contemptuously, and 
 with a look of dislike and strong opposition. " It would 
 suit you, Mr. French, wouldn't it, if I were to be saddled 
 with a woman like that for my daughter-in-law? All the 
 people who go to church would be able to point their fingers 
 at me — Miss Budd, and the rest of them. I should be a man 
 whose power had gone — moved out of the way — put out 
 of action." 
 
 " Whatever power you may have, Gosset, isn't increased 
 by an attitude like that," said the Rector quietly. " You 
 were talking in a very different strain just now." 
 
 Gosset passed his hand across his brow, and seemed to make 
 an effort to recollect himself. " I get carried away," he said, 
 in a quieter tone. " It's all very well for you to take it 
 coolly, Mr. French, but this is a very terrible blow to me, 
 and I can't see my way at all plainly. It keeps on coming 
 over me, what a frightful disgrace it is." 
 
 " I believe if you were to think less of yourself, and more 
 of others who are concerned, it might not be so difficult to 
 see your way. You don't think of marriage as a solution. 
 Very well; I agree with you, though not for the same rea- 
 sons as appeal to you. I think it might be a life-long 
 punishment for a slip made in youth and already repented 
 of — a. punishment that should be averted. But '' 
 
 " A slip you call it ! " said Gosset. " I call it a deep 
 and almost unforgivable sin against a just and offended God. 
 I'll have no palliation of such an offence, Mr. French. Our 
 ,ways of looking at these things are different." 
 
24 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 " They are different," said the Rector, not without indig- 
 nation. " As far as I can see, you have given no thought 
 wrhatever to the consequences of what you call an unforgiv- 
 able sin, except as they apply to yourself. You asked your 
 son just now what he proposed to do, and you have nothing 
 but scorn for his suggesting what many would consider the 
 only honest solution of his fault. What do you propose to 
 do with regard to this girl he has got into trouble? Leave 
 her to fight it out for herself? " 
 
 The question was not answered for the moment. As 
 the Rector finished speaking, signs of an altercation were 
 heard outside, the door was opened, and a man in working 
 clothes came into the room, and shut it behind him. The 
 Rector recognised him as Morton, the father of the girl of 
 whom they had been speaking. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 MORTON HAS HIS SAY 
 
 Morton recognised the Rector's presence by a motion of 
 his hand to his forehead, and addressed Gosset, who had 
 risen from his seat. 
 
 " They said you was busy," he explained, " but I thought 
 you wouldn't be too busy to see me ; and if I'd stopped out 
 there in the shop I might 'a let out in a way you wouldn't 'a 
 liked in front of all them respectable young men. So I 
 made so bold as to come in where I saw you was and without 
 being arst." 
 
 He spoke with slow and ironic weight, fixing his eyes 
 upon Gosset, who did not find it easy to meet them. He 
 was a big man, with heavy rounded shoulders, and a some- 
 what truculent expression of face. " I suppose you know my 
 name without being told," he said. " It's Morton." Then 
 he sat down on a chair, unbidden, and leant forward with 
 his elbows on his knees, swinging his cap in his hands. 
 
 Ordinarily, the Rector would have said something to show 
 himself controlling the situation, or at least as one who must 
 not be ignored in it. But now he sat with his eyes on Gosset, 
 waiting for him to speak. 
 
 Gosset's face had changed through expressions of surprise, 
 alarm, confusion, to one of mild deprecation, which was an 
 expression that it not infrequently wore. " I have just been 
 told, Mr. Morton," he said, after clearing his throat, " of 
 the dreadful thing that has happened. You can imagine 
 how it has upset me, so that I hardly know what to say or 
 to think about it." 
 
 as 
 
26 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 " Oh, it's upset you, has it? " said Morton. " Well, it's 
 upset me too, and I do know what to say about it. You're 
 a man as puts himself pretty high above the likes of us, aren't 
 you? You're a good man," you are, a religious man, what 
 preaches to his neighbours, and wishes they was all as good as 
 what he is. I got it right, haven't I ? " 
 
 " Mr. Morton," said Gosset nervously, " I am just as 
 sorry as you are for what has happened. It has been a 
 terrible blow to me. I'm ready to talk it over with you and 
 see what can be done to put it right." 
 
 " Oh yes, we're coming to that," said Morton. " But first 
 of all I want to know if I got it right. I 'aven't been here 
 more'n six months or so. You are the Mr. Gosset what's 
 so busy preaching when you aren't selling groceries, and so 
 ready in coming down on them as likes 'alf a pint now and 
 then, aren't you ? " ' ' 
 
 " I am pretty well known in Roding," said Gosset, not 
 without dignity. " I am interested in religious work, and 
 temperance work, as is well known here; but I don't see 
 what that has to do with the unfortunate affair that I sup- 
 pose you have come about." 
 
 " Oh ! Well, I do see what it has to do with it, then." 
 He shifted his position and changed his tone. " Why 
 can't you keep your own family from interfering with other 
 people's? Do a bit o' preaching to them, 'stead of letting 
 them bring shame and trouble on them as 'as 'eld up their 
 'eads in their spere just the same as what you 'ave in yours? " 
 
 " The shame and trouble fell upon me too," said Gosset. 
 " The knowledge that my son has behaved so wickedly is a 
 great grief to me. I have tried to keep him from evil ways 
 and from evil companions ; I had no idea until this news came 
 to me only just now that he was addicted to them. I have 
 tried to bring all my children up in the way they should go." 
 
 The Rector intervened. " You have no reason to blame 
 
MORTON HAS HIS SAY 27 
 
 Mr. Gosset for what has happened, Morton," he said. " If 
 you have come here to say anything, say it out." 
 
 " My girl is in trouble," said Morton. " Your son has 
 got her into trouble. What are you going to do about it, 
 Mr. Gosset — ^you \Vith all your ideas of being better than 
 other folks? That's what I want to know. That's what 
 I come here to say. Now then! " 
 
 He leant back in his chair, and fixed his eyes upon Gosset's 
 face. 
 
 Gosset's eyes dropped. " I have hardly had time to 
 think about it at all," he said. " Whatever I can do — what- 
 ever is right — I will do." 
 
 "Whatever is right! Well, what is right?" 
 There was no answer. 
 
 " Come now, Mr. Gosset, what is right, when a young 
 man goes with a young woman and gets her into trouble ? " 
 " Morton," began the Rector ; but Morton held up his 
 hand. 
 
 " Begging your pardon, sir," he said, " me and Mr. Gosset 
 is going to have this out between us. You done and said 
 nothing but what's right by us; and your good lady, she's 
 with my missus now, and a good lady she is, with a kind 
 and tender 'eart. But all that's for by-and-by. I asked 
 Mr. Gosset a question, and I want an answer from Mr. 
 Gosset." 
 
 Gosset roused himself. " I'll give you my answer,'' he 
 said in a hard voice. " I don't admit that what has happened 
 is owing to my son. It may be and it may not be. I don't 
 know your daughter or anything about her, and I shall ask a 
 good many questions here and there before I commit myself 
 in any way." | 
 
 The Rector held, himself in readiness for an outbreak from 
 Morton, and Gosset may have expected one too, for he 
 seemed to be bracing himself, and sat upright, facing his 
 
28 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 antagonist with a troubled face, but with the light of battle 
 in his eyes. 
 
 But Morton's red face became only a little redder. " Oh, 
 that's your answer, is it?" he said. "And supposing you 
 do ask your questions here and there, and find out as she 
 was a good girl afore she come to know your son, and there's 
 never no doubt but what it's from him as her trouble comes 
 — ^what then ? What are you going to do then ? " 
 
 " I shall pay money to help her through her confinement, 
 and I shall pay for the bringing up of the child, in good 
 surroundings, so that it shall never know that it was borri 
 in sin, and so that the mother as well as the father can put 
 behind them the sin they have committed, and " 
 
 " Oh, you'll do that, will you? The child is to be took 
 away from the mother as well as from the father? " 
 
 " Yes, I should make that stipulation. The child should 
 be brought up in a religious home, but it should not be born 
 in Roding or brought up in Roding." 
 
 " So as it shouldn't be brought up against you when you 
 go preaching and holding forth ! " 
 
 " You can put whatever interpretation on my words 
 you please. My character is too well known for me to care 
 what you can say against me. I've answered your question 
 fairly. If I'm convinced that my son is the guilty party, 
 and the only guilty party, I'll take my share of the burden 
 for him. But I've told you already that I shall be hard to 
 convince ; and I'll tell you this further, that you're not going 
 the right way about it if you want anything from me at all." 
 
 " If I want anything from you ! That's your answer then ! 
 You don't think, by any chance — ^you being a religious man, 
 and a shining light to the likes of me — that if a young man 
 gets a young woman into trouble, he ought to marry that 
 young woman, and put her right, and put the child right 
 that's going to be 'bom, and that's his as well as hers? I 
 
MORTON HAS HIS SAY 29 
 
 Just arst for information, you know, as to 'ow far your re- 
 ligion does carry you in a case like this." 
 
 " I have already given you my answer as to what I should 
 be prepared to do." 
 
 "Yes, you told me that. But I want a plain answer to 
 a plain question. Do you think it's right, when a young 
 man gets a young girl into trouble, for that there young man 
 to marry that there young girl ? Do you or don't you ? " 
 
 " In this case I don't think so." 
 
 Morton nooded his truculent head. " Very well ; now 
 we got it," he said. " That's the chapel view." He turned 
 to the Rector. " Now then, Mr. French," he said. " Let's 
 have the church view. What do you think about it ? " 
 
 The Rector looked him full in the face. " You shall have 
 my own view," he said, " the view of a man who has lived 
 in the world and kept his eyes open. In some cases it may 
 be the best thing for the man to marry the girl; but the 
 marriage does not wipe out the fault, which has been com- 
 mitted, and cannot be undone. I should say that in the 
 majority of cases such marriages would lead to unhappiness, 
 and neither the man nor the girl would be the better for 
 them. In this -particular case, I do not think that they ought 
 to marry." 
 
 " That's the church religion, then ? The same as the 
 chapel." 
 
 " I do not speak for the Church. I speak for myself, 
 with a full sense of the'responsibility I hold as an officer of 
 the Church. And I speak only as to the present occasion. In 
 another case I might speak difEerently." 
 
 " And why don't you think they ought to marry, in this 
 particular case? " 
 
 " Mr. Gosset's son is very young, hardly more than a 
 boy. He is " 
 
 " You don't think 'e'd make a good 'usband, then ?' I 
 
30 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 thought 'e seemed a nice young feller, what I seen of 'im, 
 which ain't much." 
 
 The Rector's healthy colour became a shade deeper. " I 
 see what you are driving at, Morton," he said. " I won't 
 shirk it. It is the boy I am thinking of chiefly. It might 
 ruin his life to marry now, at his age, and under such circum- 
 stances. It would not be a suitable marriage for him, even 
 if they had come together without this sin between them. 
 One would try to stop it, if one had any influence. But I 
 am not thinking of him entirely. A woman's happiness is 
 bound up in her husband's; you can't separate them. When 
 the disillusion came, she would suffer just as much as he 
 would." 
 
 " But it might turn out right, mightn't it ? If 'e's got the 
 grit in 'im, 'e'd make the best of it, wouldn't 'e? And if 'e 
 was a kind 'usband, she'd do 'er best to be grateful-like to 
 'im. And there'd be the child between them. We're flesh and 
 blood, Mr. French, us as works with our 'ands. My girl's 
 flesh and blood, same as the son of Mr. Gosset, 'ere, what 
 sells groceries on week-days and preaches on Sundays. 
 They'd 'ave their child, and their 'ome. Come now, Mr. 
 French, it might turn out all right, mightn't it ? " 
 
 " It might," said the Rector. " The risks are very great." 
 
 " Well, then, if they don't marry ! The lad goes off and 
 forgets all about it. 'E's 'ad 'is fun, and 'e's 'ad 'is lesson. 
 'E'll take good care that 'e don't get into trouble that way 
 again. P'raps 'e'll grow up the same as 'is father, what 
 sells groceries on week-days and preaches on Sundays. 
 There'll be nothing to prevent 'im, will there? " 
 
 Gosset moved uneasily in his seat, and cleared his throat, 
 as if about to speak. 
 
 But Morton turned to him. "You keep out of it," he 
 said roughly. " You've 'ad your say. I want to know 
 what Mr. French thinks about it." 
 
MORTON HAS HIS SAY 31 
 
 " I do think," said the Rector, " that a sin of this nature, 
 committed in early youth, ought not overshadow a man's 
 whole life; and that it need not do so, if it is repented of. 
 I don't say that it ought to be forgotten, or taken lightly in 
 any way." 
 
 " All right then. We've settled the young man. 'E's 
 out of it now; we can put 'im aside. Now what about the 
 young woman? Supposin' she repents, and don't forget it; 
 and I'll lay she won't forget it, with a baby 'anging on to 
 her breast; and won't take it lightly neither. What about 
 overshadowing the young woman's life? What's going to 
 become o' herf " 
 
 The Rector was silent, but he still kept his eyes upon 
 Morton's face, now wearing a look of open triumph, and 
 there was trouble in them, as if he were searching for an 
 answer to questions that cannot be answered. 
 
 " What's going to become 'o her? " asked Morton again. 
 
 The Rector frowned. " I think it is you who are taking 
 it lightly," he said. " You seem to think more of gaining 
 an advantage in argument than of the very serious situation 
 we have to consider. Do you want this marriage? And 
 why do you want it?" 
 
 " What a question to ask, now! Do I want my girl made 
 an honest woman of? Do I want 'er on my 'ands with an 
 illegitimate child, for all the religious people of this 'ere 
 town to throw mud at? They're a charitable lot, religious 
 folk, aren't they? Mr. Gosset now — supposin' it 'ad been 
 anybody else but his own son as was the father of the child 
 as is going to be born! — 'e'd 'ave a amiable way with a 
 young woman who'd made a ihistake of that sort, wouldn't 
 'e ? Wouldn't 'alf look down 'is nose at 'er ! " 
 
 Gosset rose from his chair. His face was hard. " We've 
 had enough of this," he said. " My son isn't going to marry 
 your daughter, put it how you like. Bad isn't going to be 
 
32 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 made worse. But I'll do what I said I'd do, and when I've 
 made the enquiries that I'm going to make, you can come 
 and see me again." 
 
 " That's your last word," said Morton, still keeping his 
 heavy seat. "And what's yours, Mr. French? The man 
 goes free, and the girl stands the racket. That's what your 
 religion teaches, is it? I on'y want to know. I on'y want 
 to 'ave it plain." 
 
 The Rector answered him at once. " Neither of them 
 goes free," he said. " The woman bears more than the man. 
 Yes ; that's in the nature of things. The woman always bears 
 more than the man." 
 
 Morton seemed to have got what he wanted. He made 
 a motion of rising ; but before he did so, the door opened and 
 the boy came in. 
 
 His face was white and distracted; the marks of the 
 tears he had been shedding were on it. He went straight 
 towards Morton. " I knew you were here," he said. " I've 
 come to say that I want to marry Jane as soon as I can. 
 It's the only thing I can do. I want to do what's right. It's 
 been my fault, and I won't let her take all the punishment 
 for it." 
 
 Gosset expostulated angrily at his presence, but Morton 
 waved him aside with his big hand. " Wait a bit," he said. 
 " 'Ere's the party himplicated. 'E's been brought up in a 
 religious 'ome, 'e 'as. Let's 'ear what 'e's got to say. Now 
 then, youngster, speak up." 
 
 " I'm ready to marry her," said the boy, speaking more 
 quietly. " I've done very wrong, and I'm sorry for it. I 
 know I can't put the wrong right; but I'll do what I can." 
 
 " Well, 'ere's an offer of marriage at last," said Morton, 
 with cumbrous jocularity. " 'Ere's a young gentleman 
 asking me for my daughter's 'and. Very gratifying to a 
 father's feelings, I'm shore. And what 'ave you got to live 
 
MORTON HAS HIS SAY 33 
 
 on, young man, may I ask. 'Ow are you going to support 
 a wife — and a family? " 
 
 " He has nothing but what I choose to give him," said 
 Gosset angrily. " He " 
 
 " Once for all, you keep out of it till I've done," said 
 Morton menacingly; and Gosset shrank into silence. The 
 Rector kept his seat, and looked from one to another with 
 watchful interest. 
 
 "Well, we'll put the money out of the question for the 
 present," said Morton. " P'raps I might be able to find you 
 a job myself; or 'elp you a bit, till you come to earn your 
 own living. I got a bit laid by. But there's one or two 
 things I want to have plain first. When a young man wants 
 to marry a young girl, 'e gen'ly says somethink about lovin' 
 of 'er, don't 'e ? They ain't likely to get on very well unless 
 ,they take to one another more than ordinary. What about 
 that part of the business, young man ? " 
 
 " I'll make her a good husband," said the boy with 
 downcast eyes. " I shan't forget what she has to go through 
 because of me. I'll look after her. I'll make her a good 
 husband." 
 
 " And my girl's the girl you'd choose to marry, even if 
 there 'adn't been this little mistake between you ? " 
 
 The boy was silent. 
 
 " Well, you don't seem to speak up very ready. Looks 
 almost as if, now you'd 'ad your fun, you was wantin' to 
 pay for it, cos' you think you ought, not because you want 
 to." 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 Morton threw his cap down on the table, and stuck 
 his hands in his pockets. 
 
 " Now I'll tell you v^hat," he said, looking at all three 
 of them in turn. " There ain't going to be no marriage 
 between the daughter of Jim Morton, Esquire, builder's 
 
34 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 foreman, and the son of Mr. snivelling psalm-singing Gosset 
 It's me that won't 'ave it, not you. My girl's made a slip, 
 and she'll 'ave to pay for it; and what she can't pay for I'll 
 pay for 'er. I don't want your dirty money, you, Gosset ! You 
 can save it up for the missionaries. You're a canting 'umbug; 
 that's what you are. If you'd acted as I knowed quite well 
 you wouldn't act when I come in, I'd never 'ave said another 
 word against you. And you'd 'a come off just as well, too, 
 for I never wanted no marriage, and never meant to 'ave 
 none neither." 
 
 " I'll pay for the girl's confinement," said Gosset doggedly, 
 " and towards the upbringing of the child." 
 
 " No^ you won't. You won't pay nothing. You've 'ad 
 your chance of be'aving like what you pretend to be, and 
 you've chucked it away. You ain't going to set yourself 
 right by paying money. The child's going to be born in my 
 'ouse, and it's going to live in my 'ouse. I dessay I shall 
 take to it. I'm fond o' kids, and it won't make no difference 
 to me that it wasn't born in 'oly wedlock. You'd like to 
 bury it out o' sight; but it won't be buried out o' sight. 
 You'll often see it about, when it grows a bit; but there's 
 one place you won't see it, and that's in your 'umbuggin* 
 chapel." 
 
 " The child will be mine as well as hers," said the boy. 
 
 Morton laid a huge paw on his shoulder. " Don't you 
 worry no more, sonny," he said. " You shall come and see 
 it as often as you want to, if your 61d goat-beard of a dad'U 
 let yer. You're a good lad. You was ready to do the straight 
 thing, and I don't bear no malice against you. What you 
 done, you done, as any young man would with a girl- who 
 'adn't got the sense to look after 'erself. That's my way of 
 looking at it, and I warn't a plaster saint myself afore I got 
 spliced up. Mind you, I don't say that to Jane. It's dif- 
 ferent for a girl. She's got to keep 'erself straight ; and I'd 
 
MORTON HAS HIS SAY 35 
 
 a-given Jane a good walloping when I 'eard of it, if she 
 'adn't been in what you call an interesting condition." 
 
 The Rector rose With a frown on his face. " You have 
 had provocation, Morton," he said. " But it doesn't give 
 you the right to talk coarsely." 
 
 Morton turned to him with an indulgent smile. " Why, 
 what 'ave I said different to what you said, Mr. French," he 
 asked, " 'cept that I says it like a common working man and 
 you says it like a educated gentleman ? Didn't you say as 'ow 
 the woman 'ad to pay? Didn't you say as 'ow the man " 
 
 " I didn't say that it was the natural thing for a young 
 man to betray a girl," said the Rector. " That is what you 
 said." He put his well-shaped hand on the boy's shoulder, 
 where Morton's great fist had rested. " You have done 
 wrong," he said, " and you have repented of the wrong. 
 You were willing to mend it if you could; but it can't be 
 mended. What you have to do is not to forget it — ^you can 
 never do that; but to think of the trouble that an act of 
 self-gratification has brought upon others, and be on your 
 guard against temptations of the flesh, and all temptations 
 for the future. Qod keep you straight and true." 
 
 He went out. 
 
 " Well, 'e's a gentleman," said Morton indulgently, " and 
 •don't pretend no more than what 'e carries out; though 
 I ain't no more use for church religion myself than what I 
 'ave for chapel. Now then, Mr. Gosset, I think I done with 
 you, so I'll say good-bye. You won't 'ear no more o 'this 
 little affair for the present. But, as Mr. French said, you 
 don't want to forget it; and o' course you wont want to — 
 you being the religious man you are. There'll be the child 
 to remind you. It'll come to your Sunday school, when it 
 gets old enough to learn to walk in the way it should go — I 
 don't think. But you'll see it playing about the streets of 
 Roding. Good-morning, Mr. Gosset — and son." 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 SIR RICHARD FRENCH 
 
 " Richard, this is perfectly delightful. We were beginning 
 to think we should never see you again." 
 
 Lady Ruth came into her drawing-room, Joyce and Eddie, 
 her inseparable companions, on either side of her. Her face 
 was alight with pleasure. Sir Richard French was standing 
 in front of the fire, and came forward to greet her. He was 
 a tall spare man, with closely clipped hair nearly white; 
 clean-shaven, except for a stubby grey moustache. His skin 
 was burnt brown, and there was a fine network of wrinkles at 
 the corners of his light blue eyes. 
 
 " My dear Ruth," he said, " you look younger than you 
 did two years ago. But how the youngsters have grown ! " 
 
 He kissed them both. " I shouldn't wonder if there was 
 something for each of you when my boxes come to be un- 
 packed," he said. 
 
 Richard French was a confirmed wanderer. He had 
 been in a cavalry regiment in his youth, and served most 
 of his time in India. After that he had shot big game in 
 all quarters of the globe, but for some time had ceased to 
 shoot anything at all, and had given himself up to pure 
 travel, with no object except to see as much of the world 
 as could be seen without loosing entire touch with clviliza- 
 tisn. He was a rich man, and if the fancy took him to 
 visit some place where white men were scarce, he would go 
 to great expense in fitting out an expedition, which had no 
 object except that of transporting himself, with possibly one 
 
 36 
 
SIR RICHARD FRENCH 37 
 
 or two companions, if he should have happened to find con- 
 genial spirits willing to go with him. 
 
 He lived at Roding Court, a great Palladian pile of a 
 house, surrounded by lovely gardens, about two miles from 
 the town, and when he was at home led the ordinary life of 
 a country gentleman, except that he took no part in field 
 sports. He was a good landlord, and popular amongst his 
 tenantry. He would go about amongst them, and show an 
 interest in the smallest details of their lives ; and he knew all 
 their children by name. One would have thought — to see 
 him sitting in the kitchen of a cottage, gossiping to the woman 
 of the house, or paying one of his frequent visits to the village 
 school, where he liked to hear lessons given — that his chief 
 interests were those of a kindly father of his people, content 
 to live out his life amongst them, absorbed in all their affairs, 
 big and small. 
 
 But one fine morning he would be off, generally without 
 a word of warning. Perhaps he had only gone to London 
 for a few days ; perhaps he had gone abroad for a few weeks, 
 or a few months; perhaps he had started for the other side 
 of the world, and might not be back again for a year or more. 
 
 Whatever the length of his absence, the house would not 
 be shut up, nor any servants dismissed. For he might turn 
 up again at any time; and he never gave warning of his 
 coming. He would get out of the train at Roding, and hire 
 a fly to drive him home; and when he got there he expected 
 to find everything ready for him. If he had been away 
 longer than a month or two, he generally called at Roding 
 Rectory on his way ; for he was fond of his brother, and his 
 brother's family, although they never heard from him during 
 his wanderings. 
 
 " Where have you come from this time, Richard ? " asked 
 Lady Ruth. " And how long are you going to stay with 
 us?" 
 
38 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 " Oh, my dear, how should I know ? " he answered to 
 the latter question. " Perhaps a month ; perhaps a year. 
 But certainly a month. How are you all ? Where's Henry 
 and Sylvia and the rest of them? " 
 
 He was sitting in an easy chair, with the children on 
 either side of him, an arm round each. 
 
 " Henry is out somewhere," said Lady Ruth. " But he 
 will be in to tea. You'll stay to tea, won't you ? " 
 
 The fine wrinkles showed themselves in a smile. " I think 
 I might stretch a point so far," he said. " Old Carbery can 
 wait. His nose is redder than ever. He told me he hadn't 
 seen me for a fortnight, and it's two years since I've been 
 in Roding." 
 
 " Dear Richard, you shouldn't stay away from us for so 
 long. You know you're wanted here. Your absences get 
 longer and longer. Ah, here's Sylvia! " 
 
 Sir Richard held his pretty niece at arm's length, and 
 looked well at her before he kissed her. " My dear, if it 
 hadn't been for you I should have been in Siam at this 
 moment," he said. " I meant to go on to Siam." 
 
 Sylvia laughed at this cryptic utterance. " Did you want 
 to see me again so much, Uncle Dick ? " she asked. 
 
 " I promised you a ball," he said. " I was thinking 
 about you all, one night, sitting by my campfire. In Papua, 
 it was. Eddie, you've been thought about in' Papua, which 
 can't be said of many little boys at home in England. Look 
 it up in a map." 
 
 " You said you would give me a ball two years ago, 
 Uncle Dick," said Sylvia. 
 
 " I know, my dear. I remembered it. It occurred to 
 me that I was a most unnatural uncle. What was I doing 
 in New Guinea — ^there, Eddie, I've let it out — ^while you 
 were pining for a ball in England? So I came straight 
 
SIR RICHARD FRENCH 39 
 
 home. Sylvia, you shall have a splendid ball. You shall 
 have it as soon as we can malce the arrangements." 
 
 " Can I come to it? " asked Joyce. 
 
 "And I?" asked Eddie. 
 
 Lady Ruth quelled their precocious desires, and Sir 
 Richard said : " You can't come to Sylvia's ball. That's 
 for grown-ups only. But you shall have one of your 
 own — fancy dress, eh? And it shall last to ten o'clock, 
 or perhaps even eleven. Where are Ralph and Ronald, 
 Ruth?" 
 
 " Ronald has gone back to school. Ralph is in London. 
 He has rooms in Gray's Inn. You know he is going to fight 
 Notting Green next election ? He is very busy with politics." 
 
 " I saw it in a paper. I was rather sorry he hadn't 
 chosen a county division. Still, he'll get a good training; 
 but he'll have a hard nut to crack with that majority against 
 him. Ah, here's Henry! Well, Henry, my boy, here's the 
 traveller returned, for a bit." 
 
 No cordiality was lacking in the greeting of the brothers. 
 Sir Richard was a few years the older, but his spare wiry 
 frame contrasted favourably with the somewhat portly pres- 
 ence of the Rector, who but for his active life would have 
 been more than merely portly. It was good to see the two 
 men together. They might have been instanced as fine ex- 
 amples of the result brought about by generations of gentle 
 breeding, by any one who wished to advance the contention 
 that gentle breeding produces handsome progeny. So, for 
 that matter, might the Rector's family in bulk, most of whom 
 were gathered together in this pleasant room, which showed 
 all the signs of easy circumstances and cultivated taste. Warm 
 and brightly lit, it seemed like a stronghold of opulence and 
 comfort against the pressure of a cold world ; and the people 
 who occupied it seemed almost as if they had a right to 
 immunity from the cares that beset less favoured mortals, 
 
40 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 from the very fact that fortune had smiled upon them so 
 generously at their birth. 
 
 But Fortune has been held fickle by all nations and in all 
 times. She gives with one hand and takes away with the 
 other, and is apt to visit the smallest mistake with the heaviest 
 punishment; so that those who have seemed to be her chief 
 favourites may find themselves completely forsaken by her, 
 while those whom she has always frowned upon may earn her 
 apparent good-will for no merits of their own. 
 
 As yet, however, this good-looking, pleasant-mannered, 
 well-placed family had suffered nothing from her incon- 
 stancy, and if any of them had ever given her cause of 
 offence, she seemed to have overlooked and forgiven it. 
 
 The Rector went to Roding Court with his brother to 
 dine and sleep. They had a lot to talk over, though Sir 
 Richard's late travels would hardly be mentioned between 
 them. He spared his friends accounts of his experiences, and 
 the world at large books or magazine articles. He did not 
 even lecture about them at local institutes, or have lantern 
 slides made of his numerous photographs. But his house was 
 full of trophies gathered from all parts of the world, and he 
 would answer questions about these if he were asked. 
 
 At the little round table, in the middle- of the great square 
 pillared dining-room, was served a dinner which showed no 
 evidence of having been prepared at little more than an hour's 
 notice. Except that the talk was of things that had happened 
 over a space of two years, there was nothing to indicate that 
 the two men were not meeting in the most ordinary way. 
 Squire and parson, each had his point of view, and was 
 sympathetic with that of the other. The Rector had been 
 brought up in this great house, to the interests and pursuits 
 of a member of a rich county family and only after leaving 
 Cambridge had he turned his attention to the studies which 
 would fit him for his profession. He knew a good deal 
 
SIR RICHARD FRENCH 41 
 
 about the affairs of the estate to which he would some day 
 succeed, if he outlived his brother, and Sir Richard's agent 
 came to him sometimes for instructions, when his employer 
 was away and there was something to be decided on outside 
 the ordinary run of business. The shooting was kept up 
 chiefly for his benefit, and that of his son ; but of late years 
 he had felt it rather a burden. He would not have been 
 without it altogether, but the occupations of his ofEce had 
 absorbed him more and more, and he could not afford the 
 time to overlook all the details of a big shoot or to arrange 
 the parties to do it justice. In addition to the cares of his 
 own large parish, he had the rural deanery of the district, 
 and diocesan work besides. He was honorary Canon of 
 Medchester Cathedral, and it was generally supposed that 
 he would be offered the Archdeaconry when it became 
 vacant. He was becoming a personage in clerical circles. 
 Having taken orders simply because it was the tradition for a 
 younger son of his family to do so, he had come to like his 
 work and to put it first, which the numerous rectors of 
 Roding who had borne the name of French had not always 
 done. 
 
 Sir Richard is what is called a good churchman. When 
 he was at Roding Court he drove in every Sunday morning 
 to Roding Church, and went in the afternoon to the little 
 church in a corner of his park, the living of which was also 
 in his gift, and was held by his uncle, an old gentleman of 
 well-nigh immemorial age, who had retired from the rectory 
 of Roding twenty years before. 
 
 They drank their wine together in the library, which was 
 the room chiefly used by Sir Richard. They sat in deep easy 
 chairs in front of the fire, a table of old bright mahogany 
 between them, on which was everything necessary for the 
 delectation of two men of middle age who were well content 
 to spend an evening talking to one another. Here was 
 
42 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 another stronghold of warm affluence, doubly entrenched 
 against the surprises of fate. For one at least of those who 
 occupied it the fortifications seemed strong enough to resist 
 all attacks. Sir Richard might lose his health, although that 
 did not seem likely for some years to come. He could hardly 
 lose anything else that enabled him to make what he would of 
 his life. He had money in abundance, and was not open 
 to attack at that point. He could not suffer disappointment 
 over thwarted ambitions, for he had none. A bachelor, old 
 enough to know what he wants to help him to pass the 
 time — ^whose passing is yet his chief regret — and able to 
 have what he wants, is largely immune from grief over the 
 sorrows of others. He has not taken upon his shoulders 
 those burdens which are freighted with joy as well as care ; 
 and because he is chiefly concerned with affairs which the 
 griefs of others cannot touch, his life cannot be affected by 
 them deeply, or for long, whatever fund of sympathy he 
 may possess. It almost seems as if the high gods are powerless 
 before a man who takes contentedly their lesser gifts, and 
 asks for no great ones. They can only remove him from his 
 enjoyment of them; and even there he is hardly assailable, 
 for he knows that he must be removed some time or other, 
 and adjusts himself accordingly. 
 
 The Rector was not so immune. He was not one by 
 himself. Other lives reacted on his, and his on them. Sor- 
 row could touch him at many points. But against the more 
 capricious attacks of fortune he also seemed to be guarded by 
 fortune herself. Well-off, well-liked, happy in his home life, 
 interested in his work, an upright man, following the light 
 as far as it shone upon him — one would have prophesied for 
 him nothing but a life of honour and well-being, to be 
 continued to the end of his useful days. 
 
 They were talking of the affairs of Roding parish. The 
 Rector had told his brother of the coming of Dr. Merrow. 
 
SIR RICHARD FRENCH 43 
 
 " I'll call on him when he comes," said Sir Richard. " I 
 like to know everybody. Besides, it may stop his making 
 mischief." 
 
 " Mischief — what mischief? " 
 
 "Well, he's a Radical, of course. They all are. He 
 won't want to hide it, and I don't blame him. We don't 
 hide that we're Unionists." 
 
 " We were Liberals once." 
 
 " We called ourselves so. Like a good many more, we 
 were precious glad of the chance to go over. Still, we've 
 not lost all our Whig enlightenment. We look after our 
 people, and they're as well-off as' ever they can expect to be. 
 If this man comes down here and is dependent for his society 
 on Gosset and all the rest of them, and we stand aloof, he'll 
 take every opportunity of going for us. I shouldn't be in- 
 clined to blame him much for that, either. It's because nine 
 cut of ten Radicals have never met a country gentleman, and 
 know nothing of what goes on except what they read, that 
 they're so bitter against us." 
 
 " Oh, but Dr. Merrow is a gentleman. He's not the 
 ordinary ranter. He was at Oxford, and all that sort of 
 thing; a man of very good manners. I've met him, you 
 know." 
 
 " Oxford means nothing, nowadays. Any clever boy 
 can get there, whatever his parentage. He gets a polish, 
 and you can't tell him from the real article. In fact, he 
 may he the real article, as far as manners go, if his nature's 
 all right to begin with. We haven't got the monopoly of 
 manners. In fact, ,the manners of some of us are devilish 
 bad." 
 
 " Merrow didn't strike me as the sort of man who would 
 hold his tongue about things if a man in your position took 
 him up." 
 
 " Took him up ! Oh, my dear fellow, I don't mean any- 
 
44 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 thing of that sort. I'm not a snob, and I've knockecl about 
 the world a bit and made friends with all sorts. I should 
 be much more likely to lose my head if he were to take me 
 up. He's a distinguished man in his own line, and I'm not. 
 Still, I'm a man who gets on well with his tenantry, and I 
 don't want to have them set against me. Men like Merrow 
 do live in a class apart, however many people go to hear them 
 preach, and however many letters they may write to the 
 papers. They only know one side, and they don't know 
 country life and conditions at all. Why, it's considered an 
 extraordinary thing that this man, with his reputation, is 
 coming to live in the country. They don't do it." 
 
 " He is doing it because he is broken down in health, and 
 wants a rest. I should think he would keep quiet about 
 politics, at any rate." 
 
 " I doubt it. He'll find himself invigorated by Roding 
 air; he'll be cut off from the interests of his London life, 
 and he'll want to be doing something. There'll be you» 
 schools, for one thing. Very likely he's a Passive Re- 
 sister. You'll have all sorts of questions raised, Henry, mj 
 boy." 
 
 The Rector looked thoughtful for a moment, and then 
 laughed. " Gosset told me the other day that we'd had 
 things too much our own way in Roding," he said, " and it 
 was going to be different now. All the same, from what 
 I saw of Merrow, I believe that he's a man who thinks 
 more of the religious side of his calling than the political. 
 I read one of his published sermons the other day, and I 
 wished I could ask him to preach in the church when h? 
 comes." 
 
 " Well, you ought to be able to, of course. You're a 
 Protestant; so is he." 
 
 The Rector let this go by. A layman may still call the 
 Church of England Protestant if he likes. The clergy have 
 
SIR RICHARD FRENCH 45 
 
 learnt to eschew the word, unless they are content to be 
 labelled of a particular school. 
 
 " By-the-by," said Sir Richard, " what's this about Cos- 
 set's son and a girl of the town? I had a talk with old 
 William while I was dressing. He says Gosset wanted him 
 to marry her, and you persuaded him not to." 
 
 The Rector looked up quickly with a frown. " Is that 
 the story that is going about?" he asked. "Where did 
 William hear that from ? " 
 
 " I don't know. He's a rare old gossip, and picks up 
 everything. His sister goes to Gosset's chapel, I believe. I 
 expect he got it from her." 
 
 " I wonder if Gosset is putting that about. I can hardly 
 believe it. He refused absolutely to hear of a marriage, and 
 behaved in a way that I didn't like, though it's quite true 
 that I was against it, too. It would be extraordinarily 
 mean to put it on to me, and try to get it both ways himself. 
 Of course, there are people who think it's wrong for the boy 
 not to marry the girl. I've no doubt that amongst some of 
 the frequenters of the chapel I'm held up as a pure worldling, 
 and all that sort of thing. Still, I can't believe that Gosset 
 would go back on himself in that way. Besides, Morton, 
 the girl's father, was there. He knows what passed, and he 
 expressed himself pretty strongly against Gosset. He hasn't 
 been silent since, either. He calls himself an atheist, and 
 is only too glad to get a handle of any sort against religion." 
 
 " Well, I dare say old William got it wrong. He gen- 
 erally does. Gosset won't like this happening, just as Dr. 
 Merrow is coming." 
 
 " That side of it strikes him more than any other. I 
 can't help feeling rather sorry for him about it, though, if 
 it were to do with anything else, one might be rather amused. 
 Morton is rubbing it in. He doesn't really think much of 
 the disgrace, unfortunately, and I believe at heart he's not 
 
46 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 sorry to have the weapon. He's a coarse, good-natured brute 
 of a fellow, with a tongue in his head, and a certain amount 
 of brains behind it. As long as he remains in Roding, Gosset 
 won't hear the last of it." 
 
 "What about the boy? I didn't know Gosset had a 
 grown-up son." 
 
 " He's not twenty-one yet. There's very little wrong 
 with the boy. If he'd been brought up in healthy surround- 
 ings, this wouldn't have happened. He did want to marry 
 the girl, not because he cares for her at all, but because he 
 wanted to set the wrong right. Of course, it can't be set 
 right in that way ; I don't think the girl is straight. I should 
 be inclined to blame her much more for what happened than 
 him. But I respected him for the stand he made. He has 
 the right stufE in him, if only he were allowed to live the 
 ordinary life of a boy of his age. He ought to be playing 
 cricket and football, and boxing, and all that sort of thing. 
 It's extraordinary what George Barton has done with the 
 rough boys of the town. He works off all their superfluous 
 steam, and keeps them interested all the time. It's the rarest 
 thing for us to have this sort of trouble in Roding. They're 
 ashamed of hanging round with girls, and get chaffed about 
 it if they do." 
 
 "George Barton's a good fellow. Why doesn't he get 
 hold of this boy ? " 
 
 " Oh, he's tried to, but Gosset won't have it. Now he's 
 sent him packing off to London. Wants him out of the 
 way, of course. He has sfent him to a shop kept by a deeply 
 religious friend of his own, as he told me, who will look 
 after him strictly." 
 
 " Look after him, eh ? A boy of twenty doesn't want to 
 be kept strictly. He wants to learn to look after himself." 
 
 " Of course he does ; and I told Gosset so. But what 
 can you do with a man like that? If I say anything I'm 
 
SIR RICHARD FRENCH 47 
 
 belittling religion. Religion is to keep him straight ; nothing 
 else can." 
 
 " Religion is a very good thing. I've a great opinion of 
 religion. Still, you may have too much of it — at twenty," 
 
 The Rector was silent for a moment, and then laughed. 
 " You've a rather disconcerting way of putting things, Dick," 
 he said. " If you talk like that to Dr. Merrow he'll think 
 you're a black heathen." 
 
 " Oh, I shan't talk like that to Dr. Merrow. I'm a man 
 of tact. But I shan't hide my opinions either, and shan't 
 expect him to hide his. We shall get on very well together." 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 MISS BUDD AND MRS. STENNING 
 
 Miss Budd lived in an old-fashioned house in the High 
 Street. Its front was right on the pavement, and she kept 
 muslin blinds over the lower panes of the ground-floor 
 windows, which prevented passers-by from looking in, but 
 did not prevent her from looking out. The window of her 
 bedroom on the first floor waS' built out into a bay. This 
 was also curtained, but it was reported that Miss Budd 
 spent many hours in the day there, looking up and down the 
 street. At the back of the house was a long strip of garden 
 surrounded by a high wall, upon which fruit ripened. It 
 had a well-kept lawn, and gay flower-beds, and its pride was 
 a giant mulberry, in the shade of which Miss Budd could 
 enjoy seclusion whenever she coveted it. But this was not 
 often, for she took great interest in the affairs of her fellow- 
 townspeople, and preferred the front rooms of her house, 
 where she could see something of them. 
 
 Miss Budd had money. Her house was well-furnished, 
 and, although she took a pride in running it economically, 
 she also took a pride in having everything very " nice." She 
 kept two maids, but she never kept either of them for long, 
 partly because she liked the occupation — ^which most house- 
 wives dread — of training new ones, and the reputation of 
 being able to do -so, partly because they wouldn't stay with 
 her. 
 
 Her father had been a London doctor, her mother the 
 daughter of a long-ago curate at Roding Church. She had 
 no very near relations; but, occasionally, a subdued-looking 
 
 48 
 
MISS BUDD AND MRS. STENNING 49 
 
 cousin, whom she called a niece, would stay with her for a 
 few weeks. This cousin came of a family thit had descended 
 into trade, which was a thing Miss Budd abhorred. 
 
 Miss Budd had lived in Roding for over twenty years, 
 and had long since reached the age described in the case of 
 spinsters as " uncertain." If she had a fault, it was that 
 of over-anxiety to keep her visiting-list socially select. This 
 was a little difficult in Roding itself, because most of the 
 houses such as she lived in herself, and the few new villas on 
 the outskirts, were occupied by tradespeople of the town, 
 active or retired; and, as had been said, she had a prejudice 
 against retail trade. The people upon whom she could 
 officially " call," without feeling that she was letting herself 
 down, were the Rector's wife, the doctor's wife, and the 
 wife of the headmaster of the grammar school. Others, 
 _such as the wife of the organist, and of the elementary 
 schoolmaster, she sometimes went to see; but that was dif- 
 ferent. She never left cards if they were not at home. , 
 
 Her chief circle was to be found in the surrounding 
 rectories and vicarages, and the fly from the " French Arms " 
 took her out to one or another of them fairly regularly once 
 a week to within a radius of about eight miles. In course 
 of time she had managed to add several country houses to her 
 list. Since she had resided at Roding there had been a few 
 changes of ownership or tenancy, and whenever that had 
 happened Miss Budd had been one of the first to call, al- 
 though it might never have occurred to the previous occu- 
 pants to call upon her. One of these houses lay at a distance 
 of nearly ten miles, which was a little hard on the fly-horse. 
 
 Miss Budd's chief interests were bound up in Roding 
 Church, and all that went on there, and in the welfare of her 
 immediate neighbours, whether they were such as could be 
 called on or not. But this tracking down and capturing of 
 what she called suitable acquaintance added zest to her life, 
 
50 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 and she had not been without her triumphs. Her assiduous 
 calls at parsonage houses had occasionally brought her into 
 contact with the inhabitants of the larger houses allied to 
 them, of which there were a good number round about 
 Roding; these people were also to be met in Roding itself 
 from time to time, in connection with societies, meetings, con- 
 certs, etc., and sometimes held gatherings at their own houses, 
 at which the world at large was made welcome. So it had 
 come to pass that Miss Budd had gradually become known, 
 and there were few of the surrounding houses in which 
 she had not at one time or another at least set foot. She was 
 on the list of nearly all of the nearer ones for such entertain- 
 ments as garden parties, after which she would of course 
 " call " ; and sometimes the lady who had invited her would 
 call back, when she happened to be in Roding, and perhaps 
 wanted a cup of tea. Then the affair was on a sound and 
 regular basis, and the fly-horse dozed before the doors of yet 
 another mansion. 
 
 What long drawn out pleasure these successive capitula- 
 tions had afforded to Miss Budd cannot be measured by 
 ordinary standards. There was no country house at which 
 she had ever been asked to dine ; there was none at which she 
 could count on meeting a friend. In fact, there were some 
 at which the advent of the fly-horse was considered unneces- 
 sarily frequent, and the opportunity given to Miss Budd to 
 cause him to be directed there seemed to be regretted. She 
 knew what it was to set out with trembling, and to return in 
 humiliation. But no slights could detain her from " keeping 
 up the connection." Put it that she was a collector, and had 
 the collector's mania. A bibliophile does not value his books 
 for the reading they afford him. He could buy a library for 
 the price of one rarity, and the printed contents of that rarity, 
 perhaps, for a few pence. So Miss Budd would rather have 
 taken tea with a great lady, who made her excessively uncom- 
 
MISS BUDD AND MRS. STENNING 51 
 
 fortable while she was drinking it, than have found herself 
 warmly welcomed by one of her own standing. And yet 
 she liked the warm welcome, and was a good friend to those 
 who gave it to her. 
 
 The person for whom she really cared most in Roding 
 was the doctor's wife. Mrs. Stenning was a thin, rather 
 pathetically anxious lady, with a family of five young chil- 
 dren, and a husband who spent more than his income justified 
 on horseflesh. She found the prim opulence of Miss Budd's 
 house a welcome refuge from her own untidy over-run home, 
 all the rooms of which smelt of tobacco, and most of 
 them of dog; for the doctor was nearly as fond of dogs as 
 he was of horses, and had a taste for domesticating large 
 ones. ' 
 
 The fact that Mrs. Stenning was ex-ofjficio of the social 
 circle to which Miss Budd aspired to belong, did not affect 
 Miss Budd with jealousy, as it might have done, for the 
 poor lady was rather worried than set up about it. She 
 had no social ambitions, and would have been quite satisfied 
 to make her friends amongst the people immediately around 
 her, even amongst the shop-keepers, many of whom lived 
 in considerable comfort and were hospitably inclined. It 
 never occurred to her to pose as the equal of those of her 
 husband's patients who belonged to the county, and she 
 would very much have preferred that they should not ask 
 her to dine with them, as they did occasionally, and set her 
 worrying about a suitable dress, and what would become 
 of the children while she was out. On the other hand, she 
 took Miss Budd at her own valuation, and regarded her as 
 amongst the few of her acquaintances in the higher circles 
 of society whom it was not an anxiety to know. 
 
 Mrs. Stenning called upon Miss Budd one afternoon about 
 a week after Sir Richard French's return. It was one of her 
 mild eccentricities to do this at an hour when she should not 
 
52 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 be considered to have come uninvited to tea, which gave her 
 hostesses a good deal of trouble. 
 
 Miss Budd kept her w^aiting for some little time, and she 
 sat before the bright-burning fire in Miss Budd's comfort- 
 able drawing-room, with the puckers of anxiety gradually 
 smoothing themselves away from her thin plain face, as the 
 unwonted quiet of her surroundings stole over her senses. 
 The drawing-room was at the back of the house, and opened 
 by French windows, on to the garden. No sound from the 
 traiEc of the street reached it, and it formed an agreeable 
 contrast to Mrs. Stenning's own drawing-room, which was 
 in a similar position in a similar house but was backed by a 
 stable-yard. 
 
 Miss Budd came in in her out-of-door dress, and Mrs. 
 Stenning sprang up nervously to greet her. 
 
 " Oh, you are going out," she said. " I didn't know. I 
 can easily come another time." 
 
 " You'll do no such thing," said Miss Budd. " I am very 
 pleased to see you. I am going to call on Lady Ruth. I 
 owe her a call. But I needn't go for another half-hour, 
 and we shall just have time for a comfortable cup of tea." 
 
 " Oh, indeed, I couldn't think of it," expostulated Mrs. 
 Stenning. " I assure you I didn't come here for that. Please 
 don't on my account. Miss Budd." 
 
 But Miss Budd had already rung the bell. " Now sit 
 down, there's a good soul," she said, " and tell me your news. 
 I hope you have got rid of Charlie's ringworm." 
 
 " It is yielding to treatment," said Mrs. Stenning, re- 
 lapsing into an easy chair, and glad enough to have been 
 compelled to do so. " My husband says it is my fault for not 
 having his hair cut short sooner ; but he has such lovely hair. 
 I couldn't bear to see it go. But it's quite true that I haven't 
 always had the time to attend to it properly." 
 
 They pursued the subject of Charlie's hair in particular. 
 
MISS BUDD AND MRS. STENNING 53 
 
 and Mrs. Stenning's family in general, for some time longer. 
 Then Mrs. Stenning said : " Miss Budd, do you think I can 
 wear my black to the ball at Roding Court? It's that I 
 really came to ask you about. Can you wear black at a 
 ball ? It's the only one I've got, and if I can't I must have 
 another one. But I do so hate spending the money, and 
 nothing but black lasts. I didn't want to accept, but my 
 husband says we must. I shan't enjoy it a bit; but if I 
 can wear my black I shan't mind so much, as I shan't be 
 put to any extra expense." 
 
 Miss Budd did not reply to the momentous question 
 immediately. " When did the invitation to the ball come? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " Ob, the day before yesterday, I think it was ; or perhaps 
 on Wednesday. I can't remember. Can women of my age 
 go to balls in black? I don't know anything about these 
 things. What are you going to wear ? " 
 
 Miss Budd roused herself from the thoughtful mood into 
 which the enquiry seemed to have plunged her. " I ? " she 
 said. " Oh, I don't know yet. I haven't thought about it. 
 I am not sure that I shall go at all." 
 
 " Not go ? Oh, then if you don't go, surely I needn't 
 go. If only my husband would go alone ! Perhaps he will, 
 if I tell him that you are not going; and I could come and 
 sit with you in the evening, if you like." 
 
 " I haven't made up my mind," said Miss Biidd. " No, 
 don't tell him that I am not going, please. I don't 
 wish it. And of course you must go. Your black will do 
 very well. If I decide to go I shall certainly wear black 
 myself." 
 
 Mrs. Stenning was greatly relieved at this statement. " I 
 suppose it is going to be a very grand ball, isn't it ? " she 
 asked. " Miss Budd, is it with the idea of getting Lord 
 Pangbourne to propose to Sylvia? That does seem to be 
 
54 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 hanging on, doesn't it? "^Has Lady Ruth said anything to 
 you about it lately? Do tell me." 
 
 One reason why Miss Budd liked Mrs. Stenning so much 
 was that she took a deep interest in the family affairs of her 
 more important neighbours, but never discussed them as if 
 they were those of her equals. She thought this showed a 
 very proper spirit on Mrs. Stenning's part, and was pleased 
 to reward it by giving her little tit-bits of information from 
 time to time, as from one who was in a position to do so. 
 
 " We haven't talked about it much lately," she said. " And 
 of course anything I tell you is in the strictest confidence. I 
 shouldn't repeat intimate conversations to anybody else. 
 From what Lady Ruth has said to me, I know she would not 
 like the idea so much as mentioned." 
 
 " Oh, but, Miss Budd, I shouldn't dream of repeating a 
 word you Say to me to any one else, not even to my husband. 
 I am sure you ought to know that. It is as safe with me 
 as if it was in the grave. But, of course, I do like to know 
 what is going on, and you being so much in the thick of 
 things, I do like to come and talk things over, comfortably, 
 and hear secrets about all the grandees." 
 
 Miss Budd did not quite like this speech. It made her 
 look as if she were one of those people who loved nosing out 
 the affairs of her neighbours, and, as she often said, if there 
 was one thing she hated more than another it was gossip. 
 But the attitude otherwise was unexceptionable. Mrs. Sten- 
 ning quite took her for one of the grandees herself, and quite 
 thought that every one of them had told her all their secrets. 
 
 " Well, one is naturally interested in the affairs of one's 
 friends," she said, " and of course I have known Sylvia since 
 she was a baby." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; and she is a sweet girl, isn't she ? So pretty — 
 and ladylike ! I should like to see her marry a lord." 
 
 " Well, as to that," said Miss Budd; " it would be quite a 
 
MISS BUDD AND MRS. STENNING 55 
 
 natural thing ; although with the chances Sylvia has had some 
 people might think it rather odd that she is not married 
 already." 
 
 " Oh, but she is not twenty-one yet. I wasn't married till 
 I was twenty-five, and I was considered young even then." 
 
 Mrs. Stenning seldom offended in this way. When she 
 did she was brought to book immediately. 
 
 " Well, that is rather different, isn't it? " said Miss Budd, 
 drily, and Mrs. Stenning hastened to admit that it was. 
 
 " Oh, of course, I was not nearly so pretty as Sylvia," 
 she said, " and didn't move in the same circles — naturally. 
 I suppose young ladies who are presented at Court and go 
 up to London for the season, do marry younger than we 
 do, don't they? When I say we, of course I don't mean 
 you." 
 
 Miss Budd accepted the tribute. " In my time in Lon- 
 don," she said, " girls certainly married young if they married 
 at all. Of course some of them preferred to keep their 
 independence even then." 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Mrs. Stenning; meaning that she quite 
 understood that Miss Budd could have married a dozen 
 times over, if she had not preferred to keep her independence. 
 
 " Sylvia has now had two seasons in London," Miss Budd 
 went on, " and in my time a girl who was not married at 
 the end of two seasons was considered rather passee. It may 
 be different now. I don't know. I prefer to live quietly 
 here in the country, and when I go to London, to go at a 
 time when there is not so much crowd and bustle." 
 
 " Well, I rather like London in the season myself," said 
 Mrs. Stenning. " It is so gay. Still, of course, it is different 
 for me. I am only a looker-on." 
 
 So was Miss Budd, although she did not say so, and left 
 it to be inferred that half the houses in London would have 
 been open to her if she had liked to go up " for the season." 
 
56 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 The season had meant nothing to her in the days to which 
 she constantly referred, for her father had practised in Clap- 
 ham ; but she had read a good many novels. 
 
 " The fact is," said Miss Budd, " that Sylvia hasn't got 
 the style that is expected of girls . now-a-days — always has 
 been, for that matter, in good society. Still, men who are 
 no longer quite young are sometimes attracted by that sort 
 of simplicity, and I have never denied that Sylvia is pretty in 
 her own way." 
 
 " Oh, I think she is perfectly lovely," said Mrs. Stenning. 
 "And always so beautifully dressed, although of course 
 plainly." 
 
 " Ye-es," said Miss Budd. " Lady Ruth certainly has a 
 good taste in dress, and I must say dressts suitably ; and Sylvia 
 too. That simplicity — or plainness, as you call it — is the 
 proper thing for the country, and costs a good deal of money 
 too. If dress were everything, Sylvia would certainly possess 
 style." 
 
 " Then you don't think she is stylish ? " ' 
 
 " Well, I wouldn't say so to anybody but you ; because 
 of course I don't like criticising such old and dear friends as 
 the Frenches." 
 
 " Oh, no," put in Mrs. Stenning. 
 
 " But, as I say, there is a lack of style. You would hardly 
 expect, for instance, even in a country town like this, that a 
 girl of Sylvia's birth would go about unattended, and without 
 gloves, as she does." 
 
 "Oh, isn't that done?" asked Mrs. Stenning. 
 
 " And she has very little discrimination," Miss Budd 
 went on. " Of all the girls that she might make friends 
 with in the houses round about here, she chooses Myra Curtis 
 — a nice enough girl, I don't deny, though abrupt in her man- 
 ners. But Farncombe is the poorest living hereabouts, and 
 Mr. Curtis has nothing but what he gets from it. Nor Mrs. 
 
MISS BUDD AND MRS. STENNING 57 
 
 Curtis either, and neither of them are anything at all by 
 birth. Mr. Curtis was not even at Oxford or Cambridge, 
 and I believe he worked as a clerk before he took Holy 
 Orders. I am not saying that that is anything against him. 
 But there is Myra obliged to work for her living, and if she 
 were not fortunate enough to be engaged at Famcombe Hall, 
 she would certainly have to go out as a governess. She is 
 a governess, however kindly the Prendergasts may treat 
 her, and — and — ^well, there it is. She is Sylvia's chief 
 friend." 
 
 " Well, of course, you know best," said Mrs. Stenning. 
 " I dare say it isn't very suitable ; but I rather like it in 
 Sylvia all the same." 
 
 " Yes, there is that side," said Miss Budd. " And don't 
 imagine for a moment that I am reflecting on Sylvia's 
 character. I have known her from babyhood, and although 
 there are things I could wish altered, she is, on the whole, a 
 nice girl. I am only saying that with the advantages she 
 has had — treated almost like a daughter by Lady Hampshire, 
 and taken about everywhere — ^she has not turned out quite as 
 one would expect." 
 
 Mrs. Stenning considered this for a moment. " Well, 
 you know best," she said again. " But, as far as I am 
 concerned, I am rather glad she hasn't altered. She is 
 always ready to help with the children, and is as sweet as 
 possible with them. I never feel that she is any different to 
 what I am when she comes into my house; and she never 
 talks big about her grand relations. She is just like any 
 other nice clergyman's daughter." 
 
 " Ah, there you have it," said Miss Budd, oracularly. 
 " If she was only a clergyman's daughter she would be just 
 what she ought to be." 
 
 " I must say I should like to see her married, though," 
 pursued Mrs. Stenning. " For her own sake, I mean, for 
 
58 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 I should be sorry enough to lose her myself. Do you 
 think she will marry Lord Pangbourne? Of course I have 
 never so much as mentioned his name to her after what 
 you told me, and wouldn't, though I do feel sometimes that 
 I should like her to say something about him to me." 
 
 " Oh, she wouldn't do that," said Miss Budd hastily, 
 " and for goodness' sake, don't ask her any fishing questions. 
 As I told you, he seemed much attracted last season in Lon- 
 don, and she met him at one or two house-parties in the 
 autumn and winter. But his married life with his first wife 
 was very unhappy, and I dare say he finds it diflScult to make 
 up his mind to make a second attempt." 
 
 " He divorced his first wife, didn't he ? " 
 
 " Yes. But there was nothing whatever against him. And 
 she died afterwards. Otherwise, of course, there could be 
 no question of a second marriage. I mean, not with people 
 in the position of the Frenches — a clergyman's family." 
 
 " It doesn't sound quite what one would like for Sylvia." 
 
 " I don't know. He is a distinguished man, and, after 
 all, not old — only thirty-six." 
 
 " What is he like to look at? Is he handsome? " 
 
 " I've never seen him, you know. At least, not to my 
 knowledge. He would have been a boy when I lived in 
 London. But there was a portrait of him in some paper 
 that I saw, when he was given his appointment. A grave- 
 looking man, but distinguished-looking. Oh, yes, I think 
 you might call him handsome. It would be a suitable match 
 for Sylvia." 
 
 " Did you say that he had been asked to the ball at 
 Roding Court? I forgot." 
 
 A shadow came over Miss Budd's face. " I don't know," 
 she said shortly. 
 
 " If he has we shall see him there, and I think we might 
 draw inferences, don't you? " 
 
MISS BUDD AND MRS. STENNING 59 
 
 " Perhaps so," said Miss Budd. " Did you say it was 
 Wednesday or Thursday you received your invitation ? " 
 
 " Well, I really forget. But it would have come the same 
 day as yours. When did yours come ? " 
 
 Miss Budd did not reply to the question, being unwilling 
 to acknowledge that she had not received an invitation. 
 
 " Good gracious me, it's past half-past four," she said, 
 looking at the wall-bracket clock by the door. " I really 
 must be going. Walk with me as far as the Rectory, will 
 you ? We haven't had a word yet about this dreadful affair 
 of Gosset's son. It is one of the things I want to see Lady 
 Ruth about." 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 IN LADY RUTH'S DRAWING-ROOM 
 
 "The tiresome old creature! " said Lady Ruth, when Miss 
 Budd's name was brought up to her. 
 
 She was with Sylvia in the pleasant upstairs room look- 
 ing on to the garden, which they mostly used during the 
 day. They were both writing letters. " Do you think I 
 could say not at home?" she asked. But Sylvia vetoed the 
 idea. " I'll come and help you out, mother, when I've fin- 
 ished this letter," she said. 
 
 So Lady Ruth went down, and nobody could have guessed 
 from the charming smile with which she greeted her visitor 
 that she disliked her instinctively and intensely. It was one 
 of the penalties of her position as rector's wife that she had 
 to be " nice to all sorts." But being nice came so easily to 
 her that it was doubtful if Miss Budd would have, guessed 
 how cordially she was disliked, if Lady Ruth had received 
 her in any other capacity. 
 
 " Sylvia will be down in a minute or two," she said. " We 
 have been frightfully busy with all the arrangements for 
 the ball. She and I have written all the regular invitations, 
 and now we are collecting our own party. We are all look- 
 ing forward to it immensely. There hasn't been a ball at 
 the Court for I don't know how long. It has been a 
 bachelor's house for so many years that all sorts of things 
 want seeing to, and we are continually going to and fro." 
 
 Miss Budd's mouth wore rather a pinched expression 
 during this speech. " If I can give you. any help," she said, 
 " you know how pleased I shall be to do so." 
 
 60 
 
IN LADY RUTH'S DRAWING-ROOM 6i 
 
 " Oh, thank you so much," said Lady Ruth, a little hastily. 
 " But we are getting on very well. It is only to see after 
 things. There are plenty of people to do them." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so," said Miss Budd. " It is to be 
 Sylvia's ball, is it not? I suppose you and she are asking 
 the guests." 
 
 Lady Ruth thought this rather impertinent. Miss Budd 
 was apt to be rather impertinent. " They will be my 
 brother-in-law's guests," she said. " We have written all the 
 invitations." 
 
 " It must have been a long business. Have you finished 
 sending them out ? " 
 
 " Yes, and we are beginning to get theanswers. Nearly 
 everybody about here is coming. We shall be a great gather- 
 ing of neighbours." 
 
 " Mrs. Stenning has just been with me. She is delighted 
 at having received an invitation; and of course it is a great 
 honour for her." 
 
 "An honour! Oh, no. Of course she received an in- 
 vitation." 
 
 Sylvia came in at this moment, and saw that her mother 
 was already ruffled by her visitor, although Miss Budd had 
 not noticed it, and was casting about for the best way of 
 intimating plainly that if Mrs. Stenning had been invited 
 to the ball, she ought to have been, although it had so 
 happened that in all the years of her residence at Roding, 
 she had never actually spoken to Sir Richard French, and 
 Roding Court was one of the few big houses in the neigh- 
 bourhood that she had not entered. 
 
 They talked about anything but the ball during tea-time, 
 for Lady Ruth was determined to give Miss Budd no further 
 opportunities for making such speeches as she had made 
 about Mrs. Stenning. Misunderstanding its ironical in- 
 tention, she had thought it simply ill-natured and snobbish. 
 
62 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 Miss Budd made various attempts to introduce the subject, 
 and each of her speeches was a little more vinegary than the 
 last. Eventually she dropped it, quite convinced that there 
 had been no mistake, as she had supposed, and hoped, might 
 have been the case, but that it had not been intended to 
 invite her, and she was now as good as being told so. 
 
 After tea, she intimated to Lady Ruth that she wished 
 to have a word in private with her, and Sylvia retired, 
 
 " I wanted to speak to you about this dreadful affair of 
 young Gosset and Jane Morton," she said. " I feel partly 
 responsible towards the parents, as it was I who discovered 
 the girl's condition." 
 
 " I think they feel," said Lady Ruth coldly, " that you 
 had some responsibility towards her." 
 
 Miss Budd frowned. " I didn't mean that," she said, 
 " How could any blame conceivably attach to me? I looked 
 after the girl carefully, as I always do with my maids, and 
 if she hadn't been so clever in deceiving me, I should have 
 found out what was going on long before. But, of course, 
 it was not she who was chiefly to blame. She is flighty, as 
 many young girls are but if it had not been for that young 
 hypocrite, who is as deep and cunning as they make 
 them, she would never have gone wrong in that dreadful 
 way." 
 
 " I would very much rather not talk about it at all, 
 Miss Budd," said Lady Ruth. " I have seen Jane Morton 
 constantly, and my husband has seen Mr. Gosset's son. 
 Neither of us think that he is to blame more than she is; 
 but now the trouble has come it is of no use to go back to 
 that." 
 
 " Well, I don't agree with you," said Miss Budd. " And 
 at any rate, whichever of them is most to blame, the girl 
 is being left to bear all the punishment." 
 
 Lady Ruth was silent. She shrank with all her soul 
 
IN LADY RUTH'S DRAWING-ROOM 63 
 
 from discussing the question at all with this woman, who 
 had turned the girl out of her house the moment she had 
 discovered her fault, and who tore aside with a rough hand 
 the coverings which her own delicacy prompted her to keep 
 over an event that had caused deep trouble and filled her 
 with vicarious shame. 
 
 " I think very strongly," said Miss Budd, " that young 
 Gosset ought to be made to marry her. It might be the 
 saving of her, and if she is left to the disgrace of bearing 
 and bringing up an illegitimate child she is bound to be- 
 come hardened, and may go to the bad altogether." 
 
 " Oh, but you don't know what you are saying," cried 
 Lady Ruth. " I have been with her constantly. She is 
 very sorry for what has happened. She will be a better 
 girl. Why do you want to interfere now? Why must you 
 come and talk to me about it at all ? " 
 
 Interfere! That was a disagreeable word for Miss Budd 
 to hear. Her face hardened. " I hope it is not inter- 
 ference," she said, " to wish to do what one can for a girl 
 who has been deceived in that way." 
 
 " But you had your chance of doing something for her, 
 and you threw it away. You were the first to find out that 
 she was in trouble, and you drove her out of your house. 
 You didn't care then what became of her." 
 
 " I sent her to her parents. Do you really wish to blame 
 me for doing that, Lady Ruth ? " 
 
 Miss Budd was outraged. She had never seen Lady. 
 Ruth in this state before. She had seemed to be content 
 to leave parish matters, where a woman's hand was wanted, 
 to Miss Budd, who had in consequence taken upon herself 
 many responsibilities usually sustained in a parish by the 
 wife of the parish priest. There must be something behind 
 all this; and no doubt it was connected in some way with 
 the omission to invite Miss Budd to the ball. 
 
64 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 She had no time more than to glance at the possibilities 
 opening up, for Lady Ruth took her up at once. 
 
 " You told her to go home to her parents," she said. 
 " You didn't go with her, or even see that she went. You 
 left her to tell them of her own disgrace; you were not 
 kind or tender to her at all. Do you know that she very 
 nearly didn't go home? She thought of going to London 
 to hide herself. Yes, I do blame you. If she had done 
 that, and been lost, it would have been because of you, and 
 your cruelty to her." 
 
 But this was beyond everything! Lady Ruth was leaning 
 forward in her low chair, her eyes fixed upon Miss Budd's 
 face, her cheeks flushed, her mouth quivering. Miss Budd 
 had once confided in Mrs. Stenning that, for a clergyman's 
 wife. Lady Ruth was a little too much of a butterfly. She 
 did not look like a butterfly now. Miss Budd forgot all 
 about her rank, which was seldom out of her mind when 
 in Lady Ruth's company, and led her to behave in a more 
 honeyed manner than if there had been none. She rose 
 from her seat. " I really can't stay here and be talked to 
 in that fashion," she said. " I don't think you know what 
 you are saying, or doing. I suppose you are so much 
 taken up with your preparations for the ball that you have 
 no time to think of what is fitting in the wife of a priest." 
 
 Lady Ruth rose too. Her excitement was gone. She 
 was the aristocratic lady faced by a common and presuming 
 woman. Her hand was on the bell, and a hint of doubt 
 was beginning to appear in Miss Budd's eyes. If she should 
 go like this, she would probably not enter Lady Ruth's 
 drawing-room again. 
 
 But the door opened, and the Rector came in. 
 
 " Ah, Miss Budd," he said, shaking hands with her. 
 " Have you come to talk about this ball that is engaging all 
 our attentions? " 
 
IN LADY RUTH'S DRAWING-ROOM 65 
 
 Then he saw that something had happened, and looked 
 enquiringly at his wife, who said nothing, but stood by 
 the mantelpiece waiting. 
 
 Miss Budd recovered herself. " Under the circumstances, 
 Mr. French," she said, " I am not very much interested 
 in the ball. I came to say something about Jane Morton, 
 and am sorry that Lady Ruth should think that I my- 
 self am in any way to blame in the matter. Perhaps I 
 ought to have seen that the girl went home; but I 
 was so upset by what had happened that it did not occur 
 to me. At any rate, I want to do whatever lies in my 
 power now to help, and I should like to talk it over 
 quietly." 
 
 " I think it is too late now for Miss Budd to do any- 
 thing, Henry," said Lady Ruth. " There is nothing to 
 be done, except to be kind to the poor girl. But I have said 
 all I have to say, and I wiU leave Miss Budd to talk 
 it over with you, if she still wishes to do so." 
 
 She went out of the room, and Miss Budd's heart sank, 
 for she did not take leave of her in any way, and held her 
 head high. 
 
 The Rector's face was troubled. He didn't sit down, or 
 ask Miss Budd to do so, but said : " I think there is nothing 
 more that can be done. It has been a painful affair, and 
 my wife has felt it deeply. I am glad that she has been 
 able to make friends with the Mortons; and they are glad 
 to see her when she goes to them." 
 
 " Oh, of course they would be glad to see Lady Ruth," 
 said Miss Budd. " And I am sure it is very good and 
 sweet of her to interest herself in the case. I would go 
 myself, and in fact did so, a few days ago, but — well, Mrs. 
 Morton was really so abominably rude, that I had to come 
 away." 
 
 " Well, there it is, you see," said the Rector. " There 
 
66 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 is nothing you can do, Miss Budd. You had better try 
 and forget all about it." 
 
 He waited for her to go, and she knew he was waiting. 
 It required some courage on her part to say, with nervous 
 brevity : " I think he ought to marry her." 
 
 " Others think so too," said the Rector, as shortly. 
 
 "Don't you think so, Mr. French?" she asked, looking 
 up into his face. 
 
 " No," he said. " And in any case it is of no use talking 
 about it. Morton wouldn't have it, if there were no other 
 reason against it." 
 
 She digested this. " I heard something of the sort," she 
 said. " But he is a low type of man — never comes to 
 church, and makes an open scofE of religion. In my opinion 
 he ought not to be allowed to dictate in such a serious 
 matter as this. The girl ought to be rescued from her sur- 
 roundings. The young man ought to pay the penalty of 
 his wickedness." 
 
 " Well," he said, keeping his patience, not without an 
 effort, " the subject has been very thoroughly gone into. 
 I went into it myself, and I formed my own opinion, on 
 which I acted, as far as it lay with me to act at all. You 
 must forgive me for saying that I don't want to open it up 
 again." 
 
 " Oh, of course, Mr. French, I shouldn't think of inter- 
 fering in a matter that rested entirely with you. But in 
 a case like this — the woman's hand, you know. Isn't it a 
 case where a woman may help ? " 
 
 " Yes. It is very much so. My wife is helping. She 
 is doing what I never could have done, what no man can 
 do. The girl clings to her; she is very much softened. 
 She has found a woman who is tender to her in her trouble. 
 She will not feel herself an outcast." 
 
 Miss Budd thought herself plainly indicated in this speech 
 
IN LADY RUTH'S DRAWING-ROOM 67 
 
 as the wrong sort of woman to help, and took ofEence 
 at it. 
 
 "A good many people would think," she said stiffly, 
 " that a girl who had sinned in that way ought to consider 
 herself an outcost until the man " 
 
 " I know they would," interrupted the Rector. " There 
 are always people who love to throw stones." 
 
 This offended Miss Budd still more. " I should hardly 
 have thought you woiJd have condoned such an offence," 
 she said, " unless it had been followed by marriage, 
 which " 
 
 " I don't condone it," he said. " But I must say again. 
 Miss Budd, that there is nothing you can do to help mat- 
 ters now, and I would very much rather not discuss it 
 further." 
 
 He made a movement as if he expected her to take her 
 leave, but she had not done yet, and although feeling her- 
 self dismissed, and resenting it, she still kept her place. 
 " Then I needn't say any more about that side of it," she 
 said; "but it makes it very diiBcult for me going about 
 amongst the people, if it is to be considered the church 
 view that marriage should not follow a sin of this sort. 
 Of course, in the case of the Dissenters, no religious rule 
 would be binding. They would always act just as it suited 
 them at the moment, as Gosset has done. I am glad to say 
 that practically everybody I have met despises him for the 
 way he has behaved. He has shown himself the hypocrite 
 he is, and his claws will be very much cut in the future." 
 
 " Oh, Miss Budd," said the Rector, with some show of 
 impatience, " let us leave Gosset alone. I don't want 
 his claws cut, for any good he succeeds in doing; we shan't 
 be doing any better work in our line by setting ourselves 
 against him in his. He counts for little; we need scarcely 
 ever come into contact with him." 
 
68 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 " Well, that is just it. With this popular preacher they 
 have managed to attract here — goodness knows how — ^they 
 will interfere with us a good deal more than they have 
 done. And as for coming in contact with him, I think you 
 ought to know, Mr. French, and I came here partly to tell 
 you, that people are coupling your name with his, and in 
 a way that is doing harm to the Church. They don't un- 
 derstand why you should take his side, and I am told that 
 the Dissenters are even saying — although of course I don't 
 believe it for a moment, knowing the sort of man he is — 
 that he was willing that the marriage should take place, 
 and that you overpersuaded him against it." 
 
 " Well, let them say it. If they say it to me I shall know 
 what to reply." 
 
 " It is our own people I am thinking of. I am afrdd 
 you think that I am only interfering, Mr. French, as Lady 
 Ruth told me to my face. If I consulted my own inclina- 
 tions I should have gone away and not said anything more. 
 But it isn't so. I do feel so strongly that this marriage 
 ought to take place. It would be the right thing; it would 
 close mouths; it would " 
 
 " It would cause Gosset, living in Roding, to lose caste. 
 Aren't you thinking a good deal of that. Miss Budd? " 
 
 The words were like the stroke of a lash to her. They 
 came sharply. The remembrance of the way his wife had 
 stood when he came into the room, and of her leaving it, 
 and certain things that Miss Budd had since let drop about 
 her conversation with her, had been working on him. He 
 condemned Miss Budd's action in turning the girl out of 
 her house, without caring what became of her, as much as 
 Lady Ruth did, and saw what lay at the root of her desire 
 to meddle in the affair now, still more plainly. There was 
 nothing good in it. It was made up chiefly of spite. Her 
 religion largely consisted in opposition to other forms of 
 
IN LADY RUTH'S DRAWING-ROOM 69 
 
 religion, and to those who practised them; and if she could 
 put a spoke in the wheel of Gosset, or of any Dissenter, 
 it would be a great satisfaction to her. 
 
 Miss Budd drew back. " I don't understand you, Mr. 
 French," she said, speaking with deeply offended dignity. 
 " I came here to tell you of something you ought to know, 
 and you positively insult me; and Lady Ruth too. If I 
 am to be considered, after all these years, not a suitable 
 person to know, I think it might have been indicated to 
 me in a less objectionable fashion. It is not my habit to 
 .push myself in where I am not wanted, and I can take a 
 hint as well as anybody." 
 
 The Rector missed the allusion to the lacking invitation, 
 but his disgust with Miss Budd was not lessened by this 
 speech, which he thought merely feline. And the references 
 to Lady Ruth angered him still further. " In this case," 
 he said coldly, " I can't regret having given the hint," 
 and led Miss Budd to the street door without further words. 
 
 She went home fuming, and, under cover of the dark- 
 ness, worked her face into all manner of angry contortions. 
 But through all her offence, and her reiterated self-assur- 
 ances that nothing would ever induce her to set foot in that 
 house again as long as she lived, there ran a disagreeable 
 sense that she had cut sure ground from beneath her feet. 
 When she reached her house, and saw some letters that 
 had come by the evening post lying on the hall table, she 
 looked through them to see if they might include the be- 
 lated invitation. If it had been there she would have 
 written an acceptance — possibly waiting until the next morn- 
 ing to do so. 
 
 Lady Ruth had gone upstairs to Sylvia, after leaving 
 Miss Budd and the Rector in the drawing-room. She had 
 gone slowly, so as to be able to join her daughter with no 
 signs of anything out of the way having happened to her. 
 
70 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 She and Sylvia were almost like sisters in the way that 
 they talked over with one another anything that happened, 
 and it had added to her distress over the affair of Jane 
 Morton that no hint of it must be allowed to reach her 
 daughter's ears. 
 
 "Have you got rid of her, mother?" Sylvia asked. 
 " What did she want to see you about? " 
 
 " Father came in, and I have left her to hira," said Lady 
 Ruth. " By-the-by, Sylvia, I don't remember having re- 
 ceived her answer to the invitation." 
 
 " She hasn't sent one," said Sylvia. " I have just been 
 going over the list. Let us hope she doesn't mean to come. 
 
 " You are sure an invitation was sent to her? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. It was amongst that lot that I dropped on 
 the stairs when I took them down to be posted. But I 
 picked them all up again." 
 
 But Miss Budd's invitation had not been picked up, and 
 was at that moment lying behind a heavy oak stand in the 
 hall, and not likely to be disturbed until the next spring- 
 cleaning. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 GEORGE BARTON 
 
 George Barton got out of his cab at the gate of Gray's 
 Inn, and leaving his bag to be brought up by the porter, 
 walked across the Square to Ralph French's rooms. 
 
 The old red-roofed buildings of the Inn, and the large 
 gravelled squares, were rather like the courts of a college; 
 and the sun of a fine afternoon in early March was shining 
 on them. His spirits rose. He and Ralph French had 
 shared rooms together in the Great Court of Trinity; it 
 would be like old times to be together again for a couple 
 of nights. And a taste of London is always something of 
 a mild excitement to a young man who has settled him- 
 self to work in the country. 
 
 Ralph was out; but there was a note from him to say 
 that he would be back in half an hour. George was to 
 get tea ready, and there were drinks in the cupboard, if he 
 wanted one. 
 
 It was extraordinarily like being back at Cambridge. 
 Ralph had only lately taken these rooms, and George had 
 not been in them before. They were furnished with Ralph's 
 share of the things that they had used together, supplemented 
 by later purchases which showed some change in the habits 
 of their owner from those of the undergraduate. There 
 was a large writing-table in one of the windows, covered 
 with papers and blue books. Two wicker easy chairs had 
 been banished to corners of the room, and their places were 
 taken on each side of the fireplace by new upholstered ones, 
 on one of which there was an elaborate book-rest. There 
 
 71 
 
72 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 was a large book-case, well-filled; and books and reviews 
 were lying on the gate-legged table at which they had had 
 so many breakfasts and lunches and dinners together, and 
 with their friends, in those light-hearted days. Its place 
 as a dining-table was taken by a new one of a more con- 
 venient type. 
 
 But the pictures on the panelled walls, and the few 
 decorative articles in the room were the same. Scarcely 
 anything had been added to them. This was not the room 
 of a young man delighting to surround himself with objects 
 of beauty. The conveniences were new, the decorations 
 were such as happened to exist. It was the room of a worker, 
 who liked to make himself fairly comfortable. 
 
 George Barton noted it all — the familiar things first. 
 How they brought back the old days to his memory! He 
 looked at all the framed photographic groups, most of which 
 were different from those that he had himself; for he had 
 played cricket and football, and Ralph had rowed. Two 
 oars, with blades emblazoned, hung over the book-case ; there 
 were silver cups, and other prizes on the mantelpiece and 
 elsewhere. There were reminiscences of Harrow besides, 
 where they had been together, at the same house, before 
 going up in the same year to Cambridge. The tea-set on 
 the table included a sugar-basin and milk-jug with the 
 Trinity arms stamped on them. It was surprising that they 
 should have survived the destruction that had long since 
 overtaken the cups, and the rest of the set. They took 
 George's mind back in a rush to the October evening on 
 which he and Ralph had gone over to the shop opposite to 
 the Great Gate to buy them. They had been fortunate 
 enough to get rooms in college in their first term, and the 
 fixing of them up, and the purchase of necessaries, had been 
 a pleasurable affair. Such articles of crockery as these, 
 decorated with University or college arms, make a special 
 
GEORGE BARTON 73 
 
 appeal to the freshman. His state of mind when he had 
 bought them returned to him for a moment, and he felt 
 retrospectively the eager pleasure in a new life just opening, 
 the blue gown on his shoulders, the sensation of the wet 
 pavements and the light reflected on them, the damp autumn 
 air, and the stately buildings of the great college, their 
 windows alight, which contained the rooms, not so unlike 
 these, in which he was to taste the sweets of a liberty that 
 seemed complete to a boy who had just left school. He 
 felt a touch of nostalgia. That opening thrill, over life 
 in a place so storied and picturesque, fades after a time, only 
 to be recaptured by wafts of memory in after years. It was 
 only six years since he and Ralph had been freshmen to- 
 gether, but the time seemed very far away, and the age 
 that he had now reached almost patriarchal. Certainly, it 
 was not in him again to feel the same degree of pleasure 
 in buying tea-cups. 
 
 He put the kettle standing in the fender on the fire, and 
 sat down in one of the big easy chairs in front of it. 
 
 It was the first time that this realization of the passage 
 of years had come to him. A man of twenty-five, of the 
 training that George Barton had had, is still a very young 
 man. Physically, he has not even reached maturity, and 
 he is hardly within sight of the time when his aptitude for 
 any form of athletic exercise, or his taste for it, will begin 
 to lessen. His eye is towards the future, which still stretches 
 inimitably in front of him, and holds possibilities which 
 experience has not yet taught him to discount. Only a little 
 of the glamour of life has been rubbed ofE, and much still 
 remains. He knows so Kttle of it, although he thinks he 
 knows so much. Intellectually he is hardly past his boyhood. 
 He may already have laid up a rich store of knowledge, but 
 he is only beginning to learn to use it. He is at the be- 
 ginning of most things that count in life, but not at the 
 
74 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 first beginning. The miles from nineteen to twenty-five are 
 long ones, and it is seldom before the end of them is reached 
 that the traveller has any clear idea as to where they are 
 likely to lead him. 
 
 George looked round the room again, as if to gauge from 
 its contents how far his friend had moved on during the 
 three years they had been parted. Ralph French had not 
 done a great deal of work at Cambridge. During his first 
 year he had had visions of a First-Class in the Classical 
 Tripos, but he had also had visions of a rowing blue, and 
 he was not of the stuff of which first classes are made with- 
 out desperate and undivided endeavour. The incentive was 
 not strong enough. His place in the world was already 
 made for him. A First-Class would hardly help him in 
 any path he wished to tread, and he was not a scholar by 
 temperament. In his second year he changed his mind and 
 began to read History. At the beginning of his third year 
 he knew that he had no chance of rowing in the University 
 crew, and gave up rowing to hunt. This led to some change 
 of companionship, and the men he mostly lived with until 
 he went down were not amongst the workers, and many of 
 them did no work at all. He took a Third-Class in his 
 Tripos, but neither expressed nor felt much regret at not 
 being placed higher. He had had a very good time, and he 
 had read his books, which was what he had chiefly wanted. 
 
 Steady, sober George, working in regular hours, but by 
 no means overworking, for his modest pass degree, and 
 amusing himself in his quiet fashion, had felt rather dis- 
 appointed with the comparative failure of his cleverer friend. 
 But now, as he looked round Ralph's room, and noted the 
 signs of his present occupations, he felt that it had not been 
 so much of a failure after all. Ralph had not unfitted him- 
 self for the work that it became him to do by the way he had 
 amused himself during his last year at Cambridge, although 
 
GEORGE BARTON 75 
 
 he might not have advanced himself. He was not one of 
 the wasters. He had travelled for nearly a year after taking 
 his degree, and had since then spent a good deal of time 
 over the ordinary pursuits of country life. There was no 
 reason, in the nature of things, as George understood them, 
 why he should have done any work at all, with the prospects 
 that were his. But he seemed to be working now, and his 
 friend was glad of it. 
 
 One moved on. One's interests in life altered. Work 
 became a r^l thing, not merely a means towards something 
 to be attained, and of no particular interest in itself. In 
 the light of that sudden realization of how his own outlook 
 had changed, and' of the signs of Ralph's solidification of 
 purpose, he took a look into himself and the ends to which 
 he was shaping. 
 
 He was an only son. His mother had died before he 
 was old enough to know her; his father, who was also dead, 
 had been a sailor. He had lived a good deal with rela- 
 tions during his boyhood, and chiefly with the Frenches. 
 It was because he wanted to go to Harrow with Ralph 
 that he had not been put into the Navy. He was to have 
 gone to Sandhurst from Harrow, but wanted to go to Cam- 
 bridge, and liked the life when he got there. To do any- 
 thing in the Army he must have left without taking a 
 degree. His career was discussed in a leisurely fashion. His 
 father did not much mind what he did. George would 
 have enough to live on without doing anything, but he 
 thought he ought to' have some profession to occupy him, at 
 least during his own lifetime. It was a question between 
 the Bar and the Church. George rather inclined to the 
 Bar, because he could share rooms with Ralph in London. 
 But on the other hand he did not Suppose he was clever 
 enough to do much at it, and if it were not for sharing 
 rooms with Ralph, he much preferred living in the country. 
 
76 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 The scale was turned by his father's death, during his 
 second year at Cambridge. He felt it deeply, although 
 they had not been much together. He became intimate 
 with one of the Deans of his college at this time, who had 
 known his father, and who treated him with great sym- 
 pathy. His friend did not press him to take Orders, but 
 insensibly influenced him in that direction, and when he 
 left Cambridge he went to read theology with a man of 
 deep but unobtrusive piety, who had trained many gener- 
 ations of graduates in the same way, t>nd impressed some- 
 thing of his own fine personality upon not a few of them. 
 
 At the end of his year's preparation "he had not been 
 ordained with the others who had shared it with him. He 
 had some doubts of his own fitness. In the way that the 
 Church had been set before him, as a profession, alternative 
 to any other, he had not looked forward to taking it as 
 more than an occupation, to be treated seriously while he 
 was in it, certainly, but to be laid aside at any time that he 
 might prefer not to be tied to regular work. He was well- 
 off. He had had ideas of buying, by and by, a little country 
 place and settling down in it — possibly with a wife, as most 
 men of middle-age seemed to have got themselves married 
 at some time or another. He would still be a clergyman, 
 of course, and men in that position could make themselves 
 useful; he would only not be tied to a parish. 
 
 His views had not sensibly changed. There seemed nothing 
 wrong in such a prospect, and he had no definite plans 
 about it ; it would be years, probably, before he would retire 
 from active work, and in the meantime he would work as 
 others worked, first in a curacy, and possibly some years 
 as an incumbent, if a suitable living offered itself. He might 
 even be quite content to go on all his life as a parish priest ; 
 it would depend upon the sort of place in which he should 
 find himself. There were many country rectories and 
 
GEORGE BARTON 77 
 
 vicarages that would offer him just what would suit him, 
 if he were looking out for a house of his own. He might 
 not want to give up at all; his plans were nothing like so 
 definite as to include retirement within a certain time. 
 
 And yet he had come to feel uneasy at taking his calling 
 in that way. None of the little group of men who had 
 read with him were doing so. There were ten of them ; 
 and seven were going to curacies in poor parts of London, 
 or to big towns where their work would be hard and ab- 
 sorbing. 
 
 One of these was a man called Stuckley, who had been 
 with him at Cambridge, and had lived an idle, extravagant 
 life there. He had been intended for the Church because 
 there was a good family living waiting for him, as the 
 younger son of a rich landowner. He had expected to 
 do no more than the exacting duties of his calling for a 
 handful of parishioners, and to receive an income of over a 
 thousand a year for it, with a good house and a consider- 
 able acreage of glebe. He would live much as his elder 
 brother would live in the big house hard by, when he should 
 succeed to the estate, would hunt and shoot, and enjoy all 
 the diversions of a country gentleman, with a conscience all 
 the clearer for having a slightly more serious basis to his 
 life. The present incumbent of this attractive living was 
 a very old man, ready to retire when the young one should 
 be ready to succeed him. He would spend a year in a 
 country curacy, and at twenty-four, when he had taken 
 Priest's Orders, would be instituted into a position from 
 which only very gross misconduct on his part could remove 
 him for the rest of his life. 
 
 But he had changed his plans during that year of prepara- 
 tion, during which his idleness and extravagance had grad- 
 ually reduced themselves. The rich living could wait for 
 a bit. He was going to a curacy in one of the worst slums 
 
78 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 of London, where there was a big church and a large staff 
 of clergy, all over-worked. And he did not propose to 
 leave it in a year, or perhaps in many. 
 
 George's friends had all made their own plans. No 
 pressure was ever brought to bear upon them by the wise 
 old man under whose guidance they spent their year of prep- 
 aration. They were left free to go where they would; but 
 there had been not a few changes of plan of this sort amongst 
 the men who had been coming to him for so many years 
 to prepare for their calling. They were all over the world, 
 these men, some of them in positions of authority in the 
 Church. They were of all shades of belief permitted, or 
 perhaps even hardly permitted, in the Anglican Church. 
 He stamped a spirit on them, not a creed, and even the most 
 unlikely subjects did not escape some impression of it. 
 
 George Barton's slow moving mind had come to regard 
 the ideas with which he had left Cambridge as at least 
 doubtful. He could not be quite at his ease in taking upon 
 himself vows so solemn with a purpose so light. The 
 ministry of the Church loomed big to him — big and mys- 
 terious. No man could enter it and be just as he was 
 before, unless he had so little of good in him that he was 
 unfitted to enter it at all. And as to fitness, he knew well 
 enough that no man was fit to take upon himself such re- 
 sponsibilities for the souls of others. With humility and 
 yet with courage he might go forward, if he was ready to 
 submit himself to the leading that should come to him ; 
 he must not adventure himself upon those waters unless 
 trusting to a stronger hand than his own to uphold him. 
 His faith, which was of a fixed unquestioning nature as far 
 as it had led him, failed him here. He was not prepared 
 to take the irrevocable step, felt no assurance that it was 
 demanded of him, since he had walked towards it with 
 small idea of what it might lead to. 
 
GEORGE BARTON 79 
 
 He went into the world, travelled a little, paid visits, 
 occupied himself much as he had looked forward to doing 
 for the greater part of his life, and at first enjoyed his 
 freedom. For a month or two he lived in London and 
 went down twice a week to the slum in which Stuckley 
 was working, to help him with his boys' clubs. This 
 prospective incumbent of one of the richest livings, allied 
 to one of the smallest parishes, in England was as happy 
 as possible, with his days filled by such a succession of 
 duties as left him no time to do much more than sleep and 
 eat besides. He was immensely popular in the parish, as 
 he had been at Cambridge, and as high-spirited and amusing 
 as ever ; but all his old habits seemed to have been shorn 
 from him at a stroke. He spent no money on himself, 
 drank no wine, and lived as sparely as an anchorite. None 
 of the men with whom he worked and lived in the bare 
 untidy clergy-house were much over thirty, and most of 
 them were younger. They had tremendous ' rags ' with one 
 another, and the vicar had an always applauded trick of 
 putting the strongest of them on to the floor and holding 
 him there in an entirely helpless position. They usually took 
 off their cassocks for these recreative contests, but wore 
 them otherwise, in the house and in the streets. 
 
 They were cheerful muscular ascetics. They had re- 
 duced their own bodily wants to the barest minimum, and 
 were entirely at the service, night and day, of the poorest 
 of those amongst whom they lived. In the untiring un- 
 grudging energy of youth they drew an amount of satisfac- 
 tion out of their hard devoted lives as is vouchsafed to none 
 of those who live for their own pleasure. " It's the best 
 life in the world," said George's friend to him. " Why 
 don't you make up your mind to come in, George? You'll 
 never regret it." 
 
 But there was another side to the life. The church, 
 
8o THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 blazing with lights, and gay with decorations of a gaudier 
 kind than are commonly seen except in those of the Roman 
 Communion, held to a ritual which had not failed to get 
 the vicar into trouble with the authorities. It drew the 
 masses. On Sundays the church was crammed full of the 
 poorest kind of people. It was hardly ever empty at any 
 time. Mass was said every morning, and the regular offices 
 at other times of the day and night. George's friend spoke 
 in a different voice when he talked of the services in the 
 church. " I never knew what religion was before," he said, 
 while a sort of subdued glow spread itself over his good- 
 looking immature face. " It's everything there is, to keep 
 you up, and make you happy, all the time. Sometimes 
 when I'm out about the place, and everything seems dreadful 
 and hopeless, I think of the services in the church ; especially 
 of the Mass in the early morning before it gets light. It 
 puts it all right. It's like all the pleasure we used to look 
 forward to, and a thousand times greater, because it's part 
 of the whole thing, and the best part. These poor wretches 
 about here feel it too. They love it. If you were to take 
 it away from them, they wouldn't know what joy meant." 
 
 George saw it dimly. He saw that for such as Stuckley, 
 enthusiastic and emotional, this coloured ritual expression 
 of devotion took the place of the distractions which he had 
 so completely put behind him, and was far stronger than 
 they to give him pleasure ; that this daily tangible sustenance 
 of the spirit was beyond all value to him. And he saw that 
 the same life and colour stood to the very poor for every- 
 thing they could know of it outside their own sordid lives, 
 and irradiated them with its light. He had proof enough 
 of that from what he had seen of them; it could not be de- 
 nied. 
 
 But to him it brought no devotional stimulus. The 
 richly vested priests before the lighted altar, the coming 
 
GEORGE BARTON 8r 
 
 and going of servers and acolytes', the swinging of censers 
 and ringing of bells, the quick muttered words, the brisk 
 genuflections, even the pealing out of the organ and the 
 singing of strange half-barbaric strains, afflicted him to deep 
 discomfort. The familiar service which was beginning to 
 mean much to him, -was transformed into something wholly 
 alien. It was almost as if these priests of the Church of 
 England were ashamed of the beautiful words of their own 
 liturgy, and by mumbling and racing over them desired to 
 give them the sound of a foreign tongue. Were not words 
 so carefully chosen, consecrated by the use of centuries to 
 this act of worship, designed for their own sake to be the 
 channel of communication between the human and the 
 divine? It seemed so to him, at any rate. 
 
 Oh, but the act was so much more than words, said his 
 friend. It was so important to emphasise it. All ritual 
 tended to that end ; the words themselves were ritual, where 
 they did not depart from the universal use of ages. Where 
 they did so they were apt to give a wrong turn to the 
 thoughts, or at least to confuse them. And what did these 
 poor people, who knelt in face of the altar and felt them- 
 selves in the very holiest Presence, care for the balanced 
 words of Reformation divines? They meant nothing to 
 them. They were archaic, however pleasing to the cultured 
 ear. The great act of sacrifice they did care for, and un- 
 derstood it. 
 
 The answer did not satisfy him; nor did he come to feel 
 more at home in the church which gave such joy and re- 
 freshment to these men in the midst of their splendid toil. 
 The impulse to take the final step did not come from his 
 visits to this parish, although he enjoyed the work he did 
 there during the weeks he was in London. 
 
 And he missed it afterwards — that or similar work — 
 increasingly. The savour had gone out of the life which 
 
82 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 he had thought he would so much enjoy. He had gone 
 too far and seen too much to be content simply to amuse 
 himself, however innocently. Before the year was up, he 
 had strong desires to carry out his original intentions, to 
 take Orders, and to settle down somewhere where he could 
 have enough work to employ him. But still he could not 
 make up his mind to an irrevocable giving up of himself 
 body and soul to that calling, wherever it should lead him. 
 
 He was not a man to fly to others for advice in a difficulty 
 of this sort. The good old man who had taught him had 
 died, full of years and honour, or he might have brought 
 himself to talk to him. There was no one else he felt in- 
 clined to go to. Ralph divined something of his difficulties, 
 but said nothing. 
 
 It was Henry French who cut the knot for him. He 
 had no doubts upon the subject at all, and felt no difficulty 
 in introducing it. George was almost like one of his own 
 sons. He saw him uneasy in his mind, and divined the 
 cause, as far as it lay in him to divine it.^ " You want work 
 to do," he said. " All of us are the better for work to do. 
 I'll give you plenty of it, if you take Orders and come and 
 help me here. You are cut out for it, George. You'll be 
 all the happier if you settle yourself down." 
 
 George expressed something of his doubts. The Rector 
 put them aside. " I was in much the same position as 
 you," he said. " I should never have taken Orders if I 
 hadn't been a younger son, and if it hadn't been the obvious 
 thing for me to have this living. I didn't take it seriously 
 until after I left Cambridge — not even as seriously as you 
 have. But I wouldn't go back on it now. One is doing a 
 good work to the best of one's ability. It grows on you. 
 I used to be inclined to envy my brother as the elder son. 
 I was laughing with him over it the other day. But I 
 wouldn't change places with him now." 
 
GEORGE BARTON 83 
 
 " I should like to come here," said George. " I should 
 be quite contented, perhaps for some years to come. And 
 I should like to hold a country living later on. If I thought 
 that I was right to plan things in that way, I don't think 
 I should hesitate." 
 
 " But why don't you think you'd be right. What could 
 you do better? Men like you are wanted in the country 
 livings. Lots of them can't be held by poor men. This 
 one couldn't. It hardly more than pays my curate's stipend, 
 and I spend on it much more than I get." 
 
 " It is because the life is so attractive to me — outside the 
 religious aspect of it altogether." 
 
 " My dear boy ; it wouldn't be attractive to you if you 
 were not ready for what you call the religious aspect. You're 
 not the sort that takes a snug living and does as little work 
 as possible. You're not looking forward to that sort of 
 life; you wouldn't be happy in it. Your work would be a 
 great part of your life, wherever you settled, wouldn't it ? " 
 
 " Yes, I think so — now." 
 
 " Of course it would. And the work grows on you, as 
 I said. After all, George, religion is a real thing, for you 
 and me, isn't it? One grows, one's ideas change, if one 
 follows the light honestly. One goes into it, perhaps almost 
 light-heartedly, and one is led on. You've experienced that 
 yourself. You had no doubts of this sort a year ago. I 
 must confess that I had none until a good deal later. Then 
 I was committed; I'm glad I was. So will you be if you 
 once make up your mind." 
 
 "Where will one be led?" asked George, with a smile. 
 " Perhaps not to a country parish, with a good house and a 
 nice garden." 
 
 " Perhaps not. Though everything seems to point that 
 way in your case. But isn't it a bit cowardly to funk it, 
 George? One can only take one step at a time. Don't 
 
84 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 shrink from taking the one that seems pointed out to you 
 so clearly. Leave the next for the future. Whatever it 
 may be, if it's pointed out to you clearly, you'll be given 
 the courage to take it. Both of us believe that. It's a bad 
 think to look too far ahead." 
 
 George took Orders, and settled down in Roding. He 
 had been quite happy there for eighteen months. He had 
 a little house of his own on the outskirts of the town, well- 
 furnished, with some of the effects he had inherited, and 
 managed for him by a man and his wife, old servants of 
 his father's. He dispensed much hospitality there. His 
 friends came to stay with him, and there was always some- 
 thing for them to do. A great deal of cricket was played 
 at the surrounding houses. The hunting was good. George 
 kept two horses, and had room in his stable for two more. 
 He could have accepted invitations to shoot most days in 
 the week during the season, if he had had time; and he did 
 shoot a good deal, and hunted one day a week regularly 
 besides. In the summer he played cricket on most evenings 
 with members of the Roding Cricket Club, and sometimes 
 for whole days at one or other of the country houses near, 
 where he also went frequently for lawn tennis, and often 
 stayed to dine. He was very well liked by the squires and 
 parsons and their families, most of whom he had known 
 since his boyhood, and was much in demand as a well-to-do 
 bachelor, good at games and field sports, and of birth and 
 position rather above those of the average country curate. 
 
 His work was never neglected. He had made a firm rule 
 from the beginning under no circumstances whatever to 
 allow pleasure to stand before any call of duty. But his 
 regular duties were not arduous, and the Rector did a great 
 deal of work himself that a less energetic man might have 
 left to his curate. Besides, George was of the most meth- 
 odical habits. He never idled. Many of the hours during 
 
GEORGE BARTON 85 
 
 which he was out of doors another man would have spent 
 in an armchair. It must be confessed that he read very 
 little. 
 
 Now as he sat in Ralph's arm-chair, in unwonted quies- 
 cence, he asked himself whether he was quite satisfied with 
 his life, and to what it was leading him. He saw more 
 clearly than he had ever done before how he had changed, 
 and wondered whether the change was still going on in him. 
 
 But the answer to the question was not plain yet. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A THEATRE AND A CHAPEL 
 
 " Dear old George ! How jolly to have you here ! " 
 
 Ralph had come up the stairs, three at a time, as he had 
 used to come up to their old rooms. George had almost 
 expected him to burst in and throw his cap and gown on 
 the sofa. He did put his hat and coat there, and asked, 
 " Got the kettle boiling? " as he had been accustomed to. 
 
 " I've been down in the constituency," he said with a 
 grin. " Sounds important, doesn't it? Nothing l^e begin- 
 ning early," r „ 
 
 He was full of life and energy, and talked enthusiasti- 
 cally about what he was doing with himself as they drank 
 their tea together. " I like the job," he said. " I'd no 
 idea I should take to it half so keenly. I'm getting up 
 all sorts of subjects. I generally work here in the mornings; 
 and sometimes I go to the British Museum, if I can't get 
 hold of a book I want. But you can't smoke there; it's 
 rather a bore." 
 
 " What do you do for exercise? " asked George. 
 
 " Well, that's the trouble in London, in the winter. You've 
 got the pull over me there. I fence sometimes, and I'm 
 going to play racquets. I've just joined Queen's. But it's 
 a long way off. The afternoons are rather deadly. In the 
 evenings I can amuse myself all right, and I often go up 
 to the constituency then. It's difficult to see people at other 
 times. We've had one or two meetings. I'm getting quite 
 a decent speaker, George." 
 
 86 
 
A THEATRE AND A CHAPEL 87 
 
 " I should like to hear you. You haven't got a meeting 
 to-night, have you ? " 
 
 " Oh, no. I've scratched up a dinner to-night, in your 
 honour. You didn't give me much notice or I'd have got a 
 lot of fellows. But I've secured Hugh Temple and Dick 
 Bonner. We're going to dine at Brooks's, in the odour of 
 respectability. After that we're going to ' The Pearl of 
 Peru.' I've taken a box. Will that suit you? " 
 
 George said it would. " I haven't seen a play for months," 
 he said. 
 
 " We shall have a good laugh," said Ralph. " Edmund 
 George is jolly good in it. I say, old boy, how long are 
 you going to stay ? We might go somewhere else to-morrow 
 night." 
 
 " I can stay over to-morrow," said George, " but I've 
 got something to do in the evening." 
 
 " Going to dine with a Bishop? " 
 
 George smiled. " I'm going to hear Dr. Merrow preach," 
 he said. 
 
 " Dr. Merrow ? What, the man who's coming to Rod- 
 ing?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "What on earth are you going to do that for?" 
 
 " I've come up to see young Gosset. He has written to 
 me. There is going to be a farewell meeting at which Dr. 
 Merrow's old congregation is to take leave of him, and there's 
 to be a service in the chapel. Percy Gosset asked me to 
 come to that, and walk home with him afterwards. Poor 
 chap, he's very unhappy." 
 
 " Gosset kicked him out of Roding, didn't he ? What 
 has happened over that business? " 
 
 " Nothing has happened particularly. But there's a lot 
 of talk about it in Roding." 
 
 " I say, George, I can't quite understand father taking 
 
88 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 such a strong line against his marrying the girl. I should 
 have thought it would have been the obvious thing to do. 
 Of course Gosset would hate it but after all, it wouldn't 
 be such a frightful come-down." 
 
 " I don't know about that," said George. " When you've 
 gone about your constituency a bit longer, you'll find that 
 there are a lot more grades in society than you've had any 
 idea of. Besides a man in Gosset's position is a good deal 
 higher than a working-man." 
 
 " Oh, well, yes. Still it's father I don't quite understand. 
 He couldn't press it, of course; but I should have thought 
 he would have been glad if it had happened. But he set 
 himself definitely against it. What do you think about it 
 yourself ? " 
 
 George paused before replying. " I suppose, if he had 
 thought she was a good sort of a girl," he said, rather slowly, 
 "he wouldn't have been against it. But you heard what 
 he said on that night he told us. The boy had made a bad 
 mistake. He didn't want him to suffer for it all his life." 
 
 " Is she a bad sort of girl ? " said Ralph. " Mother sees 
 her, doesn't she ? " 
 
 " Yes. She has been very good to her. I don't know 
 what she thinks of her. She doesn't talk about it at all." 
 
 " Dear mother ! I expect it was a great shock to her to 
 learn that things of that sort went on in the world at all. 
 I rather wonder that she doesn't want him to marry her." 
 
 " Perhaps she does," said George. " Though I've no 
 reason to say so." 
 
 "What do you think about it, George?" asked Ralph 
 again. 
 
 George stirred rather uneasily in his chair. " I don't 
 think much about it," he said. " The Rector has taken his 
 line. He knows better than I do." 
 
 " Oh, come now, George! It isn't like you to shirk things 
 
A THEATRE AND A CHAPEL 89 
 
 in that way. Besides, you've taken an interest in the youth. 
 You've got your finger in the pie.'' 
 
 " I'm not shirking it," said George. " On the general 
 question I'm quite ready to leave it to the Rector, as I said. 
 On the particular question I feel I have to know the boy 
 better before I form any opinion. If I come to think dif- 
 ferently from what Cousin Henry thinks, I shall say so." 
 
 Ralph had to be contented with this. " Can't you ask 
 him here and have a talk with him? " he asked. " If you 
 can only spare two nights it's a pity to have to give one of 
 them up." 
 
 " Well, I should like to hear Dr. Merrow preach," said 
 George. " I shan't be able to when he comes to Roding. 
 Besides, I can't see Percy in any other way. They keep 
 him almost locked up. Gosset was annoyed at his coming 
 to see me before he left Roding. He's to be soaked in 
 what Gosset call ' vital religion,' which means that he's 
 to have none of the recreations that are good for a fellow 
 of his age, and all the people he sees are to be of the same 
 colour. I'm not one of them. If I try to make friends 
 with him, as one man to another, I'm supposed to be prosely- 
 tising." 
 
 " Don't they let him amuse himself at all ? There's a 
 big chapel in my constituency where they have all sorts of 
 clubs and societies for the dissenting youth, just as they 
 have them in connection with Stuckley's church. They 
 don't keep those fellows locked up. Why shouldn't he 
 join something of that sort? " 
 
 " He is with very old-fashioned people. That sort of 
 thing is suspect — I suppose because we first showed the way 
 to it. It has nothing to do with vital religion." 
 
 " They must be a queer lot. Are you going to turn up 
 at Dr* Merrow's Chapel and come across young Gosset 
 unexpectedly?" 
 
90 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 " It is what he proposed, poor beggar. They've got him 
 under their thumb entirely. I went to Gosset and told him 
 that Percy had asked me to come and see him, and wanted 
 me to hear Dr. Merrow preach to-night. He couldn't very 
 well make any objection, though he said a lot of things that 
 I don't particularly want to remember, about disturbing 
 his mind. But it was going to hear Dr. Merrow that settled 
 it. He wanted me to do that. He thinks we have no 
 preachers at all in the Church. He said I should hear 
 something of a sort that I had never heard before." 
 
 Ralph's dinner at Brooks's Club was a decorous proceed- 
 ing. The four young men, somewhat subdued by the stately 
 solemnity of their surroundings, and two of them also by 
 George's clerical attire, talked over old times and old friends, 
 and drank less wine than they had been accustomed to drink 
 on similar occasions in the past. One of the guests had 
 started work in his father's office in the city, the other was 
 still reading in chambers in the Temple. Neither of them, 
 as yet, looked upon their work as anything but a necessity, 
 which an adequate fortune, coming from elsewhere, would 
 have relieved them of. It was the last thing they wished 
 to talk of when away from it, and their lives were lived 
 in the evenings, on Saturdays and Sundays, and during the 
 very generous holidays that the one was allowed, and the 
 other allowed himself. George was glad to meet them 
 again. They brought back the old life, which had been so 
 pleasant; but somehow they made it seem still farther 
 away. 
 
 After dinner they went to a theatre in the Strand, and 
 entered it as the musical play which they had come to see 
 was in full swing. The comedian who was the star of the 
 piece was on the stage, and they were soon laughing heartily 
 at him. George ha:d not laughed so much for months. He 
 had no very subtle taste in humour; nor had the actor who 
 
A THEATRE AND A CHAPEL 91 
 
 was so much amusing him. But he was sharp and lively 
 and comical, and clever at making all his points. 
 
 The piece was very well staged. The lights, the carefully 
 blended colours, the suggestion of tropical splendour in the 
 scenery, the graceful dancing of the troops of pretty girls, 
 the catchi(\g music, which included sentimental songs as 
 well ^s brighter airs, the fun and the laughter, made up an 
 entertainment in which only the most hypercritical could 
 have found the slightest hint of offence. It was all froth — 
 iridescent, unsatisfying, innocuous froth. The people who 
 thronged the theatre night after night for the sake of it 
 enjoyed a few hours' exhilaration and went away to forget 
 all about it. Where was the harm? 
 
 George asked himself that question some hours later 
 when he had taken leave of Ralph, after a long midnight 
 talk, and was alone in his room. He could see no harm; 
 probably there was none. And yet he felt a shade of de- 
 pression at the memory of it, and of his own laughter and 
 fleeting enjoyment. He had never felt like that before, when 
 he and Ralph and perhaps one or two others had been to 
 just such an entertainment as this. He had enjoyed the 
 evening, and being with his friends again; but he did not 
 want too much of this sort of enjoyment. It was more sat- 
 isfactory to go to bed tired after a hard day in the saddle, 
 or in the cricket field. Probably his country life, which 
 suited him so well, was unfitting him for these more ephem- 
 eral amusements. At any rate, he would not be sorry to 
 be back in his quiet little house in Roding, where it would 
 be very still now, and the air coming in through his open 
 bedroom window would be very sweet; unlike this stale 
 London air, which bore on it the sounds of the unquiet 
 city, never resting night or day. 
 
 The next evening, after an early dinner at his club, he 
 made his way through the noisy street to the chapel in 
 
92 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 which Dr. Merrow had preached for the past five and 
 twienty years. For as long as he himself had lived, this 
 man had been exercising his ministry here. During the 
 years of his unconscious babyhood the work had begun, 
 full of hope and confidence. During his careless boyhood 
 it had gone on, becoming widely known, attracting more 
 and more within its influence. During the years in which 
 his own thoughts had been drawn towards a somewhat 
 similar work, and since, it had been nearing its close. Five 
 and twenty years of sermon-making and sermon-delivery — 
 for there had been no other work in connection with this 
 chapel; nothing but two services every Sunday, and one 
 on a fixed day of the week — what was there to show 
 for it? 
 
 The tide of busy life washed the dingy frpnt of the big 
 building, which was situated in a wide thoroughfare, now 
 mostly given up to shops and business premises. Only a 
 negligible number of those who passed it in the roaring 
 street had ever been inside its doors; it stood for nothing 
 in the lives of the very poor, whose homes were huddled 
 away behind the shops and offices. A few of the more 
 respectable dwellers in the neighbourhood might come occa- 
 sionally to hear the famous preacher, or even form parf 
 of the regular congregation. The people who crowded 
 to it Sunday after Sunday came from all over London, 
 some of them from different parts of the world. Its fame 
 was greater in the big cities of America than in the narrow 
 streets immediately behind it. In the slang of the more 
 intolerant it was a preaching-shop. Whose were the lives 
 moulded by the message delivered week after week and 
 year after year within its walls? 
 
 As George neared the building he found himself in a 
 stream of people, most of whom were also bound for it. 
 The social part of the leave-taking, speech-making, testi- 
 
A THEATRE AND A CHAPEL 93 
 
 monial-giving, had taken place elsewhere in the afternoon. 
 He had read about it in the later evening papers over his 
 dinner. There had been Cabinet Ministers on the plat- 
 form, and Members of both Houses of Parliament. Much 
 regret had been expressed at the loss that the closing of 
 Dr. Merrow's work would be to London; stress had been 
 laid upon the fact that, although a man of strong convic- 
 tions who had never feared to speak out in support of them, 
 he had many personal friends amongst those who differed 
 from him, and some of them were there on the platform that 
 afternoon to show their appreciation of him, and the great 
 work he had done amongst them. 
 
 It was possibly owing to the presence of these dissentient 
 well-wishers, that little stress had been laid upon the details 
 of Dr. Merrow's work, which, outside his chapel, had con- 
 cerned itself largely with those very matters in which his 
 convictions were not theirs. But an ardent follower had 
 drawn attention to the fact that Dr. Merrow was not 
 laying aside his ministry altogether, even in the few years 
 in which it was necessary that he should rest for the sake 
 of his health. He had accepted a call to a country church, 
 and would take up his ministry almost immediately. 
 Though no longer, for a time, in the forefront of the battle, 
 he would still be fighting. There were Augean stables 
 to cleanse in the country as well as in the towns. They 
 might almost say that the country as it existed in England 
 to-day wanted more of the light that Dr. Merrow had shed 
 abroad so abundantly than the big towns. He was going 
 forth, as it were, as a missionary to the dark places of the 
 earth — a pioneer missionary, where few men of his calibre 
 had been before. While deeply regretting the loss to them- 
 selves, they wished him God-speed in the new work to 
 which he was about to devote himself. 
 
 George had smiled at the report of this speech, ignoring 
 
94 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 as it did the vast network of religious activity that covered 
 the whole of rural England, and the many great men who 
 had lived their saintly lives and thought their deep thoughts 
 in country parsonages; men whose names were assured of 
 immortality, as Dr. Merrow's was not yet ; other men whose 
 names were forgotten, but whose powers had been not less 
 than his, though less widely advertised. 
 
 Then he ceased to smile, and wondered if this particular 
 speech represented Dr. Merrow's own ideas. Was Roding, 
 in spite of its fine church and the ordered active work in 
 connection with it, to be considered one of the dark places 
 of the earth, and himself a missionary to it? If so, wouldn't 
 there be a very rude awakening for him? 
 
 He remembered Gosset's vulgarly pretentious chapel in 
 a side street, its cockney spire outstripping the noble tower 
 of the fourteenth century church by a few feet, as Gosset's 
 plans had arranged for it to do; the respectable congrega- 
 tion that met there, with Gosset himself the leader of 
 it, and socially its foremost figure; the small significance 
 in the life of the town of all that went on there; the con- 
 stant endeavour to claim notice, even if hostile. If there 
 were stables to be cleaned in Roding, a man who had the 
 opportunity might begin with the jealousies and pettinesses 
 that hung about the walls of Roding chapel. But this was 
 hardly the sort of cleansing that the speaker had had in his 
 mind. 
 
 What sort of a chance would a man of Dr. Merrow's 
 reputation have in the movements he no doubt had had in 
 his mind? Roding was a very small town, and there were 
 no large ones within miles of it. Whence would he draw 
 his congregations? There would be many who would go 
 to hear him preach out of curiosity, a very few who might 
 continue to go, and forsake the Church. The great ma- 
 jority would go on as they always had done. 
 
A THEATRE AND A CHAPEL 95 
 
 Where would he find his friends? Not even all of the 
 neighbouring clergy would call upon him; scarcely any of 
 the neighbouring squires would do so. He would not meet 
 with hostility, unless he chose to invite it ; it would be indif- 
 ference, but indifference so complete that it was hard to 
 see how he could make the slightest headway against it. 
 
 George suddenly saw something of the huge ponderous 
 weight of established life and custom in rural England, and 
 the buttress it forms to the Established Church. There 
 was nothing like it in any other country of the world. All 
 differences, all competition, existed below a certain social 
 stratum, except in the rare instances in which Roman 
 Catholicism asserted itself, from some great house. Above 
 that leveli which was not a high one, no other form of reli- 
 gion stirred the suave self-satisfied air. Only a current was 
 beginning to be felt from the growirfg habit of following 
 pleasure instead of church-going. For a man to assert him- 
 self against that mountain weight of settled habit — to say 
 nothing of gaining a foothold from which he could begin to 
 cleanse Augean stables — ^he must be a Hercules indeed. 
 
 The people who were making their way towards the 
 chapel on foot seemed to be mostly of one class. Women 
 were in the preponderance, though not so much as they 
 would have been in the case of a service in a cathedral or 
 a big church. They seemed to have come, almost all of 
 them, from the suburbs, or from some distant part of resi- 
 dential London. The omnibuses that moved along the broad 
 asphalt in the same direction were also full of them. They 
 walked quickly, talking cheerfully and even gaily together, 
 as if anticipating an evening's excitement. Many of them 
 carried Bibles, with limp covers, secured by elastic bands. 
 The men wore tall hats and dark overcoats mostly, but not 
 as if that costume had any special significance; the women 
 were dressed with an eye to comfort rather than to fashion. 
 
96 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 All seemed to be of the great middle-class, whose comings 
 and goings are unheeded, whose lives afford no material 
 even for fiction, and who yet form a dense phalanx of 
 respectably-educated, comfortably-living people, beside which 
 the classes that are talked of and written about are but a 
 handful. By their numbers and cohesion they were cut off 
 both from those above and below them in the social scale. 
 Even the substrata into which they were themselves divided, 
 chiefly by greater or lesser amount of income, and the resi- 
 dential quarters they inhabited, were more separate and dis- 
 tinct than the division of broad classes in the country. The 
 respectable clerks and their families who inhabited the thirty 
 and forty pound a year houses would have few friends 
 amongst those who lived in the eighty or a hundred pound 
 a year villas. Still less would they know anything of the 
 lives of the poor who might be their neighbours. These 
 divisions are of the great cities, where alone people can live 
 amongst those of precisely the same circumstances as them- 
 selves. And the more well to do of the sheer middle class, 
 distinct from the professional as from the trading classes, 
 of whom the bulk of these people hurrying to the chapel 
 was made up, is exclusively of the large towns. It is not 
 to be found in the country. If an atom of it strays there 
 it loses the characteristics of the whole, and exerts no 
 influence of itself whatever. Only a man of it, who would 
 emerge from the ruck anywhere,, is to be found here and 
 there to make its ideas count; and those ideas seldom per- 
 sist into the next generation. There was no such man in 
 Roding. George felt himself to be amongst strangers, as 
 much as he would have done if he had been walking the 
 streets of an American city. And yet these people were 
 more numerous in London than any other sort, except those 
 who work with their hands. They supported hundreds of 
 churches and chapels, and in other big towns of England 
 
A THEATRE AND A CHAPEL 97 
 
 hundreds more, in which scarcely a worshipper was to be 
 found who came from any other environment. There would 
 be no difficulty in filling any building to overflowing from 
 them, where a popular preacher was to be heard. 
 
 Motor-cars and carriages were in evidence as George 
 neared the chapel, and well-dressed people got out of them 
 and passed through the throng at the doors and in the 
 lobbies. They seemed to pass right through the crowd, 
 and he found it was possible to get into the building at 
 once by paying sixpence, although the doors were not yet 
 opened. He felt some repugnance at this charge and waited 
 with the rest. 
 
 Presently the doors were opened and they pushed in, 
 not without some elbowing and crushing. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 DR. MERKOW 
 
 The crushing and pushing ceased the moment the inner 
 swing doors were passed. George found himself in a large 
 hall, brilliantly lit, which bore not the smallest resemblance 
 to any church he had ever been inside of, except that the 
 windows were of Gothic design, and the floor was fitted 
 with pews. 
 
 A broad banked-up gallery ran round three sides of the 
 building, the front rows of which were already full, and 
 into which people were pouring from all sides, in exactly 
 the same way as they pour into the galleries of a theatre or 
 concert-hall when the pent-up tide is set free. At the other 
 end, where the altar would have stood in a church, was a 
 large railed-in platform, with a reading desk in the middle, 
 and an ordinary comfortable easy chair behind it. Behind 
 the platform and rising up to the roof were the serried 
 pipes of a large organ. On a level with the gallery was 
 the organist's seat, quite open to view. The organist came 
 in as George stood in a passage between the pews, and slid- 
 ing on to his seat pulled out stops and began to play, the 
 tails of his frock-coat hanging ungracefully over the back 
 of the bench. 
 
 The people were drafted, singly and in little groups, 
 into the pews. This was done by one or two men in each 
 aisle, who went about their work busily and confidently, 
 as if they enjoyed it. They smiled and beckoned, as they 
 went up and down, and sometimes bent to say a word to 
 some one already seated. 
 
 98 
 
DR. MERROW 99 
 
 George was shown with one or two more into a seat 
 somewhere near the middle of the chapel. It was coni:: 
 fortably cushioned, and there was a large hassock for each 
 person on the carpeted floor, but he was the only one who 
 used his for kneeling on, although the others sat forward 
 and rested their foreheads on the book rail in front of them, 
 after settling themselves. An old white-whiskered gentle- 
 man sitting with his wife at the end of the pew took books 
 from a baize covered box in front of him and passed them 
 down with a pleasant smile — a hymn-book and a book of 
 chants and anthems to each. 
 
 The pews filled up fast. By-and-by all were full, and 
 the men in the aisles began to put up seats fastened on 
 hinges to the ends of the pews. It was not long before each 
 of them had an occupant, and then there were nods and 
 signalling from the officials, and the stream of incomers 
 ceased, and for the first time something like quiet settled 
 upon the vast assembly. 
 
 But it was not complete silence. Even above the sound 
 of the organ could be heard a murmur of conversation. 
 All over the place heads were inclined to one another and 
 talk went on, not generally in whispers. The old gentle- 
 man at the end of George's pew, and his wife, were both 
 reading to themselves out of big Bibles, and some others 
 here and there seemed to be preparing their minds in some 
 such way for a religious service, although none were on 
 their knees. But for the most part the people in the pews 
 looked about them, or talked to their neighbours. 
 
 Two doors underneath the organ and on either side of 
 the platform opened, and a little procession of men came 
 from each. They were mostly elderly; all of them were 
 dressed in frock coats ; nearly all of them wore beards. The 
 closeness to type was almost laughable. George thought 
 that henceforward he would have no difficulty in recog- 
 
loo THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 nizing a deacon of a nonconformist chapel, if he met one 
 in the street. They walked solemnly, with a slight air 
 of self-importance, to different seats in the body of the 
 chapel, and one of them went to a desk facing the con- 
 gregation, immediately beneath the one on the platform. 
 
 At the same time a tall, slight, grey-haired figure came 
 on to the platform itself, and advanced to the desk. It was 
 Dr. Merrow, who was to lead this great assembly in prayer 
 and praise, and deliver his message to them for the, last 
 time. 
 
 The organ went on playing, the hum of conversation 
 grew a little louder if anything; the oiificials in the aisles 
 were still passing up and down with armfuls of books, from 
 which they gave out one here and there. 
 
 Dr. Merrow stood at his desk, facing the congregation. 
 He lifted his head and shut his eyes, and stood like that for 
 about half a minute, while the noise of the organ gradually 
 lessened, but the talking and the movement did not. 
 
 The sense of strangeness that had affected George from 
 the time he had entered became tinged with distaste. It 
 seemed to him incredible that a man wishing to be for a 
 moment alone with God before entering upon a solemn 
 service should not kneel down and bury his face in his 
 hands. How could he stand up like this, with thousands 
 of eyes fixed upon his uncovered face, to perform his act 
 of devotion ; and why did he do it ? It would need nerves 
 of steel and the hide of a pachyderm not to feel those thou- 
 sands of eyes upon him. There seemed more effrontery than 
 devotion in it. It seemed to point and justify the common 
 criticism of nonconformist methods of worship, — that the 
 man in the pulpit is the centre of everything. There was 
 certainly nothing in the arrangement of the building that 
 did not support that criticism; nor, so far, had there been 
 anything in the demeanour of the people who filled it. 
 
DR. MERROW lor 
 
 George felt as little at home here as he had felt in the 
 ritualistic East-end church, and even less attuned to worship. 
 
 The organ ceased, the men with the books sank quietly; 
 into the seats left vacant for them, the hum of talk died 
 away into silence. Dr. Merrow's eyes remained closed, but 
 he lifted his hand. Then after a long pause, he said in a 
 low voice, and with pauses between each single word: 
 " Lord — abide — with — us — for — the — night — is — far 
 — spent! " 
 
 He remained with his hand uplifted and his eyes closed 
 for an appreciable time after the words had ceased, and the 
 congregation remained bending forward, half of them, at 
 least, with their eyes fixed upon him, in complete silence. 
 Then he dropped his hand, opened his eyes, and turned away 
 to take his seat in the easy chair behind the desk. 
 
 The congregation settled itself back with an audible stir, 
 and, immediately, the official seated below the platform rose 
 to his feet and anncfUnced the number of a hymn. There 
 was a loud rustling of leaves, and the organist broke out 
 at the earliest possible second of time and played the tune 
 over briskly. 
 
 George began to wish he had not come. The preacher's 
 whole attitude and delivery seemed to him affected and 
 exaggerated to the last degree, the effort towards solemnity 
 absurdly ill-calculated, and entirely failing of its purpose; 
 for there was no sign of heightened seriousness on the part 
 of the congregation, who turned the pages of their books, 
 sitting back in their cushioned seats, with the same air of 
 satisfied interest with which they had watched the place 
 fill and talked together while they were waiting. Was this 
 theatrical utterance of a phase a preparation for worship 
 worthy to be compared with the solemn words of intro- 
 duction to a service in the Church, consecrated by centu- 
 ries of use, in which all joined without a thought of the 
 
102 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 man who was leading them, in which each one for him- 
 self drew nearer to God according as his heart echoed the 
 words that came from his lips? True that the words 
 might be gabbled over, so familiar were they, without a 
 thought of their significance; but was not far more lost 
 than was gained by the substitution of surprise for self- 
 recollection ; and what could be the state of mind of a man 
 who could deliberately prepare this kind of surprise before- 
 hand ? Words so uttered could hardly be the natural form 
 of expression of any man. 
 
 The whole congregation joined heartily in the singing of 
 the hymn. 
 
 Begone unbelief ! 
 My Saviour is near, 
 And for my relief 
 Will surely appear. 
 By prayer let me wrestle. 
 And he will perform; 
 With Christ in the vessel, 
 I smile at the storm. 
 
 Neither words nor tune were known to George, but must 
 have been well-known to the majority of those present, for 
 there could scarcely have been a voice silent in the packed 
 assembly. The swinging old-fashioned tune lent itself to 
 combined singing. The organ blared it out without much 
 regard for niceties of accompaniment, but the noise of the 
 pipes only provided a background for the swelling voices, 
 which rose far above them. 
 
 During the singing of the hymn, while the whole con- 
 gregation was standing, Dr. Merrow sat back in his easy 
 chairy his lips moving slightly to the words, his thin hand 
 every now and then rising and falling gently. He looked 
 very tired. His face was thin and long, the cheeks rather 
 sunken, the mouth full and mobile. He kept his eyes fixed 
 upon the book on his knee, and nothing could be seen of 
 
DR. MERROW 103 
 
 their expression. There was nothing arresting in his ap- 
 pearance as he sat there with his long legs crossed — no 
 hint of a commanding or compelling personality. He was 
 of the type of the quiet scholar, with an intellectual brow, 
 and a head bowed with poring over books. His grey hair 
 was thin and close-cut, his face clean-shaven, his clothes of 
 an unobtrusive semi-clerical cut. He looked like a Uni- 
 versity don, well-bred, rather shy and retiring, suffering 
 somewhat from ill-health. 
 
 When the hymn had been sung he came forward and 
 read a short passage from the large Bible on the desk in 
 front of the platform. He read carefully and slowly, with 
 no hint of the theatricalism of his first utterance, and in- 
 deed with no oratorical effort whatever. Many of the 
 people followed the reading in their own Bibles; all of 
 jhem were very quiet and attentive. For the few minutes 
 during which it lasted the great assembly seemed to have 
 contracted itself into a family circle, reading and weighing 
 the Word together. During this quiet reading George's 
 mental attitude of protest relaxed. For the first time he felt 
 himself in an atmosphere of reverence. 
 
 After a psalm had been sung Dr. Merrow delivered a 
 long extemporary prayer. Here again he had dropped all 
 oratorical arts, and spoke simply and in simple language. 
 The form was strange to George; he was in no way re- 
 pelled by it, but neither was he uplifted. It was impos- 
 sible for him with his training. to give himself over to its 
 current, as did the people around him, many of whom were 
 breathing deep acquiescence as it proceeded, and sometimes 
 breaking into audible ejaculation. He could not get rid 
 of the feeling of expectancy, the oppression of the human 
 personality forging a new channel of communication with 
 the Divine, putting simple and universal petitions into 
 words which must have required some accessory effort of 
 
I04 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 mind to vary each time they were used, when the petitions 
 themselves called for no variance of language. 
 
 But if, in George's case, the wings of the spirit were not 
 unfurled, as he had known them to be by the oft-used sup- 
 plication's of his own Church, criticism was stilled by the 
 quiet seriousness with which the prayer was offered. He had 
 not come to criticise, and indeed the lust of criticism was as 
 little part of his character as would be possible in any think- 
 ing being. This was the method of common prayer under- 
 stood and accepted by the people around him, but responded 
 to it in their hearts as they would probably not have re- 
 sponded to a pre-created scheme of petition. It was the 
 antithesis to the method of the ritualists. Neither method 
 seemed to him as fitting as that of the middle way; but 
 there was no denying that in each case the spirit of worship 
 was aroused. In the ritualistic church it had shone out 
 above the distraction caused by the constant ceremonial 
 mechanism of the service; here it subdued the cheerful mun- 
 dane bustle which these people brou^t into the very heart 
 of their temple of worship, and turned for a time the 
 crowded unlovely building into a house of prayer. 
 
 The sermon was delivered immediately after another 
 hymn had been sung. The introductory service had not 
 lasted for much more than twenty minutes. The people 
 settled themselves in their seats, as if what they had come 
 for was only now about to begin. 
 
 The text was given out twice. " And we have seen, and 
 do testify, that the Father sent the Son to be the Saviour 
 of the world." 
 
 The sermon began quietly. Afterwards, George could 
 not remember much that the preacher had said for the first 
 ten minutes or so. His delivery was almost monotonous, 
 and if he had read what he spoke — his eyes fixed first upon 
 one point amongst the sea of faces confronting him, then 
 
DR. MERROW 105 
 
 upon another — it was unlikely that he would have held the 
 attention of most of them. It was an ordinary exposition 
 of theology, expressed in ordinary language, and as if the 
 preacher himself took much of what he was saying for 
 granted, and set it forth as a matter of not very inspiring 
 duty. 
 
 George was conscious of a growing sense of disappoint- 
 ment. Possessing few of the qualities of a good preacher 
 himself, except that of sincerity, and with no very clear 
 idea of what they consisted, he had yet come to the point 
 of recognizing that they were not summed up in the de- 
 livery of unexceptionable truths in well-chosen language. 
 Pulpit oratory was a real thing, apart altogether from the 
 subject upon which it was exercised, and Dr. Merrow was 
 commonly reported to possess it. Surely a delivery of this 
 sort could not have packed the chapel as it was packed 
 to-night, or sent his fame far across the sea. You could 
 hear sermons as good as this in many a half-empty church. 
 
 It struck George that his attitude was one of dejection. 
 His whole bearing showed that he was desperately tired; 
 his voice was weak, though it had a quality that caused it 
 to carry; his idee was lined, and had an expression almost 
 of physical pain. Perhaps this ordeal was too much for 
 him. He would content himself with delivering his care- 
 fully prepared sermon, saving himself as much as possible, 
 and especially so by refraining from all mention of the 
 occasion upon which it was delivered. There had been not 
 the allusion to the fact that it was to be his last sermon 
 here, so far. 
 
 George threw a glance around him. All eyes were fixed 
 upon the speaker; some of them were eager; some tender; 
 all were interested. 
 
 He set himself to listen more closely, a little ashamed of 
 himself that a closely reasoned argument, pursued evenly, 
 
io6 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 without any ornament of style or manner, should leave his 
 thoughts wandering while it held others. 
 
 He found no difficulty in keeping his attention fixed. 
 There was magnetism in the eyes that roamed here and 
 there, and seemed occasionally to seek out his own. There 
 was a timbre in the weak, almost droning voice that drew 
 the ear. There was a quality in the easy natural language 
 that was more than mere unstudied simplicity. The brain 
 was interested, but as yet the spirit was not moved. 
 
 But presently there came a sentence, not detached and 
 presented, but woven into the stuff of the discourse, like 
 a knot of glowing gold in a sober tapestry, that touched a 
 chord in George's heart and set it vibrating. It brought 
 back to him the way of his old teacher, who had been little 
 known as a preacher outside his own communion, and had 
 cultivated none of the arts of the orator, but whose quiet 
 words, transmuted in the glowing crucible of his beautiful 
 spirit into light and fire that could kindle and illumine, had 
 made him, to those who had ears to hear, one of the great- 
 est preachers of his time. 
 
 Here was the same note — a ray of light from the depths 
 of experience, of devotion, of sympathy, piercing to the 
 very bones and marrow. No art of oratory could have 
 produced it; it came from no such art. It was spoken so 
 quietly that unless the spirit was open to receive it, it could 
 have aroused no responsive thrill. 
 
 There came more of these sentences. The spark had 
 caught; the furnace was beginning to glow. George gazed 
 at the preacher with his own face alight. His surroundings 
 were forgotten; he was back in the quiet country church 
 again, listening to the well-remembered voice that had 
 never failed to stir him. If this was the kind of preaching 
 that had brought Dr. Merrow his great reputation, then he 
 understood its appeal, and was himself moved by it. It 
 
DR. MERROW 107 
 
 came from something beyond creeds, far beyond differences 
 in methods of worship. It had been heard in all ages of 
 the Church, amidst the splendours of mediaeval supersti- 
 tion, as in the crude barrenness of modern revivalism. The 
 spirit moved on the face of the waters; the stagnancy of 
 mere words was broken; there was life and healing in 
 them. 
 
 The words came faster. The voice grew stronger, and 
 took on a different tone, as if on an organ a touch of reed 
 had been added to diapason. The slightly bent figure 
 became straighter, the worn face younger. The preacher 
 began to use his hands — thin, flexible, nervous hands, which 
 seemed to clutch at deep truths, and fling them out for the 
 world to take hold of. Soon the burning words car<e in 
 a torrent, as of a rushing mass of water of irresistible force, 
 yet bound within its directing channel. Every now and 
 then they sank to a deep calm, but were still infused with 
 the same concentrative power. Such words had stirred 
 men's minds and souls in long past ages. Spoken on bare 
 hillsides underneath the symbol of faith, they had converted 
 kingdoms. Flung forth over throngs of rough fighting men, 
 they had turned bloodshed and rapine into righteous cru- 
 sades. Their power was older than that of Christianity 
 itself. In the dim ages of religious history it had singled 
 out Aaron for the priesthood, and put him above Moses, 
 the warrior leader. Later, it had burst the bonds of the 
 priesthood itself, and winged the utterances of great 
 prophets. 
 
 The sermon was a passionate exaltation of personal holi- 
 ness, gained by contact with Christ the Saviour, and by that 
 alone. Its sole reference to the occasion on which it was 
 delivered was contained in a few quiet words at the close. 
 
 " In all the years I have spoken to you week after week 
 in this place, I have striven to hold before you this central 
 
io8 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 fact of our religion — Christ the Saviour of the world. If I 
 have ever preached to you a single word not based upon 
 that fact, those words have been naught — ^may God wipe 
 them from the table of your memory! In these last words 
 I shall speak to you here I hold it up once more. If there 
 are any to whom, in my human weakness, I have not made 
 it shine out as the one great fact, I pray — I beseech God, 
 the Father of our dear Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ — 
 that they may see it at last — now — to-night." 
 
 He may have intended to say more, but the fire that had 
 upheld him flickered and went out. With a word that was 
 half a sob he shrank again into the weary overwrought man 
 who had spent for a time the power vouchsafed him. He 
 sat down and buried his face in his hands, while the official 
 seated below him sprang up and gave out the number and 
 opening words of a closing hymn. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 f 
 
 HOME 
 
 George went back to Roding the next afternoon. He got 
 there about four o'clock. It was one of those very still 
 days that sometimes intervene in the blusterings of early 
 March, and give an elusive air of spring having already 
 settled down for good, although it will be weeks before the 
 leaf-buds break, and the calendar still points to winter. 
 
 His dog-cart was waiting for him at the station, and he 
 drove through the streets of the pleasant little country town 
 to his house on the other side of it. 
 
 The station was about a quarter-of-a-mile from where 
 the old town began, but ^he road was lined for that distance 
 with a double row of small houses. It was the side on 
 which the place had developed. The market actually ad- 
 joined the station, and there were one or two buildings for 
 the storing and sale of produce which dated from before 
 the station itself. It had always been the business quarter 
 when Roding had been a purely agricultural centre. Now 
 there were workshops in addition, and a small factory for 
 the making of jam, which had been so skilfully conducted 
 that there was talk of it developing into a large factory, 
 when difficulties as to the purchase of land should have 
 been got over. There was also a builder's yard. It was 
 the business of which Morton was foreman, and he lived in 
 one of the little red-brick villas that faced the main road. 
 Beyond the station it was still pure country, rather flat, 
 with grazing meadows and some agricultural land divided 
 by deep hedgerows. The river ran through it, and its course 
 
 109 
 
no THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 was marked by rows of pollarded willows, and occa- 
 sionally by the spires of tall poplars. The church tower 
 and thick trees of the next village, to which the road led 
 straight, marked the end of the level land. Behind them 
 the ground rose gently to the woods that closed in the 
 view. 
 
 Roding was built on a low hill which the river half- 
 encircled. The rows of new houses ceased suddenly at 
 an ancient stone bridge, by the side of which was a turhble- 
 down but very picturesque water-mill, and beyond it a 
 sort of quay, backed by an irregular line of old cottages, 
 the whole over-shadowed by giant elms and poplars. It was 
 an approach that sometimes caused the now increasing tribe 
 of motorists to stop and get out their cameras; though if 
 they did so there was usually some grinding and jerking 
 of gear when they started again; for round the corner of a 
 low-browed, bow-windowed inn, which made part of the 
 picture, the street rose very sharply. 
 
 Here were little old houses with their front doors open- 
 ing right on to the pavements, and little poky shops, for 
 the sale of sweetmeats, toys, tobacco of the less expensive 
 brands, and vegetables that when displayed had an air of 
 being second-hand. At the top of the short rise one was 
 suddenly in the heart of the town. The street broadened, 
 and was lined with the larger shops, interspersed with a 
 few old dwelling-houses, and broken on one side by the 
 long low line of the grammar school. Many of the shops 
 had been refronted, and a few of them rebuilt; but the 
 irregular line of tiled roofs and the red-brick chimney-stacks 
 still remained, much as they had always been, and gave 
 the street an old-fashioned air, which caused the tourists 
 to congratulate themselves upon having come across another 
 pleasant old town, of the many in rural England whose 
 existence had hardly been known to them. 
 
HOME III 
 
 Behind the High Street on the one side were the church 
 and the rectory, and very little else. The rectory grounds 
 sloped down to the river and ran along it below the church- 
 yard, which was bounded by a low cliff. On the other 
 side of the river were wide grass fields, which the road 
 skirted at a considerable distance. On this side, Roding 
 suddenly ceased. From the rectory garden the existence 
 of the town would hardly have been suspected. 
 
 There was another street at the back of the High Street 
 on the opposite side, in which the chapel was situated; and 
 narrow lanes leading down to the fields again, with a bridge 
 crossing the railway. But even here the open country began 
 almost immediately, and there was a large farm, with out- 
 buildings, rick-yard, walled garden, and hedge-enclosed 
 orchard, which ran right along the railway itself. 
 
 The High Street widened at the other end, and forked 
 into two country roads. Facing the town was the important 
 front of the French Arms, which had been a well-known 
 coaching-inn in its day, and now that the roads of England 
 and its out-of-the-way towns were again in process of dis- 
 covery, was enjoying a mild revival of its ancient glories. 
 It had somehow survived the dead years without losing its 
 character. Its rooms still contained their solid, lumbering 
 furniture; the fare it offered to the traveller was much the 
 same as it had offered him a hundred years before, and had 
 not deteriorated in quality; the innkeeper wore corduroys 
 and gaiters, and was a bit of a farmer besides; and his wife 
 had that cheerful bustling presence which is such a valua- 
 ble asset to old-fashioned country inns. 
 
 Altogether, a pleasant little town, with enough going on 
 to keep it cpntentedly alive, and not so caught in the net 
 of progress as to be in danger of losing its leisured com- 
 fortable air. A town in which you could gain a sense of 
 the easy picturesque past, if you spent a night in it during 
 
112 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 a journey on which you were on the lookout for such 
 impressions, and one in which you might be inclined to envy 
 those whose permanent lot was laid there. 
 
 George's cottage was on the road which turned to the 
 right when it left the town, hut when he came to the 
 inn he pulled up his horse, and turned its head to the 
 left. 
 
 " I'll drive round by Farncombe," he said to his groom. 
 
 The road wound down the hill under high overhanging 
 trees oij a sandy bank. When the stables of the inn had 
 been left behind, and the slope began, there were no more 
 signs of habitation. The town had suddenly disappeared; 
 but on looking b^ck the church could have been seen, until 
 a turn in the road hid it, and, in winter, the roofs of some 
 of the houses, through the trees. 
 
 The road took another turn to the left when it reached 
 the bottom of the hill, and a house came into view. It 
 was of three stories, built of white brick, and seemed by 
 its architecture to date from forty to fifty years back. It 
 was of the sort that may be seen in any old established 
 suburb of London, with a flight of steps leading up to the 
 hall door in the middle, plate-glass windows to rooms on 
 either side, and- everything regular and rectangular under 
 a slate-covered roof. Stables and coach house were pressed 
 up against the side of the house, which stood only a few 
 yards from the road, and was approached by a gravel sweep 
 entering at one swing gate and leaving at another. The 
 house looked curiously out of place in a lonely country lane 
 such as this was; as if it had confidently expected to be 
 joined by neighbouring houses of a similar pattern, and had 
 confined its frontage in consequence. 
 
 This house had stood empty for many years. It was so 
 unlike what any one would expect a country house of its 
 size to be, that in spite of good rooms, fine views, and an 
 
HOME 113 
 
 always lessening demand for rentage or purchase, no one 
 had been found bold enough to face existence in it. 
 
 But now, as George passed it, it was the centre of ac- 
 tivity. Its dilapidations seemed to have demanded a com- 
 plete overhauling of the structure, and a frame-work of 
 scaffolding was being erected which had already reached 
 the eaves of the roof. It was the house that Dr. Merrow 
 had taken, and George's groom told him that a lot of 
 money was to be spent on it, the work was to be pushed for- 
 ward as quickly as possible, and directly it was finished the 
 house would be occupied. 
 
 George's thoughts on the subjects were rather different 
 from what they would have been if he had passed the house 
 a few days before. Then he would have considered it only 
 fitting that this cockney-built house should have been hit 
 upon by somebody who was coming to Roding to serve the 
 cockney-built chapel. Now he rather wondered that Dr. 
 Merrow should have chosen it. Still, its defects were on 
 the surface. It would be a comfortable roomy house to 
 live in, and once inside it the air of peaceful seclusion, which 
 came from its situation, would be not less than if it had 
 been built more in harmony with its surroundings. He 
 looked with interest at the work that was going on. He 
 recalled with some interest Gosset's statement to him that 
 Mrs. Merrow was an heiress, " equal to the highest." Prob- 
 ably that meant that she had a comfortable/ income of her 
 own. And Dr. Merrow himself would not be without some 
 means. He would be able to lead a restful, retired life here, 
 and if he cared for the beauties of nature, they would be 
 all around him. 
 
 George drove along the winding country lane, and came 
 in the course of a mile or two to a pretty village, of which 
 one of the first houses was the Vicarage, standing back from 
 the road in a well-treed garden. 
 
114 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 The vicar's study was in front of the house, and he him- 
 self could be seen seated at his writing-table, with the win- 
 dow wide open to the evening sunshine. 
 
 George pulled up at the gate and gave him a hail, and he 
 came out to him. He was Mr. Curtis, the father of the 
 girl whom Miss Budd had thought so unsuitable as a friend 
 for Sylvia. He was a man some years short of sixty, sturdily 
 built, with a pointed grey beard, and a look of honesty 
 and capability. He had known George from his boyhood. 
 
 "You've been up to London, haven't you?" he asked. 
 " Sylvia told Myra you were staying with Ralph. How is 
 he?" 
 
 George told him how Ralph was, and they talked together 
 for a few minutes about the weather, and about the b^l 
 that was to take place ^t Roding Court in the following 
 week. 
 
 Then Mr. Curtis said : " You must have passed ' The 
 Limes.' Fancy its being taken at this time of the day; and 
 by such a shining light too ! Did you see Dr. Merrow when 
 he was in Roding last year ? " 
 
 " Not to speak to," said George. " But I went to hear 
 him preach last night." 
 
 "Went to hear him preach, did you? Well, there are 
 some of our good neighbours who would say you had done 
 very wrong, George. But he's said to be a fine preacher. 
 What did you think of him? " 
 
 " I thought he was one of the finest preachers I had ever 
 heard," said George. 
 
 " Well — they can preach — most of them. Of course, it's 
 the chief thing with them. I don't know where he'll draw 
 his congregation from here, through. It seems an odd thing, 
 his coming here at all. He's bound to feel frightfully out 
 oi it." 
 
 " From what I was told afterwards, I think he is coming 
 
HOME ns 
 
 here for a complete rest. He's been ill, and would have 
 had a breakdown if he had gone on in London. Still, I 
 suppose he won't shut himself up entirely. I suppose you'll 
 call on him? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. / shall. He'll be one of my nearest neigh- 
 bours. But there will be lots who won't. And even if 
 everybody did, there'll be none of his own way of thinking 
 exactly. He's bound to feel out of it. Besides, I expect 
 he'll rather look down on us country clergy. We're sup- 
 posed to be a poor lot you know, take us all round. Very 
 likely he'll preach against us, and our ways." 
 
 " I'm pretty certain he won't do that. And after all, 
 there's no difference in what we believe and in what he be- 
 lieves; in essentials." 
 
 " Oh, isn't there ? You go and talk to Lancing, my boy. 
 He'll tell you of a few points of difEerence. Lancing will 
 be one of the people who won't want to know Dr. Merrow, 
 and I should think he would cross himself every time he 
 passed him. He was saying the other day that he was 
 bound to do a great deal of harm here, and we ought not 
 to countenance him by so much as recognizing his presence. 
 There's Christianity for you, George! I say, don't you 
 tell Lancing you've been to a service in a dissenting chapel. 
 He'll have a fit." 
 
 " I shouldn't want to hide it," said George. " I'm very 
 glad I went, although I didn't care for the service much. I 
 wish we'd got Dr. Merrow in the Church. Why should a 
 man like that be outside?" 
 
 " Ah, there you get the other side of the question. I 
 don't know much about Dr. Merrow, but there are plenty 
 of his brethren who would say just the same of us as Lanc- 
 ing says of them; and believe it too. Of course, there are 
 differences, even between them and us moderates. Come in 
 and have a cup of tea, George, and have a look at the 
 
ii6 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 garden. I've got a dump of iris reticulata out that's a reg- 
 ular sight." 
 
 But George excused himself and drove on. He came to 
 his house along the broader road towards Roding. The little 
 town showed up to great advantage from this side, and 
 created a pleasant sense of homeliness and sequestered peace. 
 The pure sky had streaks of primrose in it ; the trees which 
 intermingled thickly with the red roofs of the houses were 
 a soft purple ; there was the sweetest scent of moist reviving 
 earth; the good-night song of the birds was full of hope 
 for the coming spring. Sense and spirit alike were soothed 
 and gratified. George felt pleased to be at home again; 
 and pleased that his home for the present was at Roding. 
 
 His house had been the homestead of a little farm. It 
 was modest enough in appearance, but cosy-looking, with 
 its small-framed windows set in a red tile-hung front, and 
 a latch-gate giving access to a brick-paved walk between 
 flower beds and apple-trees. He had bought the house with 
 its seven acres, and altered it a little inside, as well as re- 
 built the stables and pulled down a few of the dilapidated 
 outbuildings. 
 
 He drove into the yard and went into the stable to look 
 at his other horse, a clean-boned chestnut rising seven, Irish- 
 bred, for which he had paid rather a big figure at the be- 
 ginning of the season. The next day was his regular hunt- 
 ing day, and he experienced a quick spurt of pleasure as he 
 thought of it, pulling the cloth aside and running his hand 
 over the closely-clipped coat, while the horse, as if he knew 
 what pleasure was in store for him, whinnied gently and 
 nuzzled him with his soft nose. 
 
 He went through the front garden, where a long thick 
 line of yellow crocuses were closing to the last rays of the 
 now setting sun, and into the house. He had taken away 
 the partition between the hall and the larger sitting-room, 
 
HOME 117 
 
 Into which the front door, covered by a thick curtain, now 
 opened. It was as cosy a bachelor's room as could be seen 
 anywhere. The old wide hearth had been restored, and a 
 great fire of logs was burning upon its bed of swept-up 
 ashes. Two easy chairs stood before it, and an oak 
 stool by one of them, on which there was a little pile of 
 books and papers. But books were not very much in 
 evidence in George's room. There was a book-case that held 
 his modest theological library, and a few novels besides, but 
 it was not full. His writing-table under one of the close- 
 curtained windows had none of the litter that had been seen 
 on Ralph's. A big Bible, a prayer-book and a book of 
 commentaries lay to one side of it, and a diary and some- ac- 
 count books on the other. There was a photograph of his 
 father in a silver-frame, and one of the two younger French 
 children, one on either side of Sylvia. There was also a 
 framed list of hunting fixtures. A large silver-mounted 
 blotting-pad had "Sylvia," "Ronald," "Joyce," and 
 " Eddie," inscribed on the four corners, in imitation of the 
 hand-writing of each of them. It had been their Christmas 
 present to him, and Eddie always went to look at it when- 
 ever he entered the room, and turned his round head to one 
 side in admiration of his own round hand, thus perpetuated. 
 The pictures on the walls were old coloured prints of bat- 
 tleships, which George's father had collected. In their black 
 and gilt frames they showed up well against the warm red 
 paper. There were gun cases and cartridge boxes in a 
 corner. On the tables were all sorts of objects, chiefly 
 accessory to sport, all laid out in order, for George's man 
 had a passion for tidiness. Piles of the Field, the Guardian, 
 the Badminton Magazine, and Country Life were arranged 
 in order of dates. Briar pipes lay in an exact row on the 
 cupboard shelf below the book-case. 
 
 The lamps were already lit, and warmed up the red cur- 
 
ii8 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 tains and wall paper and the thick Turkey carpet. This 
 prevailing red gave the room a great air of comfort in the 
 winter. There was a clean smell of wood smoke. If you 
 could have been suddenly set down in this room, you would 
 have known you were in the heart of the country. 
 
 This was George's home, and he had become fonder and 
 fonder of it. The bachelor loneliness he might sometimes 
 have felt was done away with by the family life in his 
 cousin's house, which was at all times open to him. He 
 had everything around him that he wanted, and if he should 
 want anything more in the future he could almost cer- 
 tainly have it, for he was not spending more than about a 
 third of his income. 
 
 He dined that evening at the rectory. He reached it 
 a quarter of an hour before dinner time, and went up to 
 the nurseries. First he visited Eddie, and presented him 
 with sundry accessories to an elaborate railway plant that 
 he was gradually collecting. Besides some extra yards of 
 railage, which would enable a branch line to be constructed 
 from the station by the fireplace to the goods yard under- 
 neath the table, there was a complete apparatus for signalling, 
 in which this particular system had hitherto been weak. Ed- 
 die was entranced with his present, and sat up in his little 
 white bed, by special permission of the smiling head-nurse, 
 to play with it " for a few minutes only." 
 
 Joyce was calling all the time from another room, and 
 George went in to her. She also was sitting up in bed, her 
 thick mass of dark hair tied back with a blue ribbon, vi^hich 
 matched her deep blue eyes. She threw her arms round 
 George's neck, but although her code of manners had led 
 her to the point where she knew better than to ask 
 him what he had brought for her, her eyes rested on the 
 parcel which he had in his hand with undisguised expec- 
 tation. 
 
HOME 119 
 
 It was a small parcel, probably all the more valuable on 
 that account. " Darling old George, you always bring 
 me something lovely when you come home,'' she said as she 
 hurriedly unpacked it. 
 
 It was a frock for Nora, the chief of dolls. Nora's ward- 
 robe stood to Joyce for what his railroad system stood to 
 Eddie. Her stock of clothes was already larger than her 
 necessities demanded, because she suffered a good deal from 
 a great variety of illnesses, and spent much of her time being 
 carefully nursed back to health, only to succumb again almost 
 immediately to whatever disease Joyce had last heard of. 
 It was probable that this new frock, so beautifully made, 
 would do more to arouse her from the state of prostration 
 in which she was at present lying, after a severe operation 
 for meningitis — from which the coachman's child had re- 
 cently recovered — than the " dressings " administered to her 
 every morning. 
 
 " It will be her ball dress," said Joyce, in ecstatic ad- 
 miration of the dainty fabric of muslin and embroidery. 
 " Of course she is going to the ball next week, if she is 
 well enough, poor dear ! " 
 
 " She suffers a good deal, doesn't she ? " said George. 
 
 " It's her constitution," said Joyce imitatively. " I had 
 that trouble with her as a child as you'd never believe." 
 
 She kissed and hugged him again in a transport of grati- 
 tude. "I couldn't help knowing you would bring me some- 
 thing lovely," she said. " But I like having you back best 
 of all, George. I love you very much, and I wish you were 
 my brother." 
 
 " Well, I'm as good as," said George. " And I see 
 you more often than Ralph or Ronald now." 
 
 " I know. It was lovely when you came to live here. 
 Eddie said this afternoon that he hoped you would ask 
 us to tea again soon. I told him he mustn't ask you to ask 
 
120 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 us ; but of course we do love going to tea in your dear weeny 
 little house." 
 
 " I thought of asking you next Monday. I can't to- 
 morrow, because I'm going to hunt; and I can't on 
 Saturday or Sunday." 
 
 " Thank you very much, George. Eddie and I will be 
 delighted to come on Monday, and so will Nora. I'll put 
 it down in her engagement book. George, you'll always 
 go on living here, won't you? You'll always go on living 
 in your dear little house ? " 
 
 " Well, I don't expect to leave it at present." 
 
 " Oh, but you mustn't ever leave it. It would be very 
 sad if you were to go away. Are you going to ride Hannibal 
 to-morrow, or Wickerwork ? " 
 
 The conversation was carried on with entire absence of 
 strain on either side until Sylvia came in. She looked very 
 pretty in her white evening frock, draped with some tissue 
 in which threads of silver gleamed, her fair hair somewhat 
 elaborately dressed, but in a style that only enhanced the 
 slender delicacy of her face and neck. There was a virginal' 
 freshness about Sylvia that would have given charm to a 
 girl of far less beauty, and a frank simplicity of manner 
 that her studied attire only served to point more plainly. 
 
 She admired Nora's new frock to an extent that satisfied 
 even Joyce, and laughed at George for having bought it. 
 
 " It was quite easy," he said. " There was a nice young 
 woman in the shop who was very much interested in every- 
 thing I told her about Nora. She helped me choose, or I 
 dare say I shouldn't have got one quite so suitable." 
 
 Lady' Ruth came into say good-night to the children. 
 She looked wonderfully young, in a gown which showed 
 the slenderness of her figure and the rounded grace of her 
 arms and neck, and she was bright and gay, but motherly 
 too as she tucked Joyce's bed-dothes round her and kissed 
 
HOME 121 
 
 her, taking her face in both her hands, and murmuring 
 endearing words to her. She was supposed to spoil her 
 children, and would admit that she was apt to do so. But 
 they were devoted to her, and would do anything she told 
 them. And they were charmingly friendly to strangers, 
 without worrying them. 
 
 They went in to say good-night to Eddie. George thought 
 that the pretty, young-looking mother in her smart clothes, 
 and the beautiful children, so sheltered and cherished, made 
 the prettiest picture together. He loved the rectory nurseries, 
 with their air of bright cleanliness, and the innocence and 
 happiness of childhood which seemed to hang about them. 
 They often came to his thoughts when he was alone in his 
 own room. 
 
 But there was hardly any aspect of life at Roding Rectory 
 which did not affect him to pleasure, or any of its amenities 
 without value to him. He liked to sit in the Rector's hand- 
 somely furnished library and talk to him ; he liked the bright 
 flower-laden drawing-room, and the company that was so 
 often gathered there at tea-time or in the evenings; he liked 
 to go up sometimes to Lady Ruth's room, where she and 
 Sylvia were always busy with something, surrounded by their 
 pretty expensive aids to correspondence, or needlework, or 
 household business; he liked the well-served meals in the 
 big dining-room, with the table always beautifully decked, 
 and the trim maids in attendance; and the room which had 
 been the school-room, away from the rest of- the house, and 
 looking on to the stables, where he had enjoyed himself as 
 a boy, with his cousins. And the wide spaces of the garden, 
 in which three gardeners were always employed, where every 
 sort of outdoor game was played in the summer in the mer- 
 riest company, and the terrace and the upper lawns were 
 almost part of the house itself, with all its ground floor 
 windows opening on to them, and seats and tables about 
 
122 THE GREATEST QF THESE 
 
 everywhere ; the broad, shallow gravel-bottomed river, where 
 the thin waterweeds swayed and the fish had grown almost 
 too cunning to be caught ; the hay fields beyond it in which 
 he had spent such glorious June days as a boy ; and the stable- 
 yard, of course, with the always desired company of the coach- 
 man and the groom, and the smell of the hayloft and the 
 harness-room and the stables themselves, though this pleasure 
 now lay more in retrospect. He had been very happy at 
 Roding Rectory during his long visits of boyhood, and its 
 attractions still held him strongly. They seemed to include 
 everything that could lend to the charm of an English home, 
 and they were all enhanced by the affection with which he 
 was received into the heart of them. His own snug little 
 dwelling-place would have lost half its influence over him 
 if it had not been an appendage, as it were, of this larger 
 house, with all its happy affluent family life. 
 
 As Joyce had said, it would be very sad if he were to 
 go away from Roding. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 PROBLEMS 
 
 Sir Richard French was dining that evening at the 
 Rectory, and Myra Curtis, who was to stay the night and 
 be driven over to her teaching at Farncombe Hall early the 
 next morning. 
 
 George's object in going to London was not mentioned, 
 but he told them about his visit to Dr. Merrow's chapel. 
 " I should' like to know him when he comes here," he said. 
 
 " I haven't told you," said the Rector, " that there is to 
 be a public reception of Dr. Merrow in Roding. Gosset 
 has done me the honour to consult me about it. He wants 
 to take the Moot Hall." 
 
 " Very proper," said Sir Richard. " If they ask me I 
 shall take the chair." 
 
 The Rector laughed. " There are a few difficulties in the 
 way," he said. " For one thing, Dr. Merrow has asked 
 that there shall be no public reception." 
 
 " More proper still," said Sir Richard. " They say he's 
 an invalid and is coming here to recoup." 
 
 " I advised Gosset to let him have his own way," said 
 the Rector; "but I regret to say that the advice was not 
 palatable to him. He thinks it would be lacking in respect 
 to such a great man if we did not do something to show that 
 we were proud to welcome him among us." 
 
 " I am afraid Mr. Gosset will give the poor man a great 
 deal of trouble," said Lady Ruth. " Why can't he let him 
 come and settle here quietly, and make his friends for him- 
 self, like anybody else? " 
 
 123 
 
124 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 " Because he's Gosset, my dear. The chapel has to be 
 glorified, even at the expense of Dr. Merrow himself. He 
 thinks he could not object to a tea-meeting, with a few in- 
 formal speeches of welcome." 
 
 " I object to a tea-meeting," said Sir Richard. " As one 
 of the prominent landowners of the neighborhood, my dignity 
 would sufEer if I had to sit on a bench and eat buns. I have 
 never done such a thing. I don't object to looking in on a 
 school treat, and patting children's heads. But Dr. Merrow 
 might object if I were to come in and pat his head. Besides, 
 a tea-meeting would spoil my dinner." 
 
 " Well, I said much the same, but in other words," said 
 the Rector. " ' You won't get the sort of people I suppose 
 you want to come to a tea-meeting,' I said. Gosset was rather 
 cast down. He still clings to the tea-meeting, obviously be- 
 cause he thinks Dr. Merrow could not refuse it. It is part 
 of the regular life that goes on in a small chapel like this. 
 He wants to have a tea-meeting for their own people, and 
 such others as care to come to it, and the rest of us are to 
 be invited to come in afterwards, — I suppose when the cups 
 have been cleared away." 
 
 " There would be bound to be a smell of ^ood," said Sir 
 Richard. " If Dr. Merrow is not in the best of health it 
 might upset him. I am against the idea altogether." 
 
 " Besides, it would be what Dr. Merrow has said he 
 didn't want," said Lady Ruth. " Didn't you point that 
 out to Mr. Gosset, Henry?" 
 
 " Yes, I did. And I pointed out other things to him. 
 I said that I personally would, do all I could to show Dr. 
 Merrow I was glad to welcome him here, but that a public 
 meeting of welcome of the sort he proposed, which would 
 be chiefly attended by the nonconformist ministers of the 
 neighbourhood, might arouse some friction. It would be 
 putting us clergy who would be invited to take part in it 
 
PROBLEMS 125 
 
 in an awkward position. It would be putting a strain upon 
 men who believe in what they teach to have to listen to 
 the expectations that would certainly be expressed of Dr. 
 Merrow's attracting many people to his preaching, and 
 strengthening the nonconformist cause generally. It can 
 only be strengthened hereabouts by drawing people avt'ay 
 from the Church; and why should any of us pretend that 
 we should welcome that?" 
 
 " Very well put, Henry," said Sir Richard. " But I supt 
 pose Gosset didn't see it." 
 
 " Oh, no ! We are all fellow-labourers in the vineyard, 
 and all that sort of thing. With men like Gosset the 
 fellow-labourer theory comes out very strongly when they 
 want any recognition from us; but if there's any advantage 
 to be gained they treat us as enemies. One always has to 
 keep in mind that there's something at the back of it all. 
 They're not straight." 
 
 " Father said he shouldn't go to a public meeting," said 
 Myra Curtis. " He hopes to be friends with Dr. Merrow, 
 but he says that to give him a public welcome would look 
 like supporting a man who had come to work against you 
 in your parish." 
 
 " Well, I don't let myself think that he is coming to 
 work against me. The Dissenters have their footing in 
 Roding. They always have had, and they're welcome to 
 it. The place is just big enough to make it natural that 
 there should be differences of opinion. I should be glad, 
 of course, if everybody were to come to church, but I've 
 never advised a single soul to leave them, unless he — or 
 generally she — came to me and showed plainly that they 
 wanted to. Then I've saiH that I thought ours is the 
 better way. If they never did more than that there would 
 be very little trouble between us. There is very little trou- 
 ble in Roding, and I hope there never will be." 
 
126 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 " Ah, but you see you've got It all your own way, Henry," 
 said Sir Richard. " Of course they don't like that. No- 
 body would." 
 
 The Rector laughed a trifle vexedly. " I must admit 
 that the whole business is rather a nuisance," he said. 
 " What you call having my own way simply means that 
 most people come to church here regularly, as they always 
 have done, and we're not bothered with divisions, which is 
 all the better for us and all the better for them." 
 
 " I'm sure they will go on coming to church," said Lady 
 Ruth. " Don't let it worry you, Henry." 
 
 " I think they will," said the Rector. " That doesn't 
 worry me in the least. But one can't get away from the 
 feeling that there is an attempt being made to exploit one; 
 and to exploit Dr. Merrow, too. One is anxious to treat 
 him in a friendly and courteous fashion; but that is just 
 what will be made difficult. Myra's father is quite right. 
 He always does take the sensible view. It is one thing 
 to give a man of Merrow's reputation a personal welcome, 
 and quite another to lend yourself to a public endorsement 
 of his work. And, of course, if Curtis refuses to be pres- 
 ent — a man of his moderate views — you would hardly ex- 
 pect others to come. Then we shall be said to be slighting 
 Dr. Merrow." 
 
 " Or to be jealous of him," suggested Sir Richard. " I 
 quite see that. I think you are right, Henry. Leave 
 the good man to make his own way. Give him a fair 
 field and no favour. Knock this idea of Gosset's on the 
 head." 
 
 " I've said what I could ; but, if he is determined to 
 have his meeting, I shall go to it. I shall know what to say 
 and do. I am not going to give Gosset a chance of making 
 mischief." 
 
 " It all comes back to the sinister Gosset," said Sir Rich- 
 
PROBLEMS 127 
 
 ard, " I sincerely hope that Dr. Merrow will be strong 
 enough to cope with him." 
 
 George spoke for the first time. " I think Dr. Merrow 
 will refuse to have a public meeting at all," he said. 
 
 It was not until much later in the evening, when Sir 
 Richard French had driven away, that George told the 
 Rector of what had happened the night before. He said 
 something about the sermon he had heard, but not much. 
 The thoughts it had aroused in him were not yet ripe for 
 expression, and the Rector had said with a smile: "My 
 dear George, let us forget Dr. Merrow for the present. 
 I'm sure he is a good man, and a fine preacher; but just 
 now I feel inclined to talk about somebody else. Now, 
 what about young Gosset ? " 
 
 " I waited outside for him," said George. " He was with 
 Mr. and Mrs. Briggs, the people he is living with. They 
 went home by train, and he and I walked." 
 
 " Did they make any difficulty about your being alone 
 with him ? " 
 
 " A little. They said they would have to wait up for 
 him. Briggs is a disagreeable sort of man. Poor Percy 
 is very much up against him, and they seem to dislike 
 each other cordially. But Mrs. Briggs seems a nice old 
 thing; and I think she's fond of the boy, and sorry for 
 him." 
 
 " How did you get over their objections to your walking 
 home with him? " 
 
 " I said I had come up on purpose to see him ; and he 
 broke in and said rather rudely that his father had said he 
 might see me and have a talk after the service. Briggs 
 got angry and said the service didn't seem to have done 
 him much good, but he was as unpleasant as he could be 
 himself, and it didn't seem to have done him much good, 
 either. It was an unpleasant scene, especially coming just 
 
128 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 after that sermon. The old lady calmed them both down, 
 and Briggs went away telling Percy that he was to come 
 straight home. I don't know whether he thought I wanted 
 to take him off on the loose. He didn't even say good- 
 night to me when he went." 
 
 " H'm ! Seems a nice sympathetic person to send a boy 
 to to recover himself ! " 
 
 " Percy says he's at him day and night. He's never 
 allowed to forget he's in disgrace. He finds fault with all 
 his work, and preaches and prays at him every evening. He 
 lets him go for a walk on Sunday afternoons, and that's 
 all the exercise he gets out of doors in the week. On Sun- 
 days he's allowed to read nothing but the Bible, and he's 
 sent to a young men's Bible-class twice, besides the two 
 services. He's not allowed to go out, and has to spend 
 what time is left over in his bedroom, as Briggs uses the 
 only parlour they have to go to sleep in. The man's a 
 cross-tempered bully. He's far worse than Gosset, and 
 has the same sort of position in the chapel they go to. Percy 
 says that they all hate him there, but he spends a lot of 
 money on the place and the minister is under his thumb." 
 
 " I'm sorry to hear all this, George. I didn't think he 
 was that sort of man, from what Gosset told me. Of course 
 I gathered that he was bigoted and narrow. It's a bad 
 lookout for the boy." 
 
 " In one way it's not so bad as if Briggs was a better 
 sort of man. I'm pretty sure Percy couldn't stand the life 
 for long in any case. He's an open-air boy, and ought not 
 to be shut up in a shop at all. He looks much worse in 
 health already. As it is, it's got to come to an end at once. 
 If he hadn't wanted to talk to me first, he would have run 
 away before this. I told him I would get him out of it." 
 
 The Rector looked at him with a smile. " I say, George, 
 that's rather a rash promise, isn't it? I don't imagine Gosset 
 
PROBLEMS 129 
 
 is going to have all his plans upset by a word from you. 
 How are you going to get him out of it? And what are 
 you going to do with him when you've got him out ? What 
 does he want to do? " 
 
 " He wants to go to Canada. I said I'd help him, if his 
 father wouldn't." 
 
 George was sitting back in a deep chair, smoking a 
 cigar, his eyes upon the glowing caves of the fire. The 
 Rector threw a half-quizzical glance at him, and when he 
 had looked at him once he looked at him again. Perhaps 
 he had never looked at him to see what was in his face 
 before. He had taken him very much for granted. As a boy 
 he had been tractable, and, when obedience had been de- 
 manded, obedient; as a young man, steady and dependable; 
 since he had worked with him in Roding he had done what 
 had been given him to do, and had done it very well, show- 
 ing enough initiative within the lines laid down for him, 
 but no desire to strike out lines of his own. In any difficulty 
 he had come to the Rector for advice. But he was not 
 asking for advice now. He had announced an intention. 
 
 The Rector's look of slight wonderment turned to some- 
 thing like pride. He knew a man when he saw one, and 
 he saw one in George now, in place of the boy he had 
 never yet quite ceased thinking him. George had been very 
 much like a son to him ; he had had a good deal to do with 
 his training, especially of late. He was not nearly so clever 
 as his own sons, not nearly so good-looking. The Rector 
 was more affected than he was aware of by good looks, 
 and if George had actually been his own son he would 
 have thought of him rather as the ugly duckling of ^he 
 family. But it was a good face that -he was looking at now, 
 as if he had never seen it before. The immaturity of youth 
 had left it, a good deal to its advantage; the lines had 
 solidified and given it a look of determination; the mouth, 
 
I30 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 that had been somewhat indeterminate, had grown firm; 
 the boy's happy eyes had not altogether lost their look, but 
 there were seriousness and purpose behind them. 
 
 " Well, George," said the Rector quietly, his mouth set 
 in a curve, " if you've made up your mind, you'll probably 
 get your way. I won't try to stop you. I think it would 
 be a good thing. Gosset won't, though. You may be sure 
 of that." 
 
 What Gosset would be likely to think did not seem to 
 be troubling George much at the moment. " There's an- 
 other thing I want to tell you," he said. " He wants to 
 marry that girl, and take her with him." 
 
 The Rector's look altered. " That's a different thing," 
 he said shortly. 
 
 George said nothing, but waited for him to speak again. 
 
 " We are not at the end of that trouble," he said. " Miss 
 Budd is making mischief. I wish to goodness Merrow 
 would get hold of her when he comes here, and relieve 
 us of her altogether." 
 
 " How is she making mischief? " George asked. 
 
 The Rector did not answer immediately. " I have always 
 put up-with her tiresome ways," he said, "because she did 
 seem to want to make herself useful, and there was a lot 
 that she could do. Besides, she has such a lot of the cat 
 in her that the only thing is to keep her employed, or she'll 
 be getting her claws in all round. I'm afraid she has got 
 them into us at last. She hardly gives me more than a nod 
 when I meet her, and she cut your Cousin Ruth altogether 
 yesterday." 
 
 " What on earth did she do that for? She always seemed 
 so anxious to make herself intimate." 
 
 " I know. Well, there is a reason for it. She came 
 here a week or two ago to have her say about this painful 
 business, and she said it in such a way as to upset your 
 
PROBLEMS 131 
 
 cousin considerably, and to arouse me to rebuke her after- 
 wards. I'm very glad I did it. There was no single right 
 thought behind her interference at all. But she evidently 
 took deep offence, and whatever opposition she can raise 
 against us now she will." 
 
 " I don't think she has much power. People know her 
 for what she is, pretty well. It is because you and Cousin 
 Ruth have been on friendly terms with her that she has not 
 raised more opposition against herself." 
 
 " I think there's something in that. I have smoothed 
 over a good deal that might have caused unpleasantness. 
 But a woman like that, with some money, and a cause 
 behind her which she can persuade herself she is serving, 
 even if she persuades nobody else — she can do a lot of 
 harm." 
 
 " What is she doing? " 
 
 " She has succeeded in getting hold of Mrs. Morton. 
 She must have taken a great deal of trouble about it, be- 
 cause the woman was dead against her — and quite rightly, 
 too. Morton hates her still, but they seem to be keeping 
 what is happening from him. Mrs. Morton isn't his equal 
 in character, in spite of his rough tongue and irreligious 
 prejudices. It practically comes to this — that Miss Budd 
 must have bribed the woman in some way. At any rate, 
 they are as thick as thieves now, and Mrs. Morton is com- 
 plaining that we are all in a conspiracy to prevent her 
 daughter being righted, as she calls it, when the boy was 
 quite ready to do it." 
 
 There was a pause. " Does Cousin Ruth still go there ? " 
 George asked. 
 
 Another slight pause. " Yes," said the Rector shortly. 
 Then he shifted his position and spoke more quickly. " I 
 haven't changed my mind on this subject, George," he said. 
 " I still think that such marriages are a mistake, except 
 
132 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 in special circumstances. But I shall take no more respon- 
 sibility about this. Why should I? None of them are 
 our people. Let them settle it amongst themselves. And 
 I would much rather you didn't mix yourself up with it. 
 You say young Gosset wants to marry her. Why? He 
 offered to do so, it's true, when Morton came in that 
 morning and attacked Gosset. But it was as plain as it 
 could possibly be that his eyes had been opened. The girl 
 was nothing to him any more. It was an honest attempt 
 to follow his conscience : nothing more. Why does he want 
 to marry her now ? Is it purely conscience, still ? " 
 
 " Partly. But I think he is fond of her." 
 
 The Rector threw out his hand. " Oh, my dear George," 
 he said ; " we mustn't let ourselves be blinded. A boy like 
 that — kept shut up like that — he's tasted the fruits once. 
 He wants to do what's right, I know. But isn't he deceiv- 
 ing himself? " 
 
 George bent forward and looked more closely into the 
 fire, which seemed to cause his face to redden. " There's 
 a girl in Briggs's shop," he said. " He's afraid of himself." 
 
 The Rector frowned. " Confound Bfiggs's beastly shop ! " 
 he said. " What sort of a girl ? " 
 
 " Not the sort he'd want to marry — or who'd want him 
 to." 
 
 The Rector looked into the fire in his turn. " Oh, pack 
 him off to Canada, and give him some honest work to do," 
 he said, with impatience. 
 
 George went on in his slow steady way. " He says 
 that the objections that there would be in marrying Jane 
 Morton here wouldn't exist in a new country. She would 
 be the sort of wife that would help him best. He wants to 
 work with his hands and live hard. He wants to forget 
 all about the sort of respectability he's been brought up in, 
 and is living in now. He hates it, and I don't wonder at 
 
PROBLEMS 133 
 
 it. . . . He is going to be the father of a child. He thinks 
 about that. He says it has had a good deal to do with 
 his keeping straight since he has been in London. He is 
 so unhappy that he wouldn't mind much what he did." 
 
 There was a silence. Then the Rector said quietly : " I 
 think I was wrong to say what I did about him just now. 
 George, I can't help being touched by a boy of that age 
 thinking of his fatherhood." 
 
 George made no reply, but sat looking into the fire. 
 
 The Rector rose from his chair. " Well, my dear boy," 
 he said, " you have put it all in a new light. Perhaps it 
 would be the best thing, after all. I'll think it over. You 
 will tackle Gosset about this idea of his going to Canada? " 
 
 " Yes, I will. But I don't want to say anything about 
 his marrying." 
 
 " No," — rather unwillingly. " I suppose I must do that 
 when you've had your try. I don't think he'll let him go, 
 you know. What are you actually going to do if he says 
 no?" 
 
 " I shall advise Percy to wait till he's twenty-one. It 
 won't be for some months yet. Then I shall give him a 
 start, whatever Gosset says." 
 
 " Yes, don't do anything before that. But if he is to 
 marry the girl — ! Oh, well, we won't look too far ahead. 
 I'm glad you have taken this poor boy in hand, George. 
 I'm sure he'll be grateful for your friendship." 
 
 " He is, poor chap. He hasn't had many friends to help 
 him. I say, shall you want me for anything special to- 
 morrow ? " 
 
 The Rector put his hand on his shoulder, and laughed. 
 " You go and get a good day with the hounds, my boy," 
 he said. " You deserve it." 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE BALL AND AFTER 
 
 The Ball at Roding Court was long talked of in Meadshire 
 as the most enjoyable that had been given in that county 
 of not-infrequent balls for some time. It is difficult to say 
 exactly what makes the success of such an entertainment. 
 Lavish decoration, which may make a ball in a big London 
 house talked of, plays no part. What flowers there are 
 are usually home-grown, and not cut. The house itself 
 may have something to do with it; but Roding Hall was 
 no show-place; it was cmly very big. There was actually 
 a ball-room, which is not always found even in large coun- 
 try houses, and there was a very excellent band; also a 
 super-excellent supper, which was the one item that had 
 engaged Sir Richard French's personal and serious atten- 
 tion. But none of these would have made it stand out 
 above other balls. 
 
 However, there was no doubt that the guests enjoyed 
 themselves. They came from all the big houses in the 
 county, some of them from as far as the distant parts of 
 West Meadshire, and most of them were in large parties. 
 None of the young women and men who came had ever 
 danced at Roding Hall before, although their mothers and 
 fathers, who kejjt up such a din of talk and laughter all the 
 time dancing was going on, as well as when it wasn't, might 
 have done so. There was a trifle of novelty in that, for 
 even with no dearth of big houses to provide entertainment, 
 the opening of another one, that had welcomed few guests 
 for a generation, was something of an event. 
 
 134 
 
THE BALL AND AFTER 135 
 
 And Sir Richard French was an admirable host. His 
 long and frequent absences had lent him a slight air of 
 mystery in the eyes of his neighbours, but he greeted all 
 those whom he knew with the utmost cordiality, as if he 
 had seen them last the day before yesterday, and went about 
 when they were all assembled talking to everybody, and 
 as if he expected to see them next the day after to-morrow, 
 and would be glad of the opportunity. He was somewhat 
 old-fashioned in his anxiety to provide partners for those 
 who seemed to be lacking their full share; but he would 
 haul off an astonished young man and make him dance 
 with an unwillingly retiring young girl, with such an 
 authoritative and yet confidential air that his orders seemed 
 almost like flattery; and the girls who, but for him, would 
 have had fewer partners, agreed, if any of them happened 
 to get together, that he was an " old dear." He even 
 danced himself, and his failure to achieve the newer kind of 
 steps was forgiven him for the sake of his afEable demeanour 
 and evident enjoyment of all that was going on. Perhaps 
 that had most to do with the success of the ball at Roding 
 Court — that the host evidently enjoyed it so much himself. 
 It was not a formal afEair of entertainment with him, but 
 a merry-making, set on foot because he wanted to make 
 merry. 
 
 Lady Ruth received the guests with him; and Sylvia, 
 in whose honour the ball was given, stood by her side. She 
 "was a radiant figure of youfh and beauty, quite as pretty 
 as any girl there, though there was no lack of pretty girls. 
 Her sparkling air of enjoyment added to the charm of her 
 sweet simplicity, to which Miss Budd had taken exception 
 as being more in accordance with her rectorial home than 
 her aristocratic birth; and she was gowned in a way that "v^^ 
 spoke of Paris, and Paris in its happiest and most adjustable 
 mood. 
 
136 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 Miss Budd would have had little to complain of, from 
 her point of view, in Sylvia's appearance and demeanour, 
 although she might have thought it unnecessary, on that 
 occasion, for her to waste dances over her friends amongst 
 the sons of the clergy and of the lesser squires, when there 
 was so much rank and fashion ready to besiege her. But 
 Miss Budd was not among the guests. She had retired to 
 bed with a sharp attack of spite, which she called lumbago, 
 and had deputed Mrs. Stenning to keep her eyes open and 
 tell her all that had happened, afterwards. 
 
 Mrs. Stenning, a sharp-faced figure in a black gown, 
 had sought out a corner in which she could see as much as 
 possible of what was going on, and herself be seen as little 
 as possible. She felt that if she could only be allowed to 
 stay there all the evening without being taken any notice 
 of she might possibly enjoy herself; although she could not 
 help wondering whether Alice would lock all the doors 
 and sit within hearing of the children, as she had promised 
 to do, or enjoy herself surreptitiously with the butcher's 
 young man, which she had promised not to do; and she 
 couldn't help thinking that her black frock did look rather 
 dowdy compared with all the smart ones, and if she had 
 known it was going to be so very grand as this she would 
 have taken resolution to buy a new one. 
 
 But Sir Richard French had sought her out, peering 
 above the heads of seated dowagers in her corner, and had 
 led her out to take refreshment. She was flustered by the 
 attention almost to tears, but he had talked so agreeably 
 and so naturally that her shrinkings vanished, and the glass 
 of champagne he brought her did her so much good that 
 she was disposed towards the idea that an occasion of this 
 sort might be enjoyable on its own account, and not merely 
 vicariously. Afterwards, she sat for a time with Mr. and 
 Mrs. Curtis; and Sylvia, looking lovely, and accompanied 
 
THE BALL AND AFTER 137 
 
 by a very smart young man in a pink coat, actually stopped 
 and said a few words to her on her way towards palms 
 and fountains. Ronald French took her in to supper, which 
 had been something of a nightmare to her in anticipation; 
 for she had had horrible pictures in her mind of herself 
 sitting alone in her black gown, that was only passable if 
 partly hidden by others, in a room gradually emptying, and 
 possibly of Sir Richard French coming in, seeing her forlorn 
 state and deputing an unwilling stranger to attend to her 
 wants, which would be worse than going without supper 
 altogether; though at her age she wanted something, when 
 she sat up till two or three o'clock in the morning. 
 
 How Ronald French had got himself to Roding Court 
 in the middle of term-time need not be enquired into too 
 closely. At any rate, he was enjoying himself hugely, had 
 no diiBculty in securing partners from amongst the prettiest 
 girls in the room, and was apparently completely successful 
 in amusing them. Lest his choice of Mrs. Stenning as a 
 supper-partner should be regarded as a mere unnatural act 
 of self-sacrifice, it may be said that she was not his only 
 one. He was in high spirits, and made himself very amus- 
 ing, causing hereto laugh more freely than she would have 
 thought possible in such surroundings. They were nice, 
 these young rectory Frenches, made everybody feel at home, 
 and neglected nobody, not even the people who would have 
 thought a measure of neglect not unnatural, when they 
 were out of their rectory sphere. 
 
 Mrs. Stenning expatiated gracefully on their niceness to 
 Miss Budd afterwards, and said that she had really enjoyed 
 the ball, although she would have been glad enough not 
 to have to go. Miss Budd, with pursed lips, agreed that 
 they were nice, on the whole ; though it was a wonder that 
 they should be, considering the high and mighty airs that 
 their parents gave themselves. 
 
138 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 Miss Budd's attitude towards the Rector and Lady Ruth 
 was a puzzle to Mrs. Stenning at this time. She was not 
 remarkable for seeing into things, or persons, but even she 
 found it difficult to swallow the statement that Miss Budd 
 had made to her, that their attitude towards this disgraceful 
 affair of young Gosset and Jane Morton was so unlike what 
 that of good church people ought to 'be that she had felt 
 obliged to tell them so, and at present they were not very 
 good friends in consequence, and the less she saw of them 
 for a time the better she should be pleased. Of course, 
 Miss Budd being so much " in with the grandees," would 
 not hesitate to speak her mind plainly, if she saw occasion 
 to differ from any one of them, as she had reported herself 
 to have done. But the vinegary speeches she did not seem 
 to be able to hold herself from makipg about the Rector 
 and his wife, whenever their names were mentioned, did 
 not quite accord with her professed attitude of high-minded 
 sorrow on account of their temporary obliquity. Mrs. 
 Stenning was beginning to suspect that more lay behind 
 the undoubted estrangement than Miss Budd had told her, 
 and that Lady Ruth, if it had been within the bounds of 
 possibility that she should tell her her side of the story, 
 would have told a different one. But she thought it was 
 all bound to come right by-and-by, and did her own mild 
 best to smooth things over by putting the much-admired 
 rectory people before her friend in the most agreeable light, 
 little thinking that by so doing she was making it difficult 
 for Miss Budd to keep her temper. 
 
 " Oh, but you couldn't say that Lady Ruth was high 
 and mighty last night," she said. " I haven't told you — I 
 went in, after I'd put myself tidy, behind a very grand- 
 looking elderly lady, with a lot of young ladies all very 
 smartly dressed and some aristocratic-looking gentlemen. I 
 hadn't an idea who they were, and to my surprise she was 
 
THE BALL AND AFTER 139 
 
 announced as the Duchess of Pevensey; and they with all 
 sorts of other titles which I've forgotten. And when Lady 
 Ruth had said ' How do you do,' to them — it was ' Dr. and 
 Mrs. Stenning.' Rather a come-down, eh? Well, I assure 
 you she seemed more pleased to see me than the Duchess. 
 Nobody was behind us for the moment, and she asked me 
 how Charlie was, and said she was so glad I was able to 
 leave him and come there. Oh, no, Miss Budd! Quite 
 the great lady, and exquisitely dressed; but not high and 
 mighty; by no means." 
 
 " Oh, well," said Miss Budd, with some ill-nature. , 
 " After spending an evening in company with Duchesses, 
 of course you know a good deal more about behaviour 
 than I do. I suppose the Rector went about with his nose 
 in the air, looking as if he thought himself an archbishop 
 at the least." 
 
 " Indeed, no such thing. Miss Budd," said Mrs. Sten- 
 ning, with a touch of offence. " He made a very fine figure 
 of a man, as he always 'does ; but he was most genial, and 
 seemed to be laughing and talking with people the whole 
 evening. I'm sure it did a person good to look at him. I 
 must say I am rather surprised. Miss Budd, that you always 
 seem anxious now to run the Rector and Lady Ruth down, 
 even if you have had a tiff with them. You know what 
 high society manners are as well as anybody, and church 
 or no church, and young Gosset and Jane Morton or no 
 young Gosset and Jane Morton, you must know that the 
 Rector and Lady Ruth would behave perfectly." 
 
 The good lady had never dared to go so far in criticism 
 of her friend before, but with loyalties in the balance an 
 implied rebuke of Miss Budd was better than an acqui- 
 escence in her belittling of the Frenches. Miss Budd was 
 annoyed at it, but bethought herself that she had better 
 not allow her spite to become too apparent, or this admiring 
 
I40 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 friend might depose her from the pinnacle upon which she 
 had placed her. 
 
 " Oh, well," she said grudgingly, " I am annoyed with them, 
 and that's a fact. But I dare say they would behave properly, 
 surrounded by all those people. I suppose all the clergy 
 were there, with all their wives and daughters and sons." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; everybody was there from all round. I really 
 felt that I was amongst friends, in spite of the grandees, 
 and I've never felt like that before in a house like Roding 
 Court. Of course you would have had more friends still. 
 I do think it is such a pity that your lumbago got so bad 
 at the last moment. You would have enjoyed it so. You 
 would have been quite in your element." 
 
 Miss Budd, exasperated anew at having been left out 
 when all the rectories and vicarages and surgeries in the 
 neighbourhood had poured themselves into Roding Hall, 
 had a strong inclination to vent her spleen by telling Mrs. 
 Stenning the truth — that, with everybody invited who could 
 put an evening coat or gown on their backs, she hadn't 
 been considered good enough; and was it surprising that 
 she should not be feeling particularly cordial towards Lady 
 Ruth, who had sent out the invitations, or even to Sylvia, 
 who must have known that she had, been left out? If she 
 had said so at the beginning, she knew that Mrs. Sten- 
 ning would have expressed the most unbounded surprise and 
 condemnation, and sided with her whole-heartedly. But it 
 was too late now. 
 
 " If I had really wanted to go," she said, " I might 
 have risked it. But these affairs to which everybody is 
 invited aren't much in my line now, although, of course, I 
 should have enjoyed it as a girl for the sake of the dancing. 
 I would rather see my friends quietly. I felt quite pleased 
 I hadn't gone when I heard the carriages come home, and 
 was comfortably tucked up in my bed-clothes." 
 
THE BALL AND AFTER 141 
 
 This was a smashing lie, for when she had been awak- 
 ened by the carriages driving home very late beneath her 
 windows, she had had such an access of spite at the remem- 
 brance of her. wrongs that her whole body had shaken with 
 it. Did she remember this when she confessed her sins in 
 detail before going to the early service next Sunday, as was 
 her habitual custom? Probably not. She would have liked 
 to feel pleased that she had not gone to the ball, and no 
 doubt took the wish for the deed. 
 
 " I told Sir Richard French how unwell you were," said 
 Mrs. Stenningj innocently. " I said you would be very 
 sorry not to be there. I suppose you don't mind my having 
 said that?" 
 
 "What did he say?" asked Miss Budd, with a look of 
 alarm, which she tried to disguise. 
 
 " He said that he was very sorry to hear you were un- 
 well, but he. was sure that if you had really wanted to 
 come my husband would have put you right. You know 
 his nice way. Miss Budd — compliments all round. My 
 husband was quite pleased when I told him." 
 
 Miss Budd did not hear the latter part of the speech. 
 Then it was as she had half suspected. Sir Richard had 
 taken it for granted that she would be there, and it was 
 Lady Ruth who had taken it upon herself to leave her out. 
 It had been just possible that, as the invitations had been 
 sent out in Sir Richard's name, there had been a slight 
 difBculty — so she had thought — in sending one to an un- 
 married lady on whom he had never actually ' called,' 
 although he knew about her well enough. But Mrs. Sten- 
 ning's statement disposed of that possibility. He had taken 
 it for granted that she would be asked, had very likely said 
 that she was to be. And Lady Ruth had left her out. Very 
 well ! Now she knew. 
 
 " I haven't told you about Lord Pangbourne yet," Mrs. 
 
142 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 Stenning was saying, when she came out of her dark 
 reverie. " Of course, you may imagine, after what you told 
 me, that I kept my eyes open for him. I was rather clever 
 about it. I asked Ronald to point me out all the people 
 with titles while we were at supper, and, when he took me 
 back to the ball-room afterwards, I said, * I know I'm an 
 awful snob, but I do like knowing whether people have got 
 titles or not, and I've never been in a room with so many 
 before, and I don't suppose I ever shall again.' Of course 
 he went on with a lot of his nonsense, and made up a lot 
 of names that I knew couldn't belong to anybody, although 
 I'm bound to say I believed him just at first, until he 
 pointed to the Duchess of Pevensey, whom I did know — I 
 mean by sight — and said, ' That's the Baroness von Hook- 
 nosen. She was a Miss Snifi before she married the Baron.' 
 Ronald is a very amusing boy, and clever and nice man- 
 ners besides, and of course I didn't mind his fun a bit." 
 
 " I think it was very impertinent of him," said Miss 
 Budd. " I should have given him a good snubbing if I 
 had been in your place." 
 
 " Oh, I don't know ! Boys will be boys. But I saw a 
 very tall distinguished-looking man coming in with Lady 
 Ruth, and I said : ' Now, who is that with Lady Ruth ? 
 I'm sure he looks as if he had a title.' He said : ' Yes, you're 
 quite right, Mrs. Stenning. He's the Earl of Boulter's 
 Lock; at least, it isn't quite that, but it has something to 
 do with the river.' So I said, ' You don't mean to tell me 
 that's Lord Pangbourne ! ' and he said : ' Yes, that's it. 
 Why, you know them better than I do; I shan't tell you 
 any more.' " 
 
 " I hope you didn't give Ronald to understand that you 
 had any particular reason for asking the question ? " 
 
 " Oh, Miss Budd, as if I would, after what you had told 
 me! Of course, Ronald thought I knew about him because 
 
THE BALL AND AFTER 143 
 
 he is in the Government. And I'm quite sure that he 
 suspects nothing — Ronald, I mean — ^nothing between Lord 
 Pangbourne and Sylvia." 
 
 " I suppose not. They would hardly talk about it until 
 they had succeeded in hooking him." 
 
 Even to Mrs. Stenning this sounded vulgar, as well as 
 offensive, and she paused in her flow of information with a 
 look of distrust on her face. 
 
 " I don't think you would have said that there was any- 
 thing of that sort if you had been there," she said, in a 
 tone that was more aloof than any she had ever used towards 
 Miss Budd, and there stopped. 
 
 " Well, go on," said Miss Budd. " What happened? " 
 
 " I was going to tell you that — ^but really ! Miss Budd, 
 I simply can't go on talking about people I respect and 
 like, and who have been kind and considerate to me, with- 
 out fail, and people you always seemed to have the same 
 ideas of as I have, if you continue to " 
 
 " Oh, good gracious ! " interrupted Miss Budd tartly, 
 and was about to vent her spleen upon Mrs. Stenning for 
 presuming, to remonstrate with her over her behaviour, when 
 she bethought herself once more. 
 
 " Well, there, if it offends your delicacy," she said, " I'll 
 keep what I think to myself. You must remember that I 
 have known these people a good deal longer than you have, 
 and know what goes on in their circles in a way that you 
 can't." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know that," Mrs. Stenning made haste to 
 reply, eager to catch at anything whereby she could pre- 
 serve friendship by belittling herself. " You're in a far 
 better position to judge of things than I am — naturally — 
 you being what you are and I being what I am. But really, 
 it does pain me to hear people — I won't presume to call 
 them friends, though they do act like friends, and I don't 
 
144 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 believe they would mind — ^who are always so nice to me — 
 what shall I say? — run down. But I don't believe you 
 mean it, Miss Budd. You're naturally so kind-hearted. 
 I know you're not well, and very sorry I am for it, and I 
 put it down to that. So I'll say no more. Well, now, I'll 
 tell you all that happened. Really, it was as good as a 
 play for me to watch, and I can tell you I kept my eyes 
 open. Lord Pangbourne paid a good deal of court to Lady 
 Ruth, and at one time he was standing up for quite a long 
 time talking to the Rector, and very good friends they 
 seemed to be, though nothing more than that, you must 
 understand — I mean in the way of their treating him 
 specially.'" 
 
 " Well, that's enough about them," said Miss Budd. 
 " What about Sylvia ? That's what I want to know." 
 
 " I am going to tell you. As regards him I've no doubt 
 about it — ^no doubt at all. It's plain as the nose on your 
 face." 
 
 The nose on Miss Budd's face was more than usually 
 plain, which may have accounted for the asperity with which 
 she said: "No doubt about what? If anything happened, 
 do, for goodness' sake, tell me what it was." 
 
 "Oh, happened! I didn't say that I saw anything hap- 
 pen. What I did notice — and I expect my lord would be 
 rather surprised if he knew how closely he was watched 
 by a person in a shabby dress who got into a corner and 
 kept her eyes open — ^was that his eyes were fixed on Sylvia 
 whenever they were in the ball-room together, even when 
 he was talking to people. ' Ah ! ' I said to myself, ' you're 
 a great man, my lord, and I'm only a country doctor's 
 wife, but there's no mistaking that look. / know your 
 secret, as well a^ if you'd come and told it to me. You're 
 in love with our pretty Sylvia, and pretty deep in, too.' " 
 
 "Yes, I've gathered as much as that from what friends 
 
THE BALL AND AFTER 145 
 
 have told me," said Miss Budd, whose one source of in- 
 formation about this afEair had been an impertinent para- 
 graph in a scavenging society paper, which was sent to her 
 regularly by post. " There's no doubt he's smitten with 
 her. But that's a very different thing from marriage." 
 
 " I don't know so much about that," said Mrs. Stenning. 
 " If you'd seen his eyes. If you'd " 
 
 " I know you don't know much about it," Miss Budd 
 interrupted her, " and I do know something about it. A 
 man in that position doesn't offer marriage to every girl he 
 is smitten with. If you've nothing more to tell me than 
 that he followed her about with his eyes — ^well, I know that 
 already. Did he dance with her ? Did they sit out 
 together?" 
 
 " He danced with her twice," said Mrs. Stenning, rather 
 cast down by the reception of her news, and inclined to 
 question it. " I don't know about sitting out. But I'll 
 say this, that lord or no lord, if that look didn't mean 
 marriage, or anyhow, his wanting marriage, then he's not 
 the fine gentleman he looks, and I, for one, don't want him 
 for our pretty Sylvia." 
 
 " It won't make much difference whether you want him 
 or not," said Miss Budd, still under the blighting influence 
 of her attack of lumbago. " I don't say he isnt contem- 
 plating marriage, and never have said it — I know too much. 
 But I shall be surprised if anything happened last night, 
 or will happen because of this ball that everybody seems 
 to have gone mad about." 
 
 Nevertheless, something had happened on the previous 
 evening. Lord Pangbourne, who was an Under-Secretary 
 of State, and a rising light in the political world, as well as 
 a light long since risen in the social, had asked the Rector 
 of Roding if he might call on him on the following morning. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 TWO DISCUSSIONS 
 
 There was not much opportunity or privacy for the dis- 
 cussion of momentous questions at Roding Rectory at that 
 particular time, for the house was full to overflowing with 
 a lively party whose talk and laughter were heard all over 
 it, and subsided only when its occupants retired to their 
 several beds. Even the Rector had given up his dressing- 
 room, and Joyce and Eddie were delighted with the com- 
 pany of two girl cousins, for whom the day nursery had 
 been turned into a bedroom. 
 
 The Rector told his wife of Lord Pangbourne's request 
 for an interview when they at last found themselves alone 
 together, hardly before daybreak, after the ball. 
 
 " I could see that it was bound to come," she said. " I 
 suppose he will want to speak to Sylvia." 
 
 " I think you ought to prepare her. Is she prepared? 
 Does she know what is coming?" 
 
 " Not from anything he has said to-night, I feel sure. 
 Henry, I suppose you must let him ask her? " 
 
 He looked at her a little surprised. " Don't you want 
 me to?" he asked. "We haven't talked about it much, 
 but surely you were prepared for its coming at any time, 
 from what Alice told you — ^Sylvia, too." 
 
 " Sylvia has never said anything, except that he was 
 always very nice to her. She told me about him just as she 
 tells me about every one she meets in London, and going 
 about. I doubt if it has ever struck her that he is in love 
 with her, as I suppose he is. He is so much older; she 
 
 146 
 
TWO DISCUSSIONS I47 
 
 was rather flattered at his taking notice of her. Darling 
 Sylvia — she always thinks it the most extraordinary thing 
 if anybody seems to like her." 
 
 " My dear child, what are you driving at?" he asked 
 with an affectionate smile. " You have seen that this was 
 likely to come. Don't you want it, now that it is here ? " 
 
 " Dear Henry, do you ? I don't know what we should 
 do without Sylvia. It seems only yesterday that she was 
 a little child. In some ways she is hardly more than a 
 child now." 
 
 " I know," he said indulgently. " Of course you will 
 feel losing her. So shall I — ^very much indeed. I felt like 
 that when Pangbourne asked me if he might come and see 
 me, knowing what he meant. I didn't feel glad at all — 
 really sorry. Still, we know it has to come, some day or 
 other. I can't help wondering it hasn't come before. Un- 
 less I'm blinded by fatherly pride, Sylvia was far the most 
 beautiful girl there to-night, and she's good and sweet all 
 through. My dear, you've given me a daughter to be 
 very proud of,- and you've kept her unspotted from the 
 world." 
 
 " Dearest Henry, I wish I could keep her so a little 
 longer. There are so many sad things she must know when 
 she goes away from us. Poor Lord Pangbourne — I know 
 he isn't to blame, I have always been very sorry for him. 
 But his history — Sylvia must know that." 
 
 He looked serious. " It is a drawback," he said. " I 
 don't like to think of it in connection with Sylvia. Still, 
 he has a full right to marry again, and to marry a good 
 and innocent girl, too. He has doiie nothing to forfeit 
 that right, and neither of us would have a word to say, or 
 feel that it was in any way unsuitable, if it were any other 
 girl except our own. He is young still; he has the best 
 part of his life before him." 
 
148 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 " Not really young; thirty-five." 
 
 "Well — not a boy, of course. But thirty-five is young, 
 with a man like that." 
 
 "Yes, to you and me. Not to a girl of twenty. I do 
 really think that Sylvia will be absolutely surprised that 
 he should be thinking of marrying her, and that we should 
 think it possible." 
 
 "You really think that?" 
 
 "Yes, I do. If she had had the least idea of it, I am 
 sure I should have known." 
 
 He considered this. " One can't prevent his putting his ■ 
 question, now," he said. " And Sylvia must be prepared 
 for it." 
 
 "Oh, yes! I must tell her to-morrow morning. But 
 supposing — Oh, Henry, is it quite necessary that he should 
 see her to-morrow? I think I know so well what will 
 happen. She will be a little frightened — almost shocked. 
 She won't accept him — to-morrow ; she couldn't, I know." 
 
 " What do you suggest then ? " 
 
 " She will see him again.. He will have many oppor- 
 tunities of meeting her, when she goes to Alice after JEaster, 
 She will know what is in his mind, she will get used to it. 
 Let him make his own way with her." 
 
 " Well," he said slowly. " I know that you are likely 
 to be right about her. If she is absolutely unptepared — 
 and I don't know that I Could wish her to be anything 
 else-^f course she can't give him an answer to-morrow — 
 at least not the answer he wants. But I can't help saying 
 that I hope it may come right for him, Ruth. As for his 
 place in the world — that's as it happens to come. It 
 wouldn't weigh with me, nor of course with you, as against 
 other things, but there's no sense in denying that it counts 
 to some extent. He's what you'd call an excellent match. 
 The sort of fellow he is, apart from all that, is what mat- 
 
TWO DISCUSSIONS 149 
 
 ters, and to my mind he more than passes any test you could 
 put him to. Don't you feel that yourself, from what you 
 have seen of him? Don't you like him — ^very much?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, I do like him," she made haste to reply. " But 
 Sylvia! Oh, Henry, if he were ten year^ younger, and 
 hadn't been married before!" 
 
 He took her face between his hands and kissed her, 
 smiling tenderly at her. " You want a love affair for her," 
 he said. " I'll leave it all to you. You'll know what to 
 do and say." 
 
 ******* 
 
 " Oh, but, mother darling, I couldn't. He's so old." 
 Lady Ruth had managed to get Sylvia alone after the 
 late breakfast next morning. Sylvia's eyes were full of 
 wonder, of a sort that made her mother feel as if she had 
 unwillingly hurt her. It is to be doubted whether Lord 
 Pangbourne would have been quite satisfied with the way 
 in which his suit was prepared for him. Lady Ruth's last 
 speech before she and Sylvia left her room together was: 
 "Well, darling, he will say nothing yet; you needn't be 
 afraid. I was bound to tell you, though I hated doing it. 
 Father will see him, and you needn't think anything more 
 of it till you go up to London." 
 
 ******* 
 
 It was on this morning that George Barton had arranged 
 to see Gosset. He arose at his usual hour, and at eight 
 o'clock read matins in the church, empty except for him- 
 self and the sexton, who had rung the bell. At about half- 
 past nine he went to Gosset's shop and was shown into the 
 private office. 
 
 Gosset came in and greeted him with a slight air of 
 patronage. George was a curate, and there is that about 
 the very word curate which strikes the man of Gosset's 
 
150 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 way of thinking as something inglorious and rather absurd. 
 In the case of George, who was known not to be depend- 
 ent upon his curate's stipend, and whose pursuits differen- 
 tiated him in some degree from the average curate, the 
 feeling was not so strong as it might have been in the case 
 of a young man, however learned or devoted, who neither 
 hunted nor shot, and lived in two rooms; but it was there, 
 all the same. 
 
 To Mr. Gosset, George was " the curate," and rather 
 less likely on that account to be versed in matters of reli- 
 gion than any of- the chapel-going young men in this shop. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Barton, sir, what can I do for you? " asked 
 Gosset, rubbing his hands together. 
 
 " I came to talk to you about Percy," said George. " I 
 saw him last week, you know. I haven't been able to come 
 and see you before." 
 
 Gosset had different kinds of armour with which to repel 
 the shafts that still raked him over his son's disgrace. With 
 his co-religionists he was the stricken father, prayerfully 
 resigned; to his non-worldly associates, who commiserated 
 with him, not without an idea of unsettling him on the 
 pinnacle to which he had exalted himself, he was the man 
 with his eyes open, upright and straightforward, but not 
 to be imposed upon; to Morton, who never let a chance 
 meeting pass without some rough, jaunty, or contemptuous 
 speech, he was the hard business man, unassailable by imper- 
 tinence; to the Rector he was something of all these charac- 
 ters. But to George — the curate — ^he was not going to 
 admit any grounds of equality whatever. What he had 
 done he had done ; what he should do he would do. George 
 had made a friend of his son, who was in the deepest dis- 
 grace. That being the case, he must even be prepared to 
 share a little of the opprobrium that his son had earned. 
 Certainly, he would not be accepted as an adviser, or as 
 
TWO DISCUSSIONS 151 
 
 one who had any right to offer advice. A pretty thing, 
 indeed, if a man of Gosset's religious experience were to 
 have his actions and intentions questioned by a curate! 
 
 He did not ask George to sit down. " Well," he said, 
 " I hope you found him in a better frame of mind. I'hi 
 not satisfied with the way he is taking things. I wasn't 
 very anxious that you should see him, because — to speak 
 plainly to you, Mr. Barton — I regard much of what goes 
 on here amongst the lads as only drawing them away from 
 more serious things, and if Percy hadn't been led to think 
 more of amusing himself than of his duty to God and his 
 parents, this terrible thing would not have happened. Still, 
 you're a young man who professes to have given himself 
 to the service of God, and you wouldn't have said anything 
 that would be likely to upset him further. He's discon- 
 tented, I know, and says he's unhappy. He ought to be 
 unhappy, but not because he is where he can't get opportu- 
 nities for playing games and amusing himself generally."- 
 
 " He is so unhappy," said George, " that it is impossible 
 for him to go on living in the surroundings in which you 
 have placed him." 
 
 Gosset's face showed temper. He turned round and took 
 a chair. " We'd better sit down," he said. " If that's 
 the sort of thing you have come to say, we'll have it out 
 together, you and I, once for all, Mr. Barton." 
 
 " I came to talk it over with you, Mr. Gosset," said 
 George. " I have a suggestion to make." 
 
 " Understand then, please," said Gosset in a hard dic- 
 tatorial, voice, leaning forward and looking at him disagree- 
 ably, " that I'm not prepared to listen to suggestions from 
 you, Mr. Barton; and what's more, I consider it great 
 presumption on your part to come here and offer them. 
 I'm not accountable for my actions to the curate of Roding, 
 or the curate of any other place. I've talked things over 
 
152 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 with Mr. French, as man to man, not because he is Rector 
 here, or has any authority to interfere in my affairs in any 
 way, but simply because he was mixed up in them, as any- 
 body else might have been. That's a very different thing 
 to having a young gentleman who happened to put on a 
 white tie a few months ago coming in and presuming to 
 dictate to me, and I'm not going to put up with it for a 
 moment." 
 
 George was silent. 
 
 " I hope you quite understand that," said Gosset, with 
 a trifle less of truculence. 
 
 " I understand," said George, " that you are not likely 
 to listen to anything I have to say before you have worked 
 off your ill-will against what I represent." 
 
 " Ill-will ! " replied Gosset, contemptuously, his ran- 
 cour reviving. " And what jfou represent ! Allow me to 
 tell you, Mr. Barton, that all the curates in the kingdom 
 might come and talk to me, and I should think no more of 
 theni-than any other young gentleman, who have just enough 
 sense to pass an easy examination, and put themselves in a 
 position where they would have slippers and braces worked 
 for them. The whole thing's contemptible. There isn't 
 an ounce of true religion in it. I 'ate the 'ole business." 
 
 " I know you do," said George. " It is what I said." 
 
 " Very well then," said Gosset, skilfully leaving this 
 point, " and now there's another thing. I said just now 
 that I thought you wouldn't so far forget yourself as to 
 disturb Percy in his mind, now that I've put him in sur- 
 roundings where he'll be able to live a good life and repent 
 of his sin if he's let alone to himself and the good influences 
 he's got round him. I thought as a gentleman you wouldn't 
 do that, and I gave my permission for you to see him on 
 that understanding. Seems now I was wrong, and you've 
 gone behind my back and are trying to undo what I've 
 
TWO DISCUSSIONS 153 
 
 done. Very well, then. I won't trust you any more, Mr. 
 Barton. I've had my lesson. And that's all I've got to 
 say to you. Now, as I'm busy, I'll be getting back to my 
 work." 
 
 He rose. George kept his seat, " I told you just now," 
 he said, " that it was impossible for him to go on living 
 where he is. He refuses to do it. I have persuaded him 
 to stay where he is and take no steps until I have seen you 
 on his behalf." 
 
 Gosset took his seat again. " And you back him up ! " 
 he said angrily. " You make him still more dissatisfied, 
 and then come here calmly and expect me to talk it over 
 with you, as if you were a man of my own standing at least, 
 and I was going to accept your advice as to how I ought 
 to treat my own son. It seems to me, Mr. Barton, that 
 you're no better than he is. You're two young men to- 
 gether who set themselves against their elders, and'll have 
 to be kept in their places. Percy will stop where is, and 
 you'll kindly oblige me by not interfering with him any 
 further. You keep to your own line, and amuse yourself 
 with your balls and your horse-riding, and your intoning, 
 and all the rest of it, and leave me to manage my own 
 affairs in my own way." 
 
 " Percy wants to go to Canada," said George, " and 
 work on the land. He is miserable, shut up in London. He 
 loves the open-air, and is young and strong. He will make 
 his way in a new country, and I have friends there who will 
 help him." 
 
 A change came over Gosset's face. He was no fool; 
 he knew well enough that his son was getting beyond his 
 control. He had never been as amenable as he ought to 
 have been, and since his disgrace he had seemed to be 
 deliberately setting his face against the doctrines and assump- 
 tions he had accepted before. Gosset put that down largely 
 
154 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 to George's influence over him, though entirely without 
 reason; but the fact remained that he was losing his own 
 hold over him, and knew it. He had even thought of 
 sending him out of the country himself. With his perma- 
 nent removal, a good deal of the annoyance he suffered 
 on his behalf would also be removed; he had other boys 
 who could succeed to his business; poor Percy was coming 
 to be regarded as the irreclaimable black sheep of the 
 family. 
 
 But it would cost more money than he was willing to 
 spend, if he were to do it in such a way as not to appear 
 to be casting him off; it would confirm the accusation 
 brought against him that all he was anxious for was to 
 keep Percy out of Roding; and it would lessen the effect 
 of punishment, which, for all his talk of regeneration, was 
 never out of his mind in keeping hint- where he was. By- 
 and-by, perhaps, it might be thought of — ^Australia, South 
 Africa, Canada — but not yet. 
 
 But he was far from being willing to admit this to 
 George. 
 
 " Oh, that's it, is it ? " he exclaimed. " He wants to 
 run away; and you and he have been talking it over 
 together." 
 
 "Yes, we have been talking it over together," said 
 George. " And now I should like to talk it over with you. 
 It is quite true that he has wanted to run away; and as I 
 have already told you, I have stopped that for the present." 
 
 George's quietness of speech, and his steady refusal to 
 be turned from his point, or to take offence at what had 
 amounted to insults on Gosset's part, were beginning to 
 have their effect. Gosset saw in him, not " the curate " 
 any longer, but the gentleman, known to be of good birth 
 and reputed to be wealthy, the " good customer," to whom 
 respect is legitimately owing, if he does nothing to forfeit it. 
 
TWO DISCUSSIONS 155 
 
 The quiet passing by of offensive speeches as If entirely 
 beneath his notice, rebuked them more effectively than if 
 he had replied to them, with whatever dignity. Gosset 
 changed his tone, into one in which a spice of the sub- 
 servience of the tradesman entered. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Barton," he said. " I dare say I've spoken 
 my mind rather more freely than was altogether becoming 
 from me to you. You'll recognize that I'm bound to stand 
 up against religious aggression If I see any signs of it; but 
 you'll make allowances for that, I know." 
 
 George made no reply. This was no apology; and the 
 offence was not to be excused, though it could be ignored. 
 Gosset felt that he had made a blunder. He had tried 
 to hector "the curate";. he had only exhibited vulgarity to 
 the " good customer," who was on a plane so far removed 
 from his as to consider the vulgarity only natural in a 
 tradesman, and not worth even resenting. 
 
 " Of course. If you come to me simply as a gentleman 
 who takes an interest in my son, I'm quite ready to hear 
 what you have to say, and can thank you for being so 
 kind. We're not likely to agree on a good many points, 
 but If you say that the boy has been wicked enough to 
 think of running away, and you have prevented him, then 
 I ought not to have said what I did just now, and I hope 
 you will forget It." 
 
 This came nearer to an apology, but George still passed 
 it by. " A friend of mine has a big farm In Alberta," he 
 said. " I will write to him if you will give me permis- 
 sion. I am sure he will be glad to give Percy a start, 
 and from what I have heard there will be no difficulty about 
 his making his way, with the strength and the keenness that 
 he has. He would cost you nothing after he got there. 
 There would only be his passage and his outfit." 
 
 " Come now, Mr. Barton," said Gosset, with a smile. 
 
156 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 " That's going a bit too quickly. I never said I had any 
 intention of sending Percy to Canada. I haven't. It's 
 quite a' newr idea to me. All I say to you is that I'm 
 grateful for your preventing him taking a foolish, wricked 
 course. What'd his mother say, if he was to do a thing 
 like that, let alone me, who have done my best all his life 
 to train him up to be the steady God-fearing young man I 
 looked forward to his being? He ought not to be thinking 
 of things like this. If he was truly repentant for the wrong 
 he's done, and wanted to get back to a state of happiness, 
 he would take his life now in a very different spirit. He is 
 in helpful surroundings. I've given him every chance. I 
 know what's good for him much better than he does, and 
 if you'll forgive me saying so — not running you down 
 in any way — ^better than you can, at your age. What I'll 
 do is to go up and see him and have a talk to him. Of 
 course he misses his home; that's only natural. If he be- 
 haves himself, he shall come home, perhaps over Whit- 
 suntide. I don't want to be hard on the boy, though he's 
 brought sad trouble on us." 
 
 " Mr. Gosset," said George, as quietly as ever, " Percy 
 will be twenty-one this summer, and his own master. If 
 you don't see your way to helping him now to get out of 
 his unhappy surroundings and give him a fresh start, I 
 have advised him to wait until then. But he won't wait 
 longer." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Gosset with a slight return to his aggres- 
 sive manner. " I'm to have a pistol put to my head, am 
 I? And supposing I say 'No,' Mr. Barton? I'm not 
 ready at a moment's notice to send my son to the other 
 side of the world — ^why you know — you must see yourself — 
 that it's absurd to come and throw a thing like that at my 
 head, and expect me say yes at once. Things can't be done 
 in that way." 
 
TWO DISCUSSION? 157 
 
 " No. I didn't expect you to say ' Yes ' at once. I only 
 wanted to talk to you about it, and get you to think it 
 over." 
 
 " You tell me he^s going, sooner or later, whether I give 
 my consent or not." ^ 
 
 " I told you that after I understood you to have refused 
 to consider the idea." 
 
 "Well, it comes to the same thing. Whether I consider 
 it or not, you and he have taken the matter into your own 
 hands. Whatever I say, he's going, you tell me. How is 
 he going, I should like to know, if he does wait till he's his 
 own master, as you put it! He hasn't got a penny but 
 what I give him. He'll be no more his own master when 
 he's twenty-one than he is now." 
 
 " He would be quite ready to work his passage ; and 
 when he once got over there he would have no difficulty 
 in making a living. Mr. Gosset, the boy is desperate; he's 
 ready for anything. I don't come here to hold a pistol to 
 your head, as you say. I have done you a service in per- 
 suading him not to cut himself off from you. But I should 
 be doing you no service if I didn't let you know that the 
 situation is serious. Isn't this a way out of it all? The 
 idea is sudden to you, of course, and it would be absurd 
 to expect you to make up your mind to it on the spot. 
 There's no necessity for that. But it's for you to decide, 
 after what I have told you, whether it isn't worth thinking 
 over seriously." 
 
 Gosset had been thinking during this speech. There was 
 a look of slyness on his face as he said : " It seems to me, 
 Mr. Barton, that you are taking a good deal of responsi- 
 bility on your shoulders. It doesn't seem to strike you 
 that the man who pays the piper has some sort of right 
 to call the tune. You call the tune, but if you had to pay 
 the piper you might call a different one." 
 
158 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 " I am quite ready," said George, " if you give your 
 approval, to do everything that is necessary for sending 
 Percy to Canada, and giving him a start when he gets 
 there. I haven't said so before, because I didn't know how 
 such a proposal would strike you. It is made out of friend- 
 ship to Percy. If you will consent to it, you will give 
 me genuine pleasure." 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Barton ; it's very good of you," said 
 Gosset, speaking as if he had come to a decision, and now 
 knew where he stood ; " but of course I couldn't consent 
 to anything of the sort. I'm responsible for my son and I 
 must be left to do what I think fit for him." 
 
 He stood up. George looked puzzled. Surely, this was 
 not to be the end of the interview ! He rose slowly. " Then 
 you will think over it," he said. 
 
 " No," said Gosset. " I'm obliged to you for the trouble 
 you've taken, Mr. Barton, but as I say I'm going to do 
 what I think best. Percy isn't going to Canada, or any- 
 where else. He's going to stop where he is, and behave 
 himself." 
 
 " I've told you," said George, searching in his rather 
 slow mind for a reason for Gosset's new decision of man- 
 ner, " I've told you that he has already made up his 
 mind." 
 
 " Then he'd better unmake it again," said Gosset. 
 
 George was thoughtful for a moment ; Gosset stood wait- 
 ing for him to speak. He raised his eyes to Gosset's face. 
 " Aren't you making a mistake ? " he said. " What am 
 I to write to him? In a way, I'm his ambassador, you 
 know." 
 
 " You can say what you please, Mr. Barton." Gosset's 
 speeches came readily, inviting others. 
 
 " Then I'm to tell him I have failed ? You won't listen 
 to him." 
 
TWO DISCUSSIONS 159 
 
 " I certainly won't take him away from where he is and 
 send him to Canada, or anywhere else." 
 
 " I have told you that if you refuse to listen to him, he 
 will talce matters into his own hands." 
 
 Was this what Gosset wanted? His reply came almost 
 in a tone of triumph. " Then I wash my hands of him," 
 he said. " I don't care what he does, or what you or any- 
 body else do, Mr. Barton. My authority is scouted, and 
 Percy ceases to be a son of mine. I'll have nothing more 
 to do with him. He needn't wait till he's twenty-one; he 
 needn't wait another month, or another week. Unless he 
 does what I bid him, I've done with him, and done with 
 him for good. You can tell him that if you want to know 
 what to tell him." 
 
 George took up his hat from the table. " Very well, Mr. 
 Gosset," he said. " I think I understand you now. There's 
 no necessity for anything more between us." 
 
 He was going out. Gosset looked at him sharply. " I've 
 nothing against you, Mr. Barton," he said. " But I don't 
 think quite as you do about Percy, and you had better 
 leave' it to me. He won't want to go to Canada when 
 I've talked to him." 
 
 George turned to him quickly. " Are you still meaning 
 to go up and see him?" he asked. 
 
 Grosset's eyes dropped involuntarily. " I can't go this 
 wdek," he said, " I've too many engagements. But, yes ; I 
 certainly intend to go up and see him." 
 
 " Do you want me not to write till you have talked 
 things over with him?" 
 
 " Oh, of course you'll please yourself about that, Mr. 
 Barton. But I mean what I say. If Percy flaunts my 
 authority and takes his own line, I've done with him. I 
 think we understand each other." 
 
 " I think we do," said George, and went out. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 AN ARRIVAL 
 
 Dr. Merrow came to Roding shortly after Easter. " The 
 Limes," restored and re-decorated from top to bottom, well- 
 furnished and generally trimmed up as to all its immediate 
 surroundings, was attractive enough as a country residence 
 in those mild still days of early spring. The various people 
 who made half-surreptitious entries into it, chiefly on the 
 invitation of Gosset, who took a sort of proprietary inter- 
 est in what was going on there, were apt to wonder why it 
 had never found a tenant before. With its high ceilings, 
 large plate-glass windows, and " 'andsome portico," it struck 
 them as a most desirable type of residence — much more so 
 than if it had been a rambling, two-storied house nestling 
 amongst trees,, in a large garden of which you could not 
 have seen the limits at a single glance. The garden of 
 " The Limes " was a fenced-in oblong, with a lawn down 
 the middle, a gravel path running round it, a flower-bed 
 running round that, and shrubs behind it. The" lawn had 
 been cut and the gravel re-laid, and the shrubs pruned. 
 
 No flowers had yet been planted, but a few groups of 
 daffodils bristled in the dug-up borders, and a few hardy 
 plants were showing signs of gratitude at treatment re- 
 ceived by throwing up strong clumps of leafage. It was all 
 beautifully " tidy," and aroused commendation from the 
 self-invited visitors. " A man one day a week 'd keep 
 that in order. He wouldn't have much more to do some- 
 times than keep the leaves swept up. If it wasn't for the 
 name of the place I should have those trees down." 
 
 i6o 
 
AN ARRIVAL i6l 
 
 Two fine limes in the upper corner of the garden gave 
 It its only semblance of character. Their branches spread 
 right over the lawn, and would provide shade for sitting 
 under in the summer. But the green country was all round 
 it, and from the southward-facing rooms there was the 
 pleasantest prospect of quiet meadow, slow-gliding river, 
 woods, and low distant hills, with a farmstead here and 
 there, or- a labourer's cottage, and the shingle spire of Farn- 
 combe Church crowning the roofs of the village a mile or 
 so away to the right. 
 
 " This is the Doctor's study," Gosset would say, rever- 
 ently opening the door of a room above the dining-room. 
 " He'll be quiet enough here, and get the best of the view 
 besides." 
 
 "My word, he's got enough books!" 
 
 The room was lined on three sides with shelves. Books 
 had been unpacked from innumerable cases and put into 
 them anyhow. The two middle-aged bustling maids, who 
 had been sent down to get the house in preliminary order, 
 had other things to attend to for the present than to see 
 that they were put even the right way up. Gosset had 
 taken the earliest possible opportunity of making friends 
 with the maids. They had taken tea with him and his 
 wife before going on to evening chapel. They were always 
 pleased to see him when he brought his friends to look 
 over the house, as the furniture was being moved in, 
 and he was always careful to show them that the 
 right hand of fellowship was very much in evidence in 
 Roding. 
 
 " There'll be a lot of fine work done in this room — 
 writings that'll be read all over the world. Now, you know 
 something about carpets, Mr. Withers. That's as good a 
 Turkey as you'll buy anywhere. I should think — brand 
 new! Must have been bought for this room. 
 
i63 THE GREATEST CF THESE 
 
 " Now, that's what I call furniture for a drawing-room ! 
 Fine gilt carved Console table, lustre chandelier — though 
 where the gas is to come from — ! Still, it's a handsome 
 thing, and suitable, mind you. It looks like a drawing- 
 room, this. Now, the drawing-room at the rectory — well, 
 it has pretty things enough in it, but it's too much like an 
 ordinary sitting-room, I say. That rosewood table, now, 
 with a few handsomely bound books on it. Of course, the 
 room isn't finished yet, but you can see what it's going to 
 be — the real thing. 
 
 "Ah, this'll be a comfortable room, and bright, too. 
 Books, you see, same as ever5rwhere. Two well-upholstered 
 arm-chairs — nothing but horsehair here, Mr. Withers, eh? 
 The Doctor and Mrs. Merrow'll spend many a comfortable 
 evening here, I know, after their late dinner. Dining- 
 room's always the most comfortable room in a house. Real 
 oil-paintings, too! Now, at the rectory there's nothing 
 but engravings in the dining-room. Nice enough, but for 
 those who can afEord them there's no doubt oil-paintings are 
 the thing for a dining-room. 
 
 " Well, Mary, you've got everything snug and comfort- 
 able down here, I see. Baize linings for the plate cupboard 
 — see, Mr. Horrocks? Haven't unpacked the plate yet, I 
 suppose? I dare say these cupboards won't be too big to 
 hold all you've got coming, eh? Ah, you've got your china 
 stowed away! That the best dessert service? That's some- 
 thing in your line, Mr. Jones. Minton, see? Every piece 
 marked." 
 
 So Mr. Gosset, admiring and appraising all over the 
 house, and delighted with such tangible signs of com- 
 fortably endowed gentility. It was a great point with him 
 that Dr. Merrow was well x)ff, and he would take his friends 
 aside and hazard guesses about Mrs. Merrow's " fortune," 
 of which he knew nothing, in a way to persuade them and 
 
AN ARRIVAL 163 
 
 himself that Jt was more likely to run into six figures than 
 five. 
 
 A more competent observer might have gathered from 
 an inspection of " The Limes " that the coming mistress of 
 the house was a lady of strictly Victorian taste, and not 
 much of that, that the master left such matters entirely to 
 her, and that both of them would be content to take con- 
 ventional surroundings for granted, and busy themselves 
 over more important affairs. For the upstairs study had 
 everything in* it that could minister to the wants of a man 
 of books, and the business-looking writing-table in a recess 
 of the dining-room, and the shelf of books above it, were 
 obviously those of a lady, although Mr. Gosset and his 
 friends had not noticed it. 
 
 Dr. Merrow had finally and firmly put a stop to any- 
 thing in the nature of a public welcome. Mrs. Merrow 
 had written on his behalf from Mentone. His health was 
 still in a very unsatisfactory state, and he would have to live 
 the quietest possible life for a long time to come. He 
 could not promise even to take any regular part in the 
 work that went on in connection with the chapel. He 
 would conduct two services, if possible, every Sunday, and 
 one on a week-day, but they must not be disappointed if 
 that proved to be too much for him, and he had to call in 
 help. Outside that, he begged his friends in Roding to 
 leave him to himself, at any rate for a time. 
 
 Gosset was not able to ignore this. Even the tea- 
 meeting had to be given up, and the only thing he could 
 do was to find out by what train Dr. Merrow was expected 
 to reach Roding, and take a few well-wishers on to the 
 platform to " hold out the right hand of fellowship." 
 
 The travellers alighted from a first-class carriage. They 
 had come right through. Dr. Merrow, in a heavy fur- 
 lined coat, and wearing a respirator, looked very frail and 
 
i64 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 desperately tired. His wife helped him out of the carriage, 
 and he leant on her arm when he reached the platform. 
 She was a tall woman of ample proportions, active in move- 
 ment, with an air of decision on her not unhandsome face. 
 She was dressed in the manner of a woman who need not 
 economize in clothes, but takes no particular pleasure in 
 them. 
 
 Gosset and his little group came forward. Mrs. Mer- 
 row turned her quick eyes upon them. " Ah, Mr. Gosset," 
 she said, " we have arrived at last. How do you do, Mr. 
 Withers? How do you do, Mr. Jones? The Doctor is 
 very tired with his journey. I am going to get him home 
 as quickly as possible. He mustn't open his mouth till we 
 get indoors." 
 
 She led him towards the station entrance, leaving the 
 maid who had accompanied them to look after the lug- 
 gage. Dr. Merrow held out his left hand to Gosset, as 
 he walked, and nodded to the rest, a smile being inferred 
 behind the respirator. Gosset had only time to utter a 
 few half-incoherent words of mixed sympathy, expectation, 
 and welcome before they had got into the carriage waiting 
 for them, and driven away. 
 
 It was their own carriage — a landau, not in the first 
 stage of newness, drawn by two horses of somewhat de- 
 jected mien, and driven by a coachman who looked as if 
 he would be more at home doing something else. But 
 it made up for a good deal of disappointment to Gosset. A 
 carriage and pair ! It was a height of gentility beyond which 
 even the rectory could not aspire. 
 
 The rectory was empty at this particular time, under- 
 going restoration. Lady Ruth and Sylvia were in London 
 with Lady Hampshire. Sir Richard French had carried 
 the Rector off to the Pyrenees. Joyce and Eddie were at 
 Folkstone, with their governess and some cousins. Ronald 
 
AN ARRIVAL 165 
 
 was in Ireland with some other cousins. George Barton 
 was in sole charge of the parish ; but the Rector would only 
 be away for one Sunday. He was coming back to take 
 duty for the second, and going away again to join his wife 
 for the inside of the week, with the children at Folkestone. 
 
 Three days after Dr. Merrow had arrived in Roding, 
 the house being now in complete working order,' Mrs. 
 Merrow was sitting at her writing-table in the dining-room-, 
 very busy with her correspondence. She was a woman of 
 untiring energy, and had done a vast amount of work in 
 London in connection with the various societies and move- 
 ments in which she was interested. All that she had been 
 able to keep she had brought with her to Roding, and in- 
 tended to go up to London at least once a week for a long 
 day, when they should have become completely settled. 
 
 The dining-room ran through the house, and her table 
 was at the window looking over the garden. The window 
 was wide open, and the air that came in was wonderfully 
 sweet and pure. She was beginning to like the restfulness 
 of her new home, and the absence of distraction from out- 
 side, which could never be counted on in London, and 
 enabled her to go straight at whatever she wanted to do 
 and finish it at a given time. It was one of those delicious 
 still spring evenings when the nature-lover is irresistibly 
 called out of doors, to stay there as long as possible. Mrs. 
 Merrow had been for her afternoon drive with her husband 
 and had no wish to go out again; but she did feel some- 
 thing of the glamour of the spring as she sat by the open 
 window, and found it soothing and inspiriting at the same 
 time. And yet she had dreaded this move to the country 
 with all her soul, although she had never said so to her 
 husband. 
 
 It was about a quarter to five. In the front part of the 
 room tea was set for two on the big dining-table. Mary 
 
i66 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 would soon come in and light the spirit lamp under the 
 kettle, and at five o'clock would go up and summon Dr. 
 Merrow from his study. 
 
 Mary came in. " Please 'm, Mr. Barton has called." 
 
 Mrs. Merrow looked annoyed. " Who is Mr. Barton ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " He's the curate, 'm. He asked for the master." 
 
 Mrs. Merrow looked at her. " Your master can't be 
 disturbed now," she said. " Didn't you tell him that ? " 
 
 In London it had been necessary to shield Dr. Merrow 
 from uninvited visitors. He had been visible to no one 
 but his intimate friends, except by appointment. Mary 
 had shown herself skilful in acting as the first line of de- 
 fence, and had frequently stopped an intruder from pene- 
 trating to her mistress as the second. Mrs. Merrow could 
 not quite understand why she had not done so in this 
 instance. , 
 
 " I said I would call you, 'm," she said. There was the 
 merest trifle of anticipation in her eyes. She had been 
 brought up in the country. It was possible that the curate 
 of the parish still presented himself not entirely in the 
 light of an untried stranger trying to get through to her 
 master. 
 
 But to Mrs. Merrow he was nothing else. " I suppose 
 I had better go and see what he wants," she said, " though 
 I am very busy. Don't bring in tea or call your master 
 till I ring for you to let Mr. Barton out." 
 
 George was in the drawing-room, now adapted to its 
 ultimately immovable state of furnishing and decoration. 
 Its appearance was enough to cast a gloom over the spirit 
 of anybody who might wish for some signs of life and 
 ' occupation in a room, though its appointments would have 
 aroused the enthusiastic appreciation of Gosset and his 
 friends. 
 
AN ARRIVAL 167 
 
 Mrs. Merrow came in with an air almost of enquiry. 
 ''How do you do, Mr. Barton?" she said, shaking hands. 
 " I am afraid it will be impossible for you to see the Doc- 
 tor now. He is resting, and we never disturb him at this 
 time. Perhaps there is something that I can tell him for 
 you." 
 
 George hardly knew what to reply to this very business- 
 like reception. She had not even asked him to sit down. 
 
 " I hope Dr. Merrow has recovered from his journey," 
 he said. 
 
 " Thank you," she said. " It tried him a good deal, 
 but the complete rest has done him good already. I hope 
 he will go straight on now, and we shall have no more 
 set-backs. With this lovely weather he has every chance." 
 
 It almost seemed as if she expected him to go now. But 
 George was not very quicL Having come in the ordi- 
 nary way to open up an acquaintanceship, he could not 
 quite grasp the fact that his visit could bear any other ap- 
 pearance, or should not appear a natural one. Mrs. Mer- 
 row, on the other hand, had no experience whatever of 
 men paying such visits. In the world in which she had 
 lived they left such duties to their wivps, and a young 
 unmarried man would not first enter a house to which 
 he had not been invited ; unless, of course, he " wanted 
 something." 
 
 " I was not sure that you would be quite settled 
 in yet," said George. " But the Rector is away for a 
 week or two. I thought I would come as early as pos- 
 sible." 
 
 The connection of ideas was not quite apparent. But 
 Mrs. Merrow thought she understood it now. The rectory 
 people would naturally " call, unless the Rector happened 
 to be of the sort of clergy who considers it incumbent 
 upon him to hold aloof from those representing Dissent, 
 
i68 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 in which case they would be left quietly to themselves, 
 and desire nothing different. This shy, rather awkward 
 young man had' been instructed, or had decided on his 
 own account, to show that friendship would be offered 
 when they returned; which was so far satisfactory, though 
 it was rather a nuisance that he should have come at this 
 particular hour, when she and her husband were just going 
 to have tea. Still, she would probably be able to get rid 
 of him in ten minutes. 
 
 " It was very kind of you, Mr. Barton," she said, taking 
 her seat in one of the two chairs drawn up by the empty 
 fireplace. " Do sit down." 
 
 George sat down. "Has Mr. French a family?" she 
 asked, making affable conversation. " I think the Doctor 
 met him when he was here last summer, but not Mrs. 
 French." 
 
 George, in his complete ignorance of states of society 
 other than that in which he had been brought up, except 
 of those much below it, and tending to connect Dissent 
 and advanced Radicalism together in his mind, wondered 
 uneasily whether Lady Ruth's title was denied her of set 
 purpose, or whether Mrs. Merrow was ignorant of it, which 
 happened to be the case. He chose to accept the latter 
 alternative. " She is Lady Ruth French," he said, with 
 the intention of saving her from further mistakes. " She 
 has three sons and two daughters. Ralph, the eldest, is 
 just about my age. Joyce and Eddie, the little ones, are 
 ten and eight. They are great friends of mine. I miss them 
 very much when they go away." 
 
 Mrs. Merrow was as free from snobbery herself as any 
 woman could be, but she had come up against it, and thought 
 she recognized it in straightforward, unassuming George. 
 He had insisted upon a title and claimed intimate connection 
 with it in the same breath. This was the form in which 
 
AN ARRIVAL 169 
 
 snobbery usually asserted itself in her experience. " It 
 must be nice for you to have children to make friends with," 
 she said rather coldly. " Do you live alone in Roding, Mr. 
 Barton, or with your parents? " 
 
 " My parents are both dead," he said. " I have a little 
 house here. In fact, I think I am your nearest neighbour. 
 I am on the Bathgate Road, and there is a footpath op- 
 posite, across the fields." 
 
 This was making conversation. She was quite ready to 
 do that, as long as it was necessary. 
 
 " We don't know the country very well yet,"' she said. 
 " I take the Doctor for a drive every afternoon, and it is 
 certainly very pretty country, though I think it would be 
 dreadfully dull living here, unless one had plenty of work 
 to do. What do you find to do, Mr. Barton? As there 
 are two of you at the Church, I suppose you have not many 
 sermons to prepare." 
 
 She looked at him in some curiosity. She had lived 
 the whole of her life in London, except for a few weeks 
 every year spent at the seaside or abroad. She had no ex- 
 perience at first hand of any mode of life except that lived 
 in towns by people of the middle-class, from the more com- 
 fortably endowed section of which she had sprung. She 
 had never looked upon her life as limited; nor had it been 
 where intellectual interests were concerned. She had come 
 across many great men ; in many modern movements she was 
 deeply concerned; she and her husband numbered amongst 
 their friends more than a few of the best known of the 
 clergy of the Church of England, and she would have said 
 that the movements and the tendencies of that Church were 
 better known to her than to the rank and file of the clergy 
 themselves. Nevertheless she was entirely ignorant of how 
 the life of such a young man as she now had before her would 
 be made up in detail. It would be rather interesting to 
 
170 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 draw something of it out of him, in the six or seven minutes 
 that remained. 
 
 " The Rector generally preaches," said George. " I find 
 plenty to do in the country. I was brought up in it mostly. 
 I like it much better than London." 
 
 She smiled — a little patronizingly. " I'm afraid we 
 shouldn't agree there," she said. " I find the country de- 
 lightful for a change, and just as it is at present, or in the 
 summer. There is something to make up for all the absorb- 
 ing interests of life which you have when you are in the 
 thick of what is going on. But in the winter, when you can't 
 get out! I think you would need to have a great many re- 
 sources in yourself to keep you from missing the interests of 
 a town — especially of London, which is so much the centre 
 of things. Of course, neither the Doctor nor I will be idle 
 here; but I must confess to dreading the winter a little. I 
 suppose you read a great deal, Mr. Barton ? " 
 
 " No, not a great deal," said George. 
 
 " Then whatever do you do with yourself when you are 
 shut up in the house, perhaps for days together? " 
 
 " But I never am shut up in the house for days together," 
 said George, smiling in his turn. " I am never shut up in 
 the house at all. I am always out of doors, except after 
 dark, or when I have work to do that keeps me in. And 
 I do most of that in the evenings." 
 
 " But what do you do? " she persisted. " You can't walk 
 about all day in the rain and the slush." 
 
 " I walk about when I visit. It is never too bad for that. 
 And I go for walks with my cousins sometimes, though I 
 am not very keen on walking for its own sake." 
 
 " Oh, you have cousins living here? " 
 
 " Ruth French is my cousin. I have always lived with 
 them a good deal." 
 
 Then he must be acquitted of the implication of snobbery. 
 
AN ARRIVAL 171 
 
 He seemed to be a modest youth, rather stupid. But what 
 on earth did he do with himself in those horrible days of 
 winter, which were as unknown to her in their actuality, 
 except in connection with pavements, lights, traffic, and going 
 to and fro from one warm building to another, as if they 
 had been part of life spent in another country, or another 
 century ? He couldn't go for walks with his cousins all day 
 and every day, even if he did so curiously waste the time 
 that ought to be given to study. And his " district," to 
 which she supposed him to refer when he talked of visiting, 
 couldn't take more than one hour or two a week in such a" 
 small place as Roding. " But if you don't like walking for 
 its own sake, what do you do the rest of the time? Do 
 you drive — or bicycle, or what? " 
 
 " I drive if I have anywhere to go to," he said. He was 
 getting rather tired of the cross-examination, and was in- 
 clined to be on the defensive over it. It did not occur to 
 him that she could be so ignorant of what active young men 
 found to do out of doors in the winter, when there was 
 more to do than at other seasons of the year, as in reality 
 she was. He thought she was trying to get him to confess, 
 for reasons of her own, that a man of his profession ought 
 to be in a position where there was not so much opportunity 
 for being out of doors as in Roding. He was familiar with 
 the contention, from other quarters. Stuckley would have 
 said that a man ought to begin his work at any rate in si 
 town, where he had no time to amuse himself. It was the 
 very question that had exercised him for a year before he 
 had taken Orders. He had thought about it again, in- 
 creasingly, lately. But he was not prepared to discuss it o^^ 
 a first interview, with this rather peremptory lady, whose 
 idea of social intercourse seemed to be rather that of the 
 school than the drawing-room. " I shoot a good deal through 
 the season," he said. "And I hunt generally one day a 
 
172 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 week, sometimes two, if there is nothing that wants 
 doing." 
 
 Again the suspicion of snobbery crossed her mind, or at 
 any rate of conscious superiority. Shooting and hunting 
 were aristocratic pursuits, not to be connected naturally with 
 the duties of a curate, and she mistook the slight air of 
 £nality with which he answered her question, as an attempt 
 at hauteur. She had heard foolish young men not brought 
 up to field sports mention their hunting or shooting as if 
 they lifted them to higher social levels, and did not reflect 
 that to those to whom they had always been a matter of 
 course they had no more significance of that sort than playing 
 football or riding a bicycle. 
 
 " Oh, I see," she said. " Well, of course, if you can afford 
 to go in for that sort of thing, and have time for it, I suppose 
 you do manage to occupy yourself." 
 
 George thought this one of the rudest speeches he had 
 ever heard from a woman of apparent breeding. If he could 
 afford it! What could she be thinking of, to say such a 
 thing! And what had he said to bring such an impertinence 
 upon himself? 
 
 But she had not meant to be rude in the least. In her 
 experience young men were roughly to be divided into two 
 classes: those whose outlook on life was earnest, and those 
 whose outlook was not. Even the first class had occasionally 
 to be helped to express themselves, by " drawing out," which 
 usually resolved itself into asking questions. As for the 
 second, to which George obviously belonged, they were to 
 be treated kindly, but from quite a separate standpoint, pre- 
 vented from annoying " the Doctor " if possible, and kept in 
 their places if they exhibited any of the vanities that beset 
 callow youth. It could not have occurred to her that a man 
 of George's age would expect to be treated on equal terms 
 by a woman of hers, even in as far as they might have any- 
 
AN ARRIVAL 173 
 
 thing in common. She would be ready to show a kindly- 
 interest In him and his pursuits, if they were such as she 
 could approve of; otherwise she would speak her mind, with 
 her usual directness, with no thought of her doing so being 
 taken as less than her right. As for the idea that a speech 
 of hers qould be looked upon as an impertinence, in such a 
 case! — the impertinence would lie in the young man's 
 harbouring such a thought. 
 
 George rose from his seat. " I am very glad that Dr. 
 Merrow Is getting better here," he said. " I should like to 
 have seen him, but I must wait for another time." 
 
 Her relief at his departure — for it was just on the stroke 
 of five — more than balanced the slight annoyance she felt 
 with him. She had thought it would rest with her to give 
 him his conge. She sprang up cheerfully and rang the bell. 
 " Oh, I hope you will be able to see him by-and-by," she 
 said. " Just at present I don't want him to see more people 
 than is necessary, although he is really almost himself ag^in. 
 There is nothing to worry us over his health now. Good- 
 bye, Mr. Barton. It was kind of you to come and ask after 
 him." 
 
 George shook hands with her and went out. Mary was 
 carrying the kettle Into the dining-room as he reached the 
 hall, and he saw the table laid for tea, for two. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 RODING CHAPEL 
 
 Dr. Merrow came downstairs rather slowly. He looked 
 very much better than he had done on his arrival. There 
 was, in fact, little the matter with him now. He had been 
 very close to a complete breakdown, and the reaction that 
 had come upon him after he had cut himself off from active 
 work had given his wife cause to fear that his retirement 
 might have come too late. But the rest was beginning to 
 tell. He had picked up more in the three days he had been 
 in Roding than during the month they had stayed in the 
 South of France. The anxious experiment looked like turn- 
 ing out a complete success. 
 
 He came into the room with a cheerful air. "What a 
 glorious evening!" he said. "I have been sitting at my 
 window, looking out on those quiet fields, and it has been a 
 real refreshment of spirit. Now, my dear, I am quite ready 
 for refreshment of body. I think we might potter up and 
 down the garden for half an hour after tea, if you have 
 nothing special to do." 
 
 Her face lightened. So far, it had been difficult to get 
 him to eat anything; and he had shunned all bodily exer- 
 tion. 
 
 " If you wrap up well it can't do you any harm," she 
 said. " No, I have nothing to do that can't wait for half 
 an hour." 
 
 " Have you had visitors? " he asked. " I thought I heard 
 the front door shut just before Mary came up for me." 
 
 " Only Mr. French's curate," she said. " He came to 
 
 »74 
 
RODING CHAPEL 175 
 
 ask after you and to say that Mr. French and his family 
 were away." 
 
 "Oh, why didn't you tell me he was here?" he asked. 
 " I should like to have seen him. I was doing nothing. I 
 like to see a young man who is setting out on his path 
 and talk to him a little, if he shows himself inclined to one. 
 I suppose he is a young man ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. But I don't think you would find Mr. Barton 
 very responsive, Edgar. He is not at all like the young men 
 who enter our ministry. He seems to spend most of his 
 time hunting and shooting. I thought I had better pre- 
 serve you from him." 
 
 " Oh, the sporting curate ! " said Dr. Merrow. " One 
 has read about them in novels. No, I don't suppose I should 
 get on very well with that variety. I should be too ignorant 
 in the things that interested him. Still, I suppose we shall 
 come across him, living in the same little place. I must see 
 if I can acquire a small stock of suitable knowledge." 
 
 It had not occurred to Mrs. Merrow that they would 
 come across George any more than they might wish, because 
 they lived in the same place. . She had hardly begun to 
 envisage the sociabilities of country life. In her experience 
 you met just those people you wanted to, on intimate terms, 
 and saw as little as you wanted to of those you did not care 
 about, even if they lived next door. You met innumerable 
 people, if you lived an active life, and accepted oppor- 
 tunities for ordinary social intercourse; but unless there was 
 some reason for following up an acquaintance, you met them 
 and forgot them. It had not yet dawned on her that if 
 you met people, however dissimilar in tastes from yourself, 
 who lived in the same corner of the country, some measure 
 of acquaintanceship was bound to follow, unless you chose 
 to live the life of a recluse; and that even that would need 
 some positive course of action before you would be left alont. 
 
176 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 " I suppose we shall have to see something of the people 
 at the rectory," she said. " By-the-by, did you know that 
 Mr. French's wife was Lady Ruth French ? " 
 
 " I think Gosset, or somebody, did tell me. Yes, I did 
 know she was a lady of title." 
 
 " I didn't. I called her ' Mrs. French,' and Mr. Barton 
 corrected me. He is her cousin. By the way, I don't know 
 whether he has a title of any sort. If so, it might account 
 for — However, we can find that out. What is Mr. French 
 like, Edgar? It is curious that we have hardly ever men- 
 tioned him. He seems to be the only person of importance 
 in the town. Is he a man that you will like to have near 
 you at all — to talk to, I mean ? If so, it will be a great boon, 
 I believe you will miss seeing clever people more than you 
 think now." 
 
 He smiled at her. " I shouldn't think Mr. French is 
 what you would call clever," he said. " He is a fine-looking 
 man, rather of the stately Roman type, though I believe he 
 is not what they call an advanced Churchman. He has 
 courteous manners. I don't know more of him than that. 
 Gosset introduced me to him in the street, and we said a few 
 words and parted." 
 
 She sat with a slight frown on her face for a minute or 
 so; but it was not occasioned by anything she had heard of 
 the Rector, for she said presently : " Edgar, I think you will 
 have to be just a little careful with Mr. Gosset. He is 
 rather inclined to take hold of handles. He came in this 
 morning to see you. I was able to deal with him, but he 
 may give you some trouble at the chapel, unless you show 
 him plainly that you do not want to have to do with the 
 business side of things." 
 
 " My dear, I shall refer him to you for anything of that 
 sort. Like Mr. Balfour, I am a child in such matters, and 
 he will soon get to know it." 
 
RODING CHAPEL 177 
 
 "Well, I told him this morning that you must not be 
 worried over such things. After his being so persistent about 
 that idea of a public meeting, and my letter to him, I was 
 surprised that he should have come about the things he did 
 this morning, and I' showed him so, I hope without giving 
 him offence." 
 
 " Oh, I hope so. He is a good fellow, Gosset. He has 
 practically carried the cause on his own shoulders here. Like 
 many business men interested in good works he is apt to 
 exercise himself overmuch about accessories. It is not to 
 wondered at. Look at his having got that nice little chapel 
 built, where there are so few interested, and none of them 
 overburdened with this world's goods. He must have worked 
 very hard for that for years, and it must have filled his 
 thoughts night and day. It is well for us preachers that 
 there are such people to do the necessary things that we cer- 
 tainly couldn't do for ourselves. What did the good Gosset 
 want this morning? I think I put everything down plainly 
 for the Sunday service." 
 
 " Yes, you did. But he wanted to talk it all over ; there 
 was nothing that he could not have made out for himself. 
 And there was a question about the bills, which he says 
 ought to have been put up long before." 
 
 " Bills! I told him I didn't want any bills. I am the 
 regular pastor here. If my name is painted up on the board, 
 that is enough." 
 
 " Did you tell him that definitely? " 
 
 " I said so quite plainly when I talked over coming here 
 with him. I remember he said something about bills then. 
 Perhaps he has forgotten." 
 
 " We'll hope so, as he didn't mention it. I didn't 
 know you would object. I arranged it with him. There 
 will be just the time of the morning service, and your 
 name." 
 
178 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 "In large letters, I suppose? The good Gosset would 
 insist upon that." 
 
 " Well, yes. But if you don't like it I can write and tell 
 him so." 
 
 " Let him have his bills for this Sunday. I don't want to 
 make too much of points that don't really matter, or to in- 
 terefere with his arrangements. But we are apt to be twitted 
 about our bills, you know, by our friends outside, and I 
 think there is something in their criticisms. If I didn't, I 
 shouldn't mind what they said. Besides, I am a retiring 
 man, and I have had so few opportunities of retirement. I 
 want to be left in peace here, to dig my little patch in this 
 lovely garden, to talk to the dear people who will gather with 
 us every Sabbath, and show them some of the things that 
 God has shown me. I don't want to arouse any opposition, 
 unless it is over something that cannot be avoided. I don't 
 think Mr. French will want to interfere with me, and I 
 shall give him as little opportunity as possible. And I shan't 
 want to interfere with him. He must have had it pretty 
 well all his own way here, and he seems a kindly, active 
 sort of man. God bless him in his work, as I pray that He 
 will bless me in mine." 
 
 Mrs. Merrow respected his attitude in such matters, al- 
 though with her more mundane mind she could not always 
 take it herself. She seldom went as far as she had done this 
 evening in discussing with him such details. Her whole 
 keen active intelligence was set on sparing him anything that 
 might distract his thoughts from the quiet musings that bore 
 such abundant fruit. She was wholly admirable in the way 
 she subjected her so dissimilar nature to his. Her habit of 
 mind was not essentially religious; although perhaps she 
 would have been shocked to hear it; but she recognised her 
 husband's genius to the full, and guarded and cherished it 
 with daily and hourly care. 
 
RODING CHAPEL 179 
 
 She said nothing more about Gosset, but made up her 
 mind to keep a very sharp eye on him. It was plain enough 
 to her what he wanted, as he had himself made it plain 
 enough to the Rector and George Barton. She was 
 inclined to sympathize with his desires, if not with his 
 methods; but if her husband wanted something different, 
 then she would see that he got what he wanted. Gosset 
 had mentioned all sorts of plans for advertising Rod- 
 ing Chapel and its new pastor in connection with it. He 
 must quickly and unmistakably be shown that those plans 
 must be dropped. Her husband's mind was set on a quiet 
 work amongst a quiet few, as far as his work would be con- 
 cerned with this little pastorate. Gosset, with his arrange- 
 ments for " seats in the aisle," and his already dawning 
 plans for a structural alteration of the chapel, a larger 
 organ, coloured windows, elaborate arrangements for 
 periodical " interchange of pulpits " so that Roding might 
 grow into a centre from which importance would radiate to 
 regions around, must be checked in his ambitions. And above 
 all, he must be made to understand — and this would be 
 a more delicate task, though not one for which Mrs. Merrow 
 felt herself in the least unfitted — that it was not open to 
 him to come in and out to his pastor whenever he felt in- 
 clined. 
 
 She knew well enough from her friends amongst the wives 
 of other ministers how tiresome deacons could make them- 
 selves, and what power a common pushing man could ex- 
 ercise over a refined and retiring one. Her husband had 
 been spared those experiences. His chapel had not been 
 quite like others ; it had been the place where he had preached, 
 and nothing more; and everything had been done by his 
 church officers to spare him trouble. They had not come to 
 Roding to immerse themselves in the subsidiary affairs of 
 a small chapel — although she, as far as in her lay, would be 
 
i8o THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 quite ready to do what was necessary in that respect, — ^nor 
 to further the plans of such as Gosset. Gosset had offered 
 a pulpit, and he must be content with his abundant reward, 
 which was to have that pulpit filled in a way that he could 
 never have expected. 
 
 Nevertheless, Gosset found his way through to Dr. 
 Merrow, early in the following week. 
 
 He had been deeply disappointed over what had happened, 
 or rather had not happened on the Sunday; and even Mrs. 
 Merrow had felt some surprise, although she had expressed 
 none. 
 
 For the present Dr. Merrow was only to preach on the 
 Sunday mornings. Those who had heard his first sermon 
 had heard something quite out of the common in a small 
 country chapel, although the sermon had been so short and 
 so beautifully simple in language that all except those who 
 had ears to hear it — and they were not the majority of those 
 present — had gone away disappointed. Gosset was not one 
 of them. He had listened to every word with greedy ears, 
 and sighed when the end came. In his queer mixed nature, 
 the taste for goodness was strong, and he knew its accents 
 when he heard them. While the sermon was being preached 
 he forgot all about his plans for aggrandizement, all about 
 the empty seats, and the blank dismay in which he had begun 
 the service. 
 
 For there were many empty seats. Gosset was thankful 
 that he had kept those to be placed in the aisle in reserve. 
 The chapel had always been larger than was necessary to 
 its regular supporters, though surely not larger than Dr. 
 Merrow might be expected to fill. And yet those whom 
 Gosset's willing helpers had shewn into the pews as strangers 
 or new-comers had not sufficed to fill the spaces habitually 
 left vacant. The majority of them were nonconformists 
 from outlying villages. Habitual church-goers amounted to 
 
RODING CHAPEL i8r 
 
 a possible dozen; of those who went regularly to neither 
 church nor chapel there were none. 
 
 There were several reasons for this. If Dr. Merrow had 
 preached his first sermon in the evening, the chapel would 
 certainly have been full, and Gosset would probably have 
 attained his^ splendid ideal of seats in the aisle. Sunday 
 evening is the time when the country takes to novelties of 
 church-going, not Sunday morning, when a great part of 
 it is cooking its dinner or otherwise preparing for the more 
 complete savouring of the day of rest. Those who practise 
 morning church-going do so not with any sense of adventure, 
 however mild, but go where they are accustomed to go. The 
 congregation at the Parish Church was not sensibly smaller 
 than usual. Moreover, Gosset had so talked up Dr. Merrow 
 as a rival to anyone who could be heard at the Parish Church 
 that he had succeeded in arousing a faint sense of loyalty 
 to that establishment, even amongst those who fully intended 
 to go and hear the renowned Dr. Merrow some time or 
 other. Added to this, his renown was actually small in this 
 countryside, remote from talk of great London preachers. 
 There were many who had never heard of him until Gosset 
 had dinned his name into their ears. And finally, the Eng- 
 lish country is not interested in preaching, although here and 
 there it may be brought to be so. 
 
 Gosset's chagrin at the failure of his hopes for a brilliant 
 start was so great as to hide from him the fact that Dr. 
 Merrow could not help making his way quietly. He felt 
 personally responsible for the empty seats, and the best part 
 of his feeling was that the great preacher would suffer 
 despondency at the coldness of his reception. But Mrs. 
 Merrow would never have let him get through to her 
 husband if this had been all he had come to talk about. 
 
 He talked about it to her, when she received him on 
 Tuesday morning, and she had her opportunity of instilling 
 
i82 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 into his mind the points that she was determined to have 
 clearly understood. " If I had had my own way," she con- 
 cluded, " the Doctor would not have accepted a charge at 
 all, until he had completely recovered his health, and then, 
 of course, he would have gone back either to his own chapel, 
 where they would be pleased enough to have him, or to some 
 other, where he would have got the same opportunities. 
 But he was very anxious to do a little regular work, I mean 
 apart from his writing, which will now be the chief thing 
 with him ; and I need scarcely say that there is not a vacant 
 pulpit anywhere in our denomination that would not have 
 welcomed him ; or he might have built a chapel in some suit- 
 able place where there was none. He doesn't want a large 
 congregation, Mr. Gosset. It would be too much for him, 
 for one thing. He was quite content with the numbers 
 that heard him on Sunday, and pleased just to have his own 
 flock around him. That is all he wants, at any rate for the 
 present ; and you and I must save him as much trouble over 
 it as we can. In London, nobody ever thought of coming to 
 him about matters of detail, and it would hardly be reason- 
 able to expect more of him here than there, would it ? " 
 
 Gosset saw it, though he did not like it. Nor did he 
 like Mrs. Merrow, in spite of her being an " heiress." She 
 had talked to him pretty plainly, and he had got it into his 
 head that he was being headed off from the desired and de- 
 sirable intercourse with his pastor because he was a trades- 
 man. 
 
 " Well, I'm glad the Doctor wasn't disappointed," he 
 said. " I was. I should have liked the whole of Roding 
 to have heard that beautiful sermon. It would have done a 
 great deal of good. On the whole they're an ungodly lot, 
 and those of them who go to church don't get much to 
 make them anything else. However, we must leave it to 
 God, and wrestle in prayer about it. Could I see the Doctor 
 
RODING CHAPEL 183 
 
 this morning, Mrs. Merrow? Or I could come this after- 
 noon, if he's busy now." 
 
 Her brows drew together. She had thought that she had 
 made it clear that he could not see the Doctor at any 
 time, except when they met on Sundays, or at other suit- 
 able times to be arranged by her. 
 
 He saw the frown, and resented it. " I've no wish to 
 trouble him about the afEairs of the chapel," he said, " though 
 I'm bound to say it talces a little getting used to for a deacon 
 never to be able to see his minister. I want to see him about 
 a purely private matter." 
 
 " Isn't it anything that I can do, Mr. Gosset? " 
 
 " No, ma'am, I'm afraid not." 
 
 " Because Dr. Merrow leaves all business matters to me." 
 
 " This isn't a business matter ; and it's nothing to do with 
 the chapel. I needn't mention the chapel at all to Dr. 
 Merrow, if you think it is unbecoming for one of his deacons 
 to do so." 
 
 She took no notice of the little dig. " I wish you would 
 give me some idea of what it is, Mr. Gosset," she said with 
 a smile. "I do so want to keep the Doctor undisturbed. 
 It is so necessary for him now. And he writes and reads 
 in the morning. I don't say he couldn't see you now, but 
 he has always been accustomed to have his mornings to him- 
 self." 
 
 " I could just as well call this afternoon, though I'm a 
 busy man, and I've come on purpose to see him. I want 
 to ask his advice about one of my sons, that I'm in trouble 
 about." 
 
 She made no further effort against him, but went up- 
 stairs, and a few minutes later he was admitted to the pres- 
 ence. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 DR. MERROW AND GOSSET 
 
 Dr. Merrow rose from a. low chair by the fire, where he 
 had been writing at a movable desk. He was in a long 
 dressing-gown, and looked very thin and tall as he came 
 forward. 
 
 He did not smile as he took Gosset's hand. " Dear 
 friend," he said, " my wife tells me you are in trouble. Let 
 us kneel down and ask God to help us to see a way out 
 together, and if there is no way out, to help us to bear the 
 trouble." 
 
 They knelt down together by the table. " Loving and 
 merciful Father," Dr. Merrow prayed, "who didst send 
 thy dear Son into the world to take all our burdens upon 
 him, and to give us joy and peace in believing on him, we 
 pray thee to be with us as we talk together, and lay our 
 difficulties before thee. If they arise from any frailty of 
 our weak human nature — ^so prone to go astray, if for a 
 moment we lose our hold of thy guiding hand, — show us 
 the course to take, and give us strength to take it. If they 
 are such as thou in thine infinite wisdom has sent to us that 
 we may bear them as coming from thee, show us thy will 
 in chastening us, and bring us nearer to thee, so that out 
 of our very sorows we may raise praises to thy Name — 
 be comforted, — upheld, — strengthened, — tempered — to thy 
 good ends, by thy most Blessed and Holy Spirit." 
 
 Gosset echoed his " Amen " fervently, and arose from his 
 knees, after a pause, with a choking sensation in his throat. 
 He had walked down to " The Limes " with rather an ugly 
 
 184 
 
DR. MERROW AND GOSSET 185 
 
 look on his face, and had seemed to be rehearsing speeches 
 which would hardly have removed it. But it was gone 
 now. He did look as if he were in trouble, as he began his 
 story. 
 
 Dr. Merrow looked .very grave as he told him of his son's 
 fall from virtue, and drew in his breath from time to time 
 as if he were in pain. He asked for no details other than 
 those which Gosset volunteered, until he came to the point 
 where he had sent Percy to London, when he put one or 
 two questions, speaking gently and sympathetically, as to 
 the sort of surroundings he was in. 
 
 " It wasn't a big shop," said Gosset. " I know the 
 temptations that come from that," and told him about the 
 arrangements he had made with Briggs to look after his 
 son — strictly. " I want to be quite fair to the boy from 
 beginning to end," he said. " It's the strictness he has kicked 
 against — that and not being able to get out so much as he 
 did here and play his games and all that. Perhaps it's been 
 too strict. Mr. Briggs is a Christian man, but he's in- 
 clined to keep a tight hand. Still, I did think strictness 
 was wanted, and if Percy had taken it as he ought to have 
 done, it wouldn't have been for always. I never meant it 
 to be. I don't think I was wrong in wanting him kept 
 strict after what had happened." 
 
 The statement was half a question. " Love overcometh 
 the law," said Dr. Merrow softly. " My friend, can you 
 not go and see your son and deal tenderly with him? He 
 is very young. We have to remember our own youth and 
 its temptations. If you were to go to London and see 
 him ^" 
 
 " But he's not there, sir. He is back here in Roding — 
 without my permission — in fact, against it." 
 
 " He has come back to you ? Then " 
 
 " No, not to me. I haven't even seen him. I don't want 
 
1 86 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 to see him till I have made up my mind what I ought to 
 do and say. He has come to Mr. Barton." 
 
 "To Mr. Barton?" 
 
 " The curate here. There's a good deal to tell you still, 
 Doctor. Mr. Barton is a relation of the Rector's. He's 
 lived here a good deal, and he and young Mr. French have 
 always played games and that sort of thing with the boys 
 and lads of the place. He went into the Church a year or 
 two ago, and came to live here, and most of what he has 
 done since has just been playing about with the lads, the 
 same as he did before. He has a good deal of influence over 
 them, and I'm not going to say it's a bad influence, though 
 as far as I can see it has nothing religious in it whatever. 
 I let Percy play cricket with them in the summer, but when 
 it came to his wanting to join Mr. Barton's club for the win- 
 ter, I said no. He teaches them to fight, and play billiards, 
 and all that sort of thing; and even if it does keep the 
 rougher lads from getting into mischief in other ways, I can't 
 think it's a good thing for a young man who has been brought 
 up to look forward to spending his life in the service of God 
 to use his spare time in that way." 
 
 " Is there no religious influence exercised in this winter 
 club at all?" 
 
 " Well, I wouldn't say that. But what sort of religious 
 influence is it likely to be. Doctor? If Mr. Barton can 
 get the rough youths to go to church sometimes — or some 
 of them to say they'll be confirmed — ^he'd think he was doing 
 a great thing. I dare say if he could get Percy to be con- 
 firmed he'd think it was a great thing. I should have had 
 to face that — ^his being drawn away from what we believe, 
 and what he seemed happy with, before he got took up with 
 this young curate. I know it isn't for me to judge others, 
 Doctor; but here's a young man, with plenty of money, 
 brought up to think of very little except amusing himself. 
 
DR. MERROW AND GOSSET 187 
 
 He goes into the Church— I don't know why— very likely 
 with the idea of coming in for this living by-and-by, or one 
 like it — and he spends a great deal of his time amusing him- 
 self—hunting, playing games, and all that — even now that 
 he's taken the work of the ministry on himself, I can't see 
 much religion in it; and it isn't what I want my children 
 to look upon as religion either." 
 
 " Did you say your son had come here to stay with Mr. 
 Barton? Why has he done that?" 
 
 " I haven't told you everything yet. Doctor. Mr. Barton 
 went up to London a week or two ago and saw Percy. He 
 came to me afterwards and told me that they had fixed it 
 up between them that the best thing the boy could do would 
 be to go to Canada and start farming. If I wouldn't give 
 my consent there and then, Mr. Barton had advised him to 
 wait till he was twenty-one, which he will be in July, and 
 then go without it. That's what I'd got for giving my per- 
 mission for him to see Percy. I ought to have said, ' No, 
 you shan't see him at all.' " 
 
 Gosset's tone had insensibly altered. The effect of his 
 reception had begun to wear off. Dr. Merrow threw a 
 quick glance at him. " Do you mean," he asked, " that Mr. 
 Barton encouraged him to defy you, and told you so? I 
 don't know Mr. Barton. I must take what you tell me of 
 him entirely from you. My friend, you won't want me to 
 form any but the right opinion." 
 
 Gosset bethought himself. " I don't want to be unfair," 
 he said, and within certain very narrow limits he spoke only 
 the truth. " Mr. Barton didn't behave otherwise than as 
 a gentleman should, I mean in the way he put things. I 
 won't say I think he's behaved right, because I don't. You 
 see, Doctor, it all comes from this idea of games, and exalting 
 your body above your soul. A young man like Mr. Barton, 
 he doesn't see that we can't all of us live what he calls an 
 
1 88 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 open air life. What sympathy can he have with a young man 
 going into a business like mine? He'd think he was doing 
 a good thing in persuading him to throw it up, though 
 Percy's my eldest son, and his way was plainly marked out 
 for him to follow me in it ; and he never objected to it either 
 — thought himself lucky to have such a business in front of 
 him — till he got in with Mr. Barton. Well, they put their 
 heads together. The boy's dissatisfied with his life, reads 
 a lot of glowing advertisements, I dare say, of life in Canada, 
 and is full of the idea of throwing up everything and going 
 off there. Mr. Barton, who's not more than a few years 
 older than he is, is just as much taken with the idea, and 
 instead of telling him to think it over and talk to me about 
 it, as he should have done, actually encourages him to think 
 it's a sort of virtue to throw over a shop, which of course 
 he despises, and go off to a new country and work with his 
 hands. Those are the very words he used. It's what Percy 
 is fit for. That's what he thinks. What I think doesn't 
 seem to count." 
 
 Dr. Merrow smiled at him. " I think you have put it 
 very fairly," he said. " I can see the enthusiastic young man 
 full of his idea, and expecting you to see it in exactly the 
 same light without any time for reflection. Well, we must 
 make allowances for young men and their enthusiasms, dear 
 friend. God give us the same amount of enthusiasm in the 
 things that v/e have at heart! Then I suppose, the idea 
 being quite fresh to you, and possibly having been pressed 
 in a way that was not altogether wise, you refused to con- 
 sider it, jKJssibly — I don't know — also in a way that was 
 not altogether wise. And now these hot-headed young men 
 have taken the matter into their own hands." 
 
 Gosset's grievance, reduced to these terms, did not seem 
 so likely to gain him an adherent as it had done when he 
 had brought it to Dr. Merrow. And, indeed, it was diflScult 
 
DR. MERROW AND GOSSET 189 
 
 to see how he could support it at all if he were to tell 
 everything. He was now quite reconciled to the idea of 
 Percy going to Canada — at George's expense. After his 
 interview with George he had congratulated himself on the 
 clever way he had managed it. He would be relieved of 
 his chief difficulties at a stroke, and could take up the posi- 
 tion of an outraged and defied parent, until the time came, 
 when it would be too late to alter arrangements entered 
 into, for him to make the best of it, and be reconciled to 
 his son at the last moment, before getting him off his hands 
 for good. In his satisfaction at the success with which he 
 had baited what can only be called his trap, he had not 
 realized that he had made it plain even to George's slow- 
 moving wits what was in his mind, and that his failure to 
 go up to London and talk to his son, as he had promised to 
 do, or even to write to him, made it still more obvious that 
 he was actually inviting a definite step. But he could not 
 tell Dr. Merrow his side of all this. In his im- 
 proved frame of mind he did not want to think about it 
 himself. 
 
 " Well, there's a lot behind it," he said. " But for th«? 
 present we can put it aside. There's something a good deal 
 more serious still. Percy wants to marry that bad girl who 
 led him astray, and take her with him.' It's that I've come 
 to you about, Doctor." 
 
 He looked at Dr. Merrow anxiously. He had been able 
 to form no idea of how he would be likely to view the 
 matter, and wanted to find out before he expressed his own 
 views. 
 
 "Tell me about it," said Dr. Merrow, after a pause. 
 " How did he make his wish known to you ? " 
 
 " Mr. French came to see me, after I had seen Mr. 
 Barton. Percy had told Mr. Barton, and Mr. Barton had 
 told Mr. French. The boy couldn't talk— or write — ^to me. 
 
igo THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 It will have to be done through the clergy that he's made 
 friends with." 
 
 " Pardon me a moment, my friend. It was through Mr. 
 French that the sad news first came to you, was it not ? " 
 
 " Yes. Mr. French learnt it from the mistress of the girl, 
 and came and told me." 
 
 " I remember that you said so. Then it was not — you 
 don't mean that Mr. French was — ^was interfering in any 
 way unwarrantably, in coming to you ? " 
 
 " No, I don't mean that, though you'll understand. Doctor, 
 when you have been here a little longer, that Mr. French 
 would be inclined to offer his advice — or even try to direct 
 — in many matters in Roding that have nothing to do with 
 him or his church. He's that sort of man." 
 
 " Please go on." 
 
 " When he came to me first he was dead against the idea 
 of a marriage — not because it would be a case of a believer 
 yoked with an unbeliever — but from a purely worldly point 
 of view. He " 
 
 " My friend, you mustn't say that, unless he said so him- 
 self, and he could hardly have done so, standing where he 
 does." 
 
 " Well, Doctor, to my mind he did say so, as plainly as 
 if he'd said it in the words I've used. He regarded it as a 
 ' slip.' I'm not sure he didn't use that very word. The 
 lad was young. He must forget all about it — learn his 
 lesson, of course, and not get into that sort of trouble again. 
 Oh, there was plenty of morality in it — ^but it mustn't affect 
 his life. As I say, he was to forget it, and go on as if it 
 had not happened. He couldn't do that if he was to marry 
 the girl, and that was Mr. French's reason for being so 
 dead against his marrying her. I'm not doing him an in- 
 justice in saying so. He would say It himself if you were 
 to ask him." 
 
DR. MERROW AND GOSSET 191 
 
 " Does he say so now? " 
 
 " No. He's turned round now. What I mean is that he 
 would say that, if he didn't think the circumstances had 
 altered. He made that quite plain." 
 
 "How have the circumstances altered?" 
 
 " I can't see they have myself. I can only tell you what 
 he says, and I'll do that as fairly as I can. For one thing, 
 the girl is not as bad as he thought her, or, at any rate, she's 
 sorry for what she did — and not only in the way that a girl 
 who had brought that upon herself would be. That's owing 
 to Lady Ruth. She's been with her a great deal ever since 
 it happened. There's nobody here who doesn't like Lady 
 Ruth, Doctor. She's a fashionable lady, and does very little 
 of what ordinary clergymen's wives do in visiting and all 
 that ; but she's got a very kind heart, and if there is anybody 
 really in trouble she'll go to them. She came to me and 
 Mrs. Gosset when we lost a little one, and she was very 
 tender. I must say she did us both good, though she never 
 spoke a word of religion to us, as you might have expected. 
 She went to this girl directly she heard of what had happened, 
 and Miss Budd, whose service she was in, had turned her 
 straight out of the house ; and I've no doubt that it has made 
 a difEerence to the girl, as Mr. French said, though it can't 
 have brought her to the light, as a true Christian might have 
 done." 
 
 " We can thank God for such good women, brother. 
 Human sympathy and tenderness are his gifts, and he can 
 work through them. He used them to console you in your 
 deep trouble." 
 
 " Yes, it brought us nearer to him. I ought not to say 
 Lady Ruth isn't a Christian, though she makes no profes- 
 sion of it that ive should look for. She acts like one, any- 
 how, when there's real trouble. Well, then, another thing 
 was that this girl would make him a good wife in a new 
 
192 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 country, better than if she'd not been brought up to work. 
 I needn't go into all that. But the great thing was that 
 Percy wanted it. He wants to marry her, and how can I 
 let him do it, Doctor? She's the daughter of a rough work- 
 ing man — an atheist, who makes an open scoff of religion, 
 and came and told when Mr. French was there — the first 
 time, I mean — that he wouldn't have a marriage. And why ? 
 Because he wanted to disgrace me who stands for the things 
 he hat;es — ^by bringing up the child that's coming to be a 
 reproach to me." 
 
 Dr. Merrow made that low sibilant sound of distress. 
 
 " That's the gospel truth, Doctor," persisted Gosset. 
 " What surroundings for a son of mine to take a wife from ! 
 And the girl wasn't a good girl, however she may be softened 
 now. I've found out a lot about her. She tempted my sou 
 astray, and I don't believe he was the first. You can't say 
 these things for certain, but I've got enough evidence to 
 make it doubtful whether the law could fix him as the father 
 of the child that's going to be born." 
 
 Again the indrawn breath. Dr. Merrow's face bore a 
 look of suffering. He was asking himself what help he 
 could give in such a case as this. It was outside his experi- 
 ence altogether. He had preached to hundreds of thousands; 
 he had heard confessions from those who had sinned deeply, 
 and had comforted and guided many a stricken soul. He 
 was a great doctor of the soul. But he had never descended 
 into the crude tumult of life and dealt with the diiEculties 
 and troubles of ordinary struggling erring humanity as they 
 occur from day to day. He had been guarded and sheltered. 
 Any humdrum easy-living parish priest, who went about 
 among his people at all, could draw from the men and women 
 he knew a sample more true to the common type than he 
 could. He was like a physician with God-given gifts of heal- 
 ing, who had never walked the hospitals. He had come 
 
DR. MERROW AND GOSSET 193 
 
 down to this little country town, thinking to find his task 
 light in comparison with the task he had had to give up, 
 and here he was confronted with a problem which at no 
 point of his experience he had had to touch before. 
 
 "What am I to do, Doctor? I don't know what to do. 
 What's the right thing to do?" 
 
 Yes, Gosset wanted to do the right thing, putting aside 
 for the moment consideration of the mean thing he had al- 
 ready done. He had driven away the Rector with in- 
 dignation, reminding him of the difEerent attitude he had 
 taken up before, and with bitter reference to the part Miss 
 Budd was now known to be playing, in girding up the girl's 
 mother to demand what had first been refused. But the 
 strictures of his conduct all over Roding had bitten in to 
 him. He had acted as any worldly-minded man might have 
 been expected to act, and his enemies had not been slow to 
 remind him of it. Was it so out of the question, after all, 
 that the marriage should take place? He had come to Dr. 
 Merrow prepared to acquiesce in it sorrowfully if he should 
 so advise. But not before he had made his own talk good, 
 and raised some prejudice against those who had offended 
 ' him. Besides, Dr. Merrow must hear of what had hap- 
 pened and was happening some time. It would be better 
 that he should hear it from him first. 
 
 And yet he was sincere in saying that he wanted to do 
 what was right. 
 
 Dr. Merrow raised his head, which had been resting on 
 his long thin hand. " If ever there was a case for humbly 
 waiting upon G6d's guidance," he said, " this is it. We 
 will pray about it together before you go; we will never 
 cease praying about it until we see light." 
 
 Gosset was quite ready now to pray about it; but he had 
 an uneasy suspicion that if he began to pray in the spirit 
 that he should, he would find the light already there. It 
 
194 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 was different for Dr. Merrow, and he wanted to know what 
 he thought of the general question as to such marriages. 
 
 " Mr. French says that each case of this sort must be 
 decided by itself," he said. " Isn't that mere opportunism? 
 Oughtn't I to be guided by considerations of whether such 
 a marriage would make for my son's eternal welfare? Ought 
 I to consider whether it will put me right with people who 
 have blamed me for standing out against it ? " 
 
 " No," he answered at once, to the latter question, " not 
 unless you think they were right to blame you. You won't 
 want to do that when you have laid the matter before God^ 
 and prepared yourself to accept his guidance. Such thoughts 
 as that will not trouble you. They are nothing. As for 
 your son's welfare — his spiritual welfare — ^yes, you must think 
 of it. But I feel that I cannot say anything to help you 
 there without seeing him, and perhaps without seeing this 
 poor young woman — or — I don't know — if it were possible 
 — the kind lady who has befriended her, I do think — you 
 asked me just now — that it is impossible to lay down a rule 
 of obligation. I am only groping — don't take what I say 
 now as my firm conviction. These sins of the flesh — must 
 we say that before they can be forgiven they must be" — 
 he began to speak very slowly with pauses between his words 
 — " legalized— corrected — sanctified — ^by marriage. No, I 
 think not. It would not always be possible. Marriage is 
 a kind of sacrament— of — ^holy love — that God should smile 
 
 upon. It would be debasing it — if You cannot think 
 
 that in all cases of sudden temptation — a careless unthinking 
 youth — a woman selling herself daily to sin — it would be 
 doing God's high will for his poor weak creatures. No, I 
 couldn't say — I can't say — speaking with all submission — 
 that we can put aside the circumstances of each case." 
 
 Gosset watched him as if fascinated. He saw him in 
 his ripe manhood so untouched by evil that one of the com- 
 
DR. MERROW AND GOSSET 19s 
 
 monest occurrences of human life set him wondering and 
 puzzling as if he had now heard of it for the first time. He 
 — Gosset — knew well enough that the problem he was slowly 
 working out in his brain was no problem at all. No man 
 who lived in the world as it is could say that every lapse 
 from virtue must be atoned for by an act that would not 
 even be possible, perhaps in the majority of cases. What 
 he did see dimly — and it rather surprised him — ^was that Dr. 
 Merrow was looking at the question only from one point of 
 view. Even the Rector had found it hard to hold his first 
 opinion strongly, when the claims of the woman were stated 
 in the same terms as those of the man. And it had been 
 the claims of the woman that had been thrown at Gosset 
 by his detractors. " Yes, all very nice for you, and the young 
 rip that's come out just like others after all. But what about 
 the poor girl? You don't think nothing of her. That's 
 your Christianity." It had made a sore place. He could 
 not put that side of the question avray from him altogether. 
 
 He could not help mentioning it now. " They are always 
 telling me," he said, " that if a young man gets a girl into 
 trouble, as they put it, he ought to marry her, and not leave 
 her to take all the punishment, when there's a child coming." 
 
 Dr. Merrow looked at him earnestly. " They say that ! " 
 he repeated. " You mean the people who live here, and 
 know all the circumstances and the parties concerned ? " 
 
 " I mean the people who want to put me in the wrong," 
 said Gosset, rather sulkily. 
 
 " But they vvouldn't say that, if it were a case of a young 
 man sinning with — ^with a harlot." 
 
 Gosset started at the Biblical word, and at the inferences 
 behind it. Dr. Merrow was no fool, in his innocence of 
 evil. 
 
 " I don't know that they wouldn't," he said. " And I 
 don't think you've got it quite right, Doctor, either. The 
 
196 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 country isn't like a big town. There aren't those sort of 
 women. But the young people get together, and in a way it's 
 worse. They lead each other on. Sometimes it's the girl 
 who is persuaded, sometimes it's the man. The nearest you 
 get to what goes on in the streets of a big town is when a 
 girl has gone wrong once, and comes of bad parents who 
 don't look after her. Then she's ready to go with anybody, 
 and sometimes she drifts up to London and becomes a loose 
 woman like the rest." 
 
 " Then there is a great deal more to be said for marriage, 
 to stop that dreadful descent — more than w^ have said yet? " 
 
 "Yes, I suppose there is, where it's known to be a first 
 fall." 
 
 "And there is the question of fatherhood. If a child is 
 born, and the parents do not marry, what happens? " 
 
 "The father has to pay towards its keep. The mother 
 brings it up." 
 
 " It grows up to know that there is a mark upon it. It 
 is different from the rest, who have happy innocent homes 
 and the love of father and mother — all the tenderness round 
 them that is so beautiful — so divme — in the early years. It 
 is an incubus, practically disowned by the father, who may 
 marry elsewhere and have children to bring up in a way so 
 different ; a reproach to the poor mother, who is cut off now 
 from those pure joys." 
 
 " I am afraid there are too many rough bad homes, Doctoi^, 
 amongst that class, for such a bringing up to be much noticed. 
 The women with natural children often bring them up well, 
 too. It isn't held up against them as much as you'd think. 
 And they often marry, too, and the child gets brought up 
 with the rest." 
 
 Dr. Merrow thought long and earnestly. Then he rested 
 his kind eyes on Gosset's face. " Could you bring yourself 
 to contemplate — to consent — ^to forward this marriage — 
 
DR. MERROW AND GOSSET 197 
 
 knowing both the young people — if the way seemed pointed 
 out to it? " he asked. " Oh, my friend, I know how hard 
 it may be for you. You had hoped that your son would 
 some day marry a good innocent girl, whom you could love 
 as your own daughter. He would have his happy home, as 
 you have yourself, and you would renew your own early 
 happiness in seeing his little ones, if God sent them, grow 
 up in their sweet sheltered innocence. This is so different. 
 The shadow of sin is over it — and disgrace. You can't put 
 that aside. It must affect you in the place where you live 
 and have your friends. I know you can't put that aside. 
 But — it's for you to decide — that might, perhaps, be made 
 less painful for you if you came to see that this idea of their 
 going away altogether were possible — advisable. I do think, 
 if you will let me say so — on a matter which is no business 
 of mine — that for them, if they were to go together, it might 
 be the best thing. The shadow — of their fall — would hang 
 less darkly over them; it would be atoned for, as far as a 
 sin can be humanly atoned for. They might then come to 
 forget it — as your friend, the Rector, sdd — working to- 
 gether to make their new home — in no disgrace — ^bringing 
 up the little one, which must be a strong link between them, 
 in the fear of their own loving Father in heaven, serving 
 him themselves in their new bright life. If it could be, 
 dear friend! I don't know; I haven't seen either of them 
 yet. You can judge better than I can. And God will 
 help you to judge, if you ask him. He might ask what would 
 be a great sacrifice from you. And if he does, you may be 
 very sure that he will look after the result, much better than 
 you could. You may trust your son to him without a 
 fear." 
 
 Gosset was much touched. Yes, he could bring himself 
 to take this step. Put in the light of a religious duty he 
 could even do it gladly, for he would gain more than one 
 
198 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 reward. But at least as long as he remained under Dr. 
 Merrow's influence the only reward that he cared about was 
 the salving of his own conscience. It was sweet balm to 
 him to be relieved of his troubles in this way. It was not 
 an easy thing for him to contemplate a marriage between 
 his son and Morton's daughter, in spite of some advantages 
 that would accrue to himself; and if he consented to it, 
 surely he might take to himself the solace that came from 
 doing right at the cost of sacrifice. 
 
 " I'll think about it and pray about it, Doctor," he said. 
 " I believe it is what God points out for me to do. You've 
 helped me very much to see things right, and I'm grateful 
 to you. I should like you to see Percy, if it wouldn't be 
 asking too much of you. It's a serious enough step for him 
 to take, however we look at it; and if you were to talk to 
 him, I'm sure it would help him to go into it, if we decide 
 it's the right thing, in a proper spirit.' 
 
 " Oh, my dear friend, I will gladly see him, if he would 
 like to see me. I was going to ask if I might. Yes; at anji 
 time. I love young people; it is a great joy to me to talk 
 to them. You will ask him to come and see me here, and 
 we will make friends. God be with us as we talk together I 
 Let us kneel down and give thanks to his Blessed Name." 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 PERCY GOSSET 
 
 " Mr. Barton, I don't want to go and see him. What has 
 he got to do* with it? Why should I have to talk things 
 over with him that we've settled already, and that he only 
 knows about through my father ? " 
 
 " For one thing, because your father asks him to, Perq'. 
 You came down here to try and make it up with him before 
 you went away. Now that there are signs that he may come 
 round, you ought not to put yourself against him." 
 
 " Is he coming round ? I can't say that his letter looks 
 much like it." 
 
 The letter that Gosset had written would hardly have 
 rur^ in the same way if he had not allowed a night and the 
 best part of a day to elapse between his interview with Dr. 
 Merrow and the writing of it : 
 
 Dear Percy: As you have defied my wishes, and taken the 
 advice of others on a serious step that it was your duty to 
 consult me first about, you can hardly expect me to welcome you 
 here with open arms. With regard to your going to Canada, 
 I do not say now that I shall oppose it any further. You have 
 brought such deep trouble on us, and seem so determined, with 
 the help of others, to set yourself against anything I can do to 
 help you to make amends for your sins, that I shall not be sorry 
 to have your example removed from your innocent brothers and 
 sisters. I shall not refuse to see you before you go, but I hope 
 you will come in a frame of mind that will not give your poor 
 mother greater distress than she has reason to feel about you 
 already. 
 
 With regard to the other matter on which you write, it is far 
 too serious a thing to be dealt with in a letter. I have laid it 
 all from the beginning before Dr. Merrow, and I wish you to go 
 and see him. When you have done that you can communicate 
 
 199 
 
200 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 with me again. You had better go to Dr. Merrow to-morrow 
 morning at eleven o'clock, and if it is not convenient for him 
 to see you then, get an appointment made for some other time 
 as soon as possible, and keep it punctually. 
 
 Your much-tried father, 
 
 Samuel Gosset. 
 
 Gosset had not been able to resist the temptation to have 
 it both ways. He would receive his son kindly, but must 
 first express his resentment against him. He would give 
 way on all points, but would not allow Percy, or George, 
 or the Rector to think that they had had anything to do 
 with bringing him round to their views. 
 
 But that does not express all that was in his mind. The 
 desire to do the right thing was still stronger in him than his 
 inclination to domineer. That would be satisfied by this 
 letter; had almost been so by the writing of it. He would 
 show himself in a different light when he came to receive 
 his son. 
 
 But how was his son to know that ? And how was George, 
 in the light of it, and of his past experience of Gosset, to 
 take the letter written to him by the same post, of which 
 he had said nothing to Percy? 
 
 Dear Mr. Barton : I have come to the conclusion that under 
 all circumstances it will be the best thing now for Percy to go 
 to Canada, and as soon as possible. I should therefore wish to 
 take the expenses of his going on myself. I do not know what 
 arrangements you may have made in that respect, apart from 
 me. I am not a rich man, and cannot afford to do more than 
 pay his passage, provide him with a small outfit, and give him a 
 few pounds to live on till he finds work; and that will not 
 be very easy. But I should wish to do it, and if you will kindly 
 render me an account of what you have already spent on him, 
 if anything, I will send you a cheque for the amount. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 Samuel Gosset. 
 
 It was Gosset's final effort to get his conscience clear, 
 and had cost him a good deal. But George knew that he 
 
PERCY GOSSET 201 
 
 was not mistaken in believing him to have thrown the onus 
 of provision on to him, while pretending something else, and 
 could not accept this letter at its face value. There must 
 be something behind it, and he wanted time to think it 
 over. 
 
 Nor on Gosset's having consulted Dr. Merrow on the 
 whole question did he know what to think. That he had 
 given him a fair account of all its details he found it difficult 
 to believe, and he felt rather sad at the idea that he him- 
 self might have been represented in an unfavourable light. 
 Dr. Merrow had not returned his call, and it looked as if 
 he had no intention of doing so. It never occurred to him 
 that Mrs. Merrow had represented his visit as anything but 
 the obvious first step in opening up an acquaintance on his 
 own account, still less that, she might not view it in that 
 light herself. He thought that there must be some reason 
 for Dr. Merrow not wishing to know him ; and it hurt him, 
 because he did very much wish to know Dr. Merrow. 
 
 " I think you ought to go and see him," he said to Percy, 
 rather envying him the opportunity. " I'm quite sure that, 
 whatever he says to you, you won't be sorry afterwards." 
 
 " Well, I don't see it, Mr. Barton." He spoke respect- 
 fully, but firmly. He had altered much for the better in 
 appearance, and had a look of purpose and determination 
 on his face that had not been there before. " Dr. Merrow 
 represents what I've made up my mind I'll have nothing 
 more to do with. The sort of religion that has been poked 
 down my throat all my life hasn't done me any good, and 
 I can't see that it does anybody else any good. You've 
 shown me what religion is, and I don't want to go back to 
 the sort of talk I should get from a chapel minister. I've 
 had enough of it. Half of it's cant, and, I might be tempted 
 to tell him so." 
 
 " I don't think you'd be tempted by Dr. Merrow to be 
 
202 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 rude to him, Percy. Surely you can recognize a good man 
 when you see him! You heard him preach that night in 
 London. There was no cant there." 
 
 " I don't know that there was. It was a good sermon, 
 though I've heard better. Still, I don't want to see Dr. 
 Merrow. What does he want to see me about? " 
 
 " Go, and let him tell you himself. If you refuse to go 
 it will look as if I were keeping you back. I don't want 
 that." 
 
 Percy gave way instantly. " If you want me to go, Mr. 
 Barton, of course I will.' I'd do a good deal more than 
 that if you asked me. I'll go now, and get it over." 
 
 George went out to think things over when he was alone. 
 He refreshed himself by a short visit to the stable-yard, 
 and then went into his kitchen garden, which was enclosed 
 by an old brick wall, and where he often repaired for privacy. 
 For he could think better out of doors, walking up and 
 down between the spring flowers on either side of the broad 
 middle path, than cooped up in a room. 
 
 It struck him as curious that Percy had apparently taken 
 no partiailar impression from the sermon that had im- 
 pressed him so much. He did not suppose that it was true 
 that he had heard better sermons, in spite of the preachers 
 of whom his denomination boasted. It seemed to him likely 
 that his taste had been vitiated by sermons that were not 
 really good, although they would generally be called so ; but 
 it was not worth while worrying about that. The point 
 was that the boy was in revolt, not against religion — ^he 
 had found him firm in the essentials of his faith, and deter- 
 mined to follow its light — ^but against everything non- 
 essential in which he Had been brought up. He could hardly 
 be surprised at it. In George's position in Roding, he had 
 come across little in connection with nonconformity but 
 strife and petty jealousy. What there was of essential 
 
PERCY GOSSET 203 
 
 Christianity amongst its ' adherents was retiring and un- 
 marked. Gosset set the tone, and no one comparing it with 
 the orderly contented spirit to which it was in opposition, 
 could say that in its manifestation it was nearer to righteous- 
 ness. George knew practically nothing about nonconformity 
 at large. He could only judge it by what he saw of it in 
 Roding. Nor had he been attracted towards it that even- 
 ing at Dr. Merrow's chapel; he had only been attracted 
 towards Dr. Merrow, and quite thought that he must be 
 nearer in spirit to the good men in the Church than to those 
 of his own fellowship. 
 
 Percy Gosset wanted to become a churchman. He wanted 
 to be confirmed before he left the country. It was partly 
 out of a wish to follow George himself, whom he admired 
 and trusted above other men. But it was not all that. He 
 knew less than George himself, from his reading, of the 
 broad principles of nonconformity; he had only heard them 
 stated in eternal wearisome opposition to those whose fruits 
 he saw to be good. He knew Roding Chapel, and the little 
 chapels in the villages round, and Briggs's Chapel; and he 
 was sick of it all. He was going to a broader, healthier 
 life, and it seemed to him indisputable that by relinquishing 
 dissent for churchmanship he would be practising a broader, 
 healthier religion. George thought so too, but he knew 
 how bitter Gosset would be against him if he encouraged 
 the boy in his wish, or even if it should be carried out with- 
 out his encouragement. 
 
 " I can do nothing with the man," the Rector had said 
 to him before he went away. " He can't see straight about 
 anything. He says he washes his hands of the boy. Very 
 well; take him at his word. He wants to marry the girl. 
 I shall put up their banns, and if Gosset protests she can 
 go to him later. He wants to be confirmed. A very good 
 thing for him. Explain things to him, George, and when I 
 
204 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 come back 111 see him too; and I'll talk to the Bishop. I'm 
 sick to death of Gosset. You go ahead — ^with everything." 
 
 So George had gpne ahead. But he wanted to be quite 
 certain that he had done right. 
 
 After half-an-hour in the garden he could not see that 
 he had done wrong, but he was as far as ever from divining 
 what Gosset might have in his mind now. He got closest 
 to it when he allowed himself to hope that Gosset's inter- 
 view with Dr. Merrow had disposed him towards some 
 right way of thinking. After further consideration he went 
 indoors and wrote him the following letter in his large 
 boyish hand: 
 
 Dear Mr. Gosset : I am very glad that you can give your con- 
 sent to Percy going to Canada. I think it is quite natural that 
 you wish to pay for his passage, etc., yourself, but I hope you 
 will not insist upon that. What I am doing is a great pleasure 
 to me, and I have more money than I can spend on myself, and 
 am very glad to find something like this that I can spend a little 
 of it on. I have not mentioned to anybody that I am doing this 
 little thing, and I have told Percy not to. It is quite between 
 him and me, so I hope you will not refuse to give me this 
 pleasure. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 G. Barton. 
 
 He was not quite satisfied with this letter. It did not 
 read very well. He always had a difficulty in expressing 
 himself on paper. But it said what he meant, and he went 
 out at once and posted it, on his way to the corn-merchant 
 and the saddler, with both of whom he had a little business 
 to transact. 
 
 In the meantime Percy had made his way across the fields 
 to " The Limes." 
 
 He whistled as he went. He had thrown off the incubus 
 of his unhappy unsuitable life, and was looking forward 
 keenly to his new experiences. He was no longer in sub- 
 jection, but a man with a man's work to do. 
 
PERCY GOSSET 205 
 
 By-and-by he ceased whistling, and his face became 
 graver. He had also a man's responsibilities, and they were 
 of a sort that were sobering. 
 
 As he came near to " The Limes " his expression changed 
 to one of some irritation. What was he going there for? 
 To be talked to — in the old way — of repentance and par- 
 don — perhaps to be prayed with. He had repented long 
 ago. One couldn't be for ever dwelling on past faults. 
 It was much better not to do so, when one had once made 
 up one's mind to avoid them in futxire. And as for pardon 
 — his hopeful clean frame of mind was the best indication 
 he could have that his repentance was of the right sort and 
 had been accepted. He would go through with it, because 
 Mr. Barton had asked it of him. But in one thing he was 
 determined. He would listen to no criticism of Mr. Bar- 
 ton whatever. He would make it quite plain that he 
 regarded Mr. Barton as a shining light before which even 
 the far-reaching brilliance of Dr. Merrow must pale itself. 
 The one would talk; the other would do things for you. 
 That was the sort of religion that he believed in now, and 
 it would not do the great Dr. Merrow any harm to be told 
 so— respectfully, of course, but in firm and unmistakable 
 terms. 
 
 Dr. Merrow had told his wife what had happened be- 
 tween Gosset and himself, and asked that whenever Percy 
 should come he should be taken straight up to see him. In- 
 structions to that effect had been given to Mary, but it was 
 unfortunate that on this particular morning Dr. Merrow 
 should have been resting after a bad night, and the instruc- 
 tions could not be carried out to the letter. 
 
 Mrs. Merrow came down to him. She was sincerely 
 anxious that her husband's wishes should be carried out, 
 and that the young man should not merely be sent away with 
 a. request to come again. But she was also not averse to 
 
2o6 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 seeing for herself what the young man was like, whose 
 actions had caused such disturbance. 
 
 Perhaps the sort of interest he saw in her face, as she 
 shook hands with hinij strengthened Percy's determination 
 to stand no nonsense of any sort ; for when she said, " I 
 am very sorry that Dr. Merrow is not up yet," he replied 
 at once: "Then I won't trouble him, ma'am. I only came 
 because I was told he wanted to see me." 
 
 She did not quite like the speech, and half-divined hos- 
 tility behind it, but said : " Yes, he does want to see you, 
 and it is unfortunate that you should have happened to 
 come on the first morning that I have been obliged to keep 
 him in bed. I think, if he is not actually asleep, he might 
 like to see you in his room. If you will wait here for a 
 minute I will go up and see if it is possible." 
 
 Percy took offence at her cold business-like manner. He 
 was not going to stand in the position of one whom Dr. 
 Merrow had a right to send for and lecture. He had not 
 considered that if he came at all he must come with a good 
 grace. He allowed his irritation at having been summoned 
 to revive, and went back to the attitude he had taken up on 
 receipt of his father's letter. 
 
 " I'll ask you not to disturb him, please, Mrs. Merrow," 
 he said firmly. " It's not in the least necessary. I am sorry 
 he is not so well. I don't wish to upset him further." 
 
 She looked at him in some surprise. The hostility, or at 
 least the unwillingness, was plain enough now. " Would 
 you like to fix a time to come this afternoon, when he will 
 be up? " she asked; " or perhaps later in the morning? " 
 
 He looked down. He had promised George that he 
 would see Dr. Merrow. If she had kept silent for a 
 moment, he would have agreed to one of these proposals, 
 however unwillingly. 
 
 But she was annoyed now by his attitude, which she did 
 
PERCY GOSSET 207 
 
 not understand. " I don't want you to put yourself out 
 at all," she said. " It is unfortunate that Dr, Merrow 
 has had to keep his room this morning, but I'm afraid it 
 cannot be helped. If you don't want to see him-^ — ! " 
 
 " Well, to tell you the plain truth, ma'am, I don't," he 
 said, looking her in the face with an expression that she 
 liked less than ever. " My father wrote to me that he had 
 talked over my affairs with Dr. Merrow, and I was to come 
 and talk to Dr. Merrow about them. At first I said I 
 wouldn't come at all, but Mr. Barton said as my father 
 wanted me to I'd better, and because he asked me — Mr. 
 Barton, I mean — I came." 
 
 ■She felt violently antagonistic to him. How atrociously 
 impertinent it was to talk in this way of her good husband, 
 whose only desire it was to pour out the treasures of his 
 warm heart upon this conceited bumptious young man, so 
 little repentant for the gross wrong he had committed that 
 he stood there as if he thought himself conferring an honour 
 in coming at all! 
 
 But she knew so well her husband's way of dealing with 
 this sort of spirit. It would not stand for a moment against 
 his generous refusal to be offended by it. It would wither 
 into shame before the pure, selfish, Christian love with 
 which it would be met. Unless this young man was more 
 than usually hardened, he would come away from her hus- 
 band hating himself for the attitude in which he had gone 
 to him. She would not do or say anything to prevent the 
 meeting. 
 
 Unless he proved himself to be more than usually hard- 
 ened. She did think it was her duty to preserve her hus- 
 band from a painful interview, in his present state of health, 
 if it should be made plain to her that it would do no good. 
 
 " I don't think you know Dr. Merrow," she said quietly. 
 " Your father told him about his difSculties on your ac- 
 
2o8 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 count, and asked for his advice, which was given, I under- 
 stand on the lines that you wished to follow yourself. Dr. 
 Merrow has so much sympathy with everybody who is in 
 any trouble or difficulty, especially with young people, that 
 he would only wish to see you to express that sympathy, 
 and I am sure only if you wished to see him. He would 
 be the last to want to interfere in any way with your plans, 
 or to discuss anything that you did not want to discuss. 
 He has come here as pastor to the church of which you 
 are a member, and would like to make friends with you be- 
 fore you go away from us altogether, as I believe you are 
 going. I am sure he would wish nothing more than that, 
 and you will not find it difficult to make friends with him." 
 
 It was an heroic effort to sink her own feelings, and 
 ought to have succeeded. It would have succeeded, but 
 for her mention of the "church." She did not know he 
 had determined to leave it. She had heard that he had 
 been active in his membership, and thought it quite pos- 
 sible that he had been removed from it. But she would not 
 hurt him by assuming that. He should be treated as 
 amongst the most exemplary of Dr. Merrow's flock. 
 
 " Well, of course, that puts a different aspect on it, 
 ma'am," he said, clinging, Gosset-like, to the advantage he 
 thought he had gained. " I'm sure I should feel honoured 
 by Dr. Merrow's friendship. But as for the chapel, I'm 
 done with it altogether, and I think it better to say so 
 plainly so as to save mistakes. I've found a friend such 
 as I never had before in Mr. Barton, and he has shown me 
 what religion ought to be, and I'm going to follow him 
 now." 
 
 She still kept back the expression of her antagonism, 
 which was becoming stronger every moment. " You mean, 
 I suppose, that you are going to become a churchman," 
 she said. " You are going to be confirmed." 
 
PERCY GOSSET 209 
 
 She was unable to keep a trifle of impatience out of her 
 voice. There were so many reasons why young people 
 who had been brought up to dissent went over to " the 
 Church," and so few of them would bear examination. They 
 came to you and talked about this and that, as if they 
 were actuated by nothing but a pure desire for increased 
 spirituality, and in their infinite Wisdom had made discov- 
 eries which you were too blind to see; and all the time you 
 knew that there was some other motive at work — taste for 
 ornament, a desire to feel themselves part of an old and 
 picturesque institution, a sense of increased dignity, and 
 more often than not a mere wish to escape some real or 
 fancied social inferiority. In the last case they seldom had 
 the art to hide their motive. They were already inclined 
 to adopt an air of modest patronage, as from a churchman 
 to a mere dissenter, even before they had put on their new 
 garments. Probably, later on, they would come to look 
 upon dissent and dissenters as beyond the pale of gentility 
 altogether, and keep back the fact of their origin as if they 
 had been bred in a workhouse. She thought she recognized 
 the preliminary attitude of arrogance in this young grocer's 
 son, who had been taken in hand by a church curate; and 
 she could hardly conceal her contempt for it. 
 ' " Yes, I'm hoping to be confirmed before I go abroad," 
 he said. " It isn't so much the doctrines as the spirit I like 
 in the Church. They help you to live your life so as to 
 make the best of it, and make yourself happy in what you 
 do every day." 
 
 " To make the best of both worlds, in fact," she said, 
 with a smile, restored almost to good humour by his crude 
 air of great discoveries. 
 
 He was nettled at her smile. " Well, ma'am, I think 
 that's a very good thing to do," he said, " though I know 
 it's looked down upon by dissenters. It was all praying 
 
2IO THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 and preaching in my life, and everything you did even in 
 a healthy sort of way to amuse yourself was wrong. Now, 
 I don't think it's wrong. Mr. Barton has shown me clearly 
 that a person may throw himself into outdoor sports and 
 games and not be any the worse for it in his religion, but 
 all the better. Mr. Barton is the best man I've ever met, 
 and it isn't all praying and preaching with him, the same 
 as it is with most of our ministers." 
 
 If he bore it in mind whom he was addressing, this was 
 nothing but impertinence. But still she would not drive 
 him away if she could help it. 
 
 " I know that Mr. Barton has befriended you," she said, 
 " and you are quite right to feel grateful to him. But there 
 is no need to compare him with Dr. Merrow, who is a 
 very much older man, with very much more experience. 
 You may not find him in the least unsympathetic towards 
 the ideas you have stated. They are not the property of the 
 Church of England. He would certainly say that reli- 
 gion should be carried into every detail of daily life, even 
 into its amusements. If you have a talk with him I am sure 
 you will be glad afterwards that you did so. He is greatly 
 beloved by young people who have the privilege of know- 
 ing him, and especially by young men. If he had not hap- 
 pened to be unwell you would have been taken straight 
 up to to see him, and there are many who would give a good 
 deal to have access to him in that way." 
 
 " Well, ma'am, as I said, I shall be glad to see Dr. Mer- 
 row when convenient. I dare say we shall understand each 
 other. He won't expect me to hide what I think about 
 things. It wouldn't be right. And as long as he doesn't 
 try to keep me back from joining the Church, which I've 
 now made up my mind to do, I'll listen to anything he's 
 got to say. 
 
 It was too much for her. She saw the self-satisfied igno- 
 
PERCY GOSSET 211 
 
 rant youth entering the revered presence with the deter- 
 mination to show himself as good as the man whose veiy 
 humbleness of mind would render him defenceless before 
 such an attitude. She saw him, encased in his stupid con- 
 ceit, resisting the almost irresistible air of invitation that 
 would be extended to him, mistaking sympathy with his 
 crude youth for submission to his still cruder opinions, 
 opposing platitudes to insight, arrogance to affection. She 
 saw the beloved face take on an expression of distress as 
 the conviction slowly dawned that it was all of no use — 
 that this youth out of all those whom he had drawn to him 
 was not to be drawn. And she saw him afterwards sor- 
 rowing at his failure, and trying to find causes in himself 
 for it. 
 
 She would not have it. She would not have him sub- 
 jected to such treatment; and having so decided she was 
 free to express something of her own contempt for the 
 attitude of semi-patronage the youth had presumed to adopt 
 towards one of whom he should have been proud to be 
 permitted to take counsel. 
 
 " I think you are forgetting yourself entirely," she said. 
 " Dr. Merrow would not be likely to think your intention 
 of joining the Church, as you call it, of as much importance 
 as you evidently do, and would certainly not try to dis- 
 suade you from it in any way. And if you think so highly 
 of yourself and your opinions as to propose to state them 
 to him in the same way as you have to me, I think you 
 had better not see him at all. He might not resent your 
 unmannerliness — as I do — but he would be grieved by it, 
 and I do not care to have him exposed to it." 
 
 His eyes fell. He had not intended to be unmannerly 
 — only self-reliant and independent; but he recognised for 
 the first time that Mrs. Merrow was not only a minister's 
 wife but a lady of some consequence, according to the 
 
212 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 standards he knew, and that he had spoken his mind to her 
 pretty freely. But the recognition restored the self-reliance. 
 He was no longer the son of a tradesman, obliged to speak 
 with submissive respect to an actual or possible " good cus- 
 tomer." He was going to a free country, where such con- 
 ventions would be swept away, and he would be as good as 
 anybody, or at least not forbidden to consider himself so. 
 
 " I never had it in my mind to be rude to Dr. Merrow," 
 he said. " I hope I know what's due to myself better than 
 that. And if I have spoken my mind to you, ma'am, in a 
 way you don't like, I'm sorry for it, but I've a right to my 
 own opinions. More than that wasn't meant." 
 
 "Your opinions are not of much importance," she said, 
 " but your way of expressing them is, under the circum- 
 stances. I think I need not keep you any longer." 
 
 She turned towards the back part of the room — they 
 had been standing by the dining-table — and he was left to 
 make his way out unaided, which he did, with an uneasy 
 feeling that he had put his foot in it now. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE RECTOR AND DR. MERKOW 
 
 " Good afternoon ! Do you think I can see Dr. 
 Merrow?" 
 
 Mary had opened the front door to find the Rector 
 standing, upright, important, and genial, under the " 'and- 
 some portico." It was Sunday afternoon, a little before five 
 o'clock. 
 
 The apparition put her into a slight fluster, not unpleas- 
 urable. It recalled early days, and it was nice to be 
 greeted with that preliminary " Good afternoon," delivered 
 as to one who had a personal claim to notice, and was not 
 merely part of the machinery of entrance, like the bell and 
 the door-scraper. 
 
 " I don't know, sir. If you'll kindly step in, I will tell 
 Mrs. Merrow." 
 
 The Rector followed her into the drawing-room. " Yes, 
 that will be the best way," he said. " Tell Mrs. Merrow. 
 Say I'm just here for the Sunday. I came last night and am 
 leaving early to-morrow morning, but I didn't want to be 
 in Roding without coming to look in on them. Tell her 
 that, will you ? " 
 
 He thought it as well to be explicit. George's visit 
 seemed somehow to have missed fire, — he did not quite un- 
 derstand how. 
 
 " Yes, sir." She was drawing up the blinds. 
 
 " Were you with Mrs. Merrow in London ? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes, sir. I've been with Dr. and Mrs. Merrow just 
 upon seventeen years, in the same house." 
 
 213 
 
214 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 "Ah! you'll find it a change coming into the country. 
 But I hope you will like the change." 
 
 " I was brought up in the country, sir. It's like coming 
 back 'ome." 
 
 She beamed on him, respectfully, and went out. There 
 was nobody quite like " the master," of course, and she looked 
 upon " the Establishment " as unenlightened, and on the 
 whole a bar to religious progress; but the clergy, especially 
 the country clergy, if they came from the higher sort of 
 gentry, did have a nice way with people, there was no 
 denying it. It was part of the coming back 'ome to be in 
 contact with it once more. 
 
 Dr. and Mrs. Merrow came in together. " How do you 
 do," said the Rector, shaking hands with them in turn. 
 " This is a very informal visit. My wife won't be back for 
 a fortnight. When she does come we'll have everything in 
 order. But I didn't want to be in Roding without just call- 
 ing in to give you a welcome." 
 
 " Mr. French will like a cup of tea, my dear," said Dr. 
 Merrow. " Shall we take him into the other room? " 
 
 They moved across to the dining-room, the Rector talk- 
 ing most of the time, about the house, the views, and the 
 spring weather. His full voice was in some contrast to Dr. 
 Merrow's rather low utterance, and his look of health and 
 vigour made the other appear more frail than he now was 
 in reality; for he had picked up his strength since he had 
 been in Roding, and only some constitutional weakness 
 remained. 
 
 " You must take this visit on behalf of my brother, too," 
 said the Rector, as they sat down at the table. " He was 
 going to Spain when I left him, and goodness knows when 
 he will be back again. He told me to say that if you 
 would like to use the gardens at the Court, they will be 
 always open to you. They are lovely just now. I don't 
 
THE RECTOR AND DR. MERROW 215 
 
 know how he can go away and leave them as much as he 
 does." 
 
 Mrs. Merrow thought it all a little pompous and patron- 
 ising, though there was no doubt that it was kindly meant. 
 She was so jealous for her husband that she disliked any one 
 taking the lead in conversation when he was there, unless 
 they were men of admitted and outstanding achievement, 
 whom he would be glad to listen to. This portly handsome 
 cleric was not of that order. His air of taking the lead, 
 as of right, came only from his consciousness of rank,' al- 
 though he was obviously too much of a gentleman inten- 
 tionally to protrude it. 
 
 But Dr. Merrow was pleased with his friendliness. He 
 knew quite well how the rector of a parish such as Roding, 
 who had had it, as he had said, all his own way, would be 
 likely to regard the advent of a man who would be in some 
 sense his rival, and from whom he might fear opposition 
 that he had not yet had to face. His attitude showed that 
 he had postponed those fears utitil they should be realised, 
 and for his part would leave nothing undone that would 
 show him desirous of living in peace and friendliness. 
 
 And he was inclined to like him too, as he was inclined 
 to like most men, if they would only let him. He admired 
 his robust virility, handsome appearance, and assured ad- 
 dress, as generous natures do admire qualities in others 
 which they cannot claim for themselves. His life had not 
 been much concerned with such men, but they were a 
 notable part of the great brotherhood of mankind, at least 
 as it existed in England, and he thought it very likely 
 that he might learn a good deal from the Rector of 
 Roding, if they were to meet on the friendly terms held 
 out. 
 
 " We have passed those beautiful gardens in our drives," 
 he said, " and admired them. It will be a great pleasure 
 
2i6 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 to be allowed to wander through them. We were too timid 
 to face a big garden for ourselves, Londoners as we are, 
 and knowing so little about it. But we have thought once 
 or twice that we may have made a mistake. There was 
 a sweet old house we might have had in a village in Surrey, 
 where I should have been allowed to take the services in 
 the chapel. But we chose this as being more what we were 
 accustomed to." 
 
 " It was my doing," said Mrs. Merrow. " I understand 
 a house like this. My son, who came to see it with us, 
 says it is a terrible production for the country, and wanted 
 us to take the other. It was certainly attractive, but the 
 rooms were low, and I didn't know whether we should really 
 like it or not." 
 
 "Well, I'm glad you chose this one," said the Rector. 
 " I think your son was at Cambridge with my boy, Ralph, 
 and George Barton." 
 
 " I didn't know that," said Dr. Merrow. " Were they 
 friends? But I don't think he knew, either, when he came 
 down here." 
 
 " I believe they didn't know each other. Of course, he 
 was known, as he was President of the Union, Ralph told 
 me. But neither Ralph nor George belonged to it, or went 
 in for anything so serious as politics up there." 
 
 " I suppose not," was Mrs. Merrow's inward comment. 
 " However, Ralph thinks about little else but politics 
 now," the Rector went on. " He's taking up the housing 
 question in London — full of committees and societies, and 
 all that sort of thing. We don't see much of him down 
 here, but when your son comes I hope they will meet some 
 time or other. What is he doing, may I ask?" 
 
 " He is at the bar," said Dr. Merrow, " but also spends 
 most of his time working at social questions. He is hoping 
 to get into Parliament at the next election. He has been 
 
THE RECTOR AND DR. MERROW 217 
 
 what he calls nursing a constituency — East Beechshire — for 
 the last year or so." 
 
 "Oh, really? That's interesting," said the Rector. 
 " Ralph is also nursing a constituency — Notting Green — 
 but I'm afraid he hasn't much hope of winning. He's just 
 trying his wings. Well, the two of them will have some- 
 thing to talk about together. I hope they'll meet." 
 
 When tea was over, Mrs. Merrow left the two men 
 together. The Rector looked at his watch. " Can you spare 
 me a quarter of an hour ? " he asked. " There is something 
 I rather want to talk to you about." 
 
 Dr. Merrow could. He had not yet begun to go out in 
 the evening. 
 
 " It's about young Gosset," said the Rector, coming at 
 once to the point. 
 
 A shade came over Dr. Merrow's face. " Yes," he said. 
 
 " I believe you have heard his story. His father didn't 
 behave well about it. He made great mistakes in his 
 treatment of him, and the boy would have run off, and 
 might have gone to the bad altogether, if George Barton 
 hadn't interested himself in him." 
 
 " I didn't quite understand that," said Dr. Merrow. " I 
 knew he was unhappy living in London, and wanted to go 
 off to Canada, which his father wouldn't listen to at first, 
 but has consented to now." 
 
 The Rector smiled. " There are two sides to every 
 question," he said. " Gosset wouldn't be likely to tell 
 you that the boy was on the point of running away; but 
 George Barton told him so, and he thanked him for stop- 
 ping it." 
 
 Dr. Merrow said nothing. 
 
 " Well, that's turned out all right, fortunately. It was 
 obviously the best thing under the circumstances, and Gosset 
 was wise to consent to it. It isn't what I wanted to speak 
 
2i8 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 to you about. You won't misunderstand me, I hope, when 
 I say that Gosset, no doubt with the best intentions in the 
 world, tried to fit his boy into a groove that he wasn't suited 
 for. If he'd let him have a little more freedom, to do 
 what other youngsters of his age do, I believe he wouldn't 
 have gone wrong, as he did. The result of it has been, to 
 put it shortly, that he took a dislike to the forms of reli- 
 gion he had been brought up in. I needn't say— K)r per- 
 haps I had better say, as you don't know me — that I per- 
 sonally had nothing to do with it; and George Barton had 
 nothing to do with it. I mean in the way of advising him 
 to leave you and come to us, as he has made up his mind 
 to do. We are very careful not to act in that way, or even 
 to appear to be so acting. If you had been here, or he 
 had been a member of your congregation, I should not have 
 consented to do anything for him without talking to you 
 about it first; for my own sake, I should not even have 
 wanted it to take place: it would have made bad blood 
 with his father, for one thing, and I like to live at peace 
 with my neighbours. I should actually have discouraged 
 him, unless I had seen very plainly that he knew what he 
 was doing, and had good reasons for it. I wanted to assure 
 you of this. We shall be living side by side, and working 
 side by side, and I am rather sorry that this has come at 
 the very beginning, and don't want you to think that I am 
 the sort of person to wish to draw your people away from 
 you." 
 
 Dr. Merrow's face had not lightened during the course 
 of this speech ; but he said at once : " It is kind of you to 
 come and say that. I have had it in my mind that I- might 
 say something of the sort to you, if I found an opportu- 
 nity, and could do so without offence. I find myself caring 
 less and less as the years pass, and I learn my successive 
 lessons, where people go to, to satisfy the thirst that is in 
 
THE RECTOR AND DR. MERROW 219 
 
 them. I should be blind to the truth if I did not see God's 
 Holy Spirit working even through what I believe to be error j 
 and as for the differences between yoUv and me, I believe 
 them to be very small. But as for this young man, Mr. 
 French, I cannot feel altogether happy. He is going away. 
 If he can get nearer to God by means of another form of 
 worship than ours, then by all means let him take his step 
 forward, and do you help him towards it. If I had been able 
 to see him, I should have said nothing to dissuade him, if 
 I had seen that his purpose was fixed and his motives pure. 
 But I think I should have tried to satisfy myself that he 
 had taken into account his father's feelings in the matter, 
 and, from what I can learn, I am not sure that I should 
 have been able so to satisfy myself." 
 
 The Rector hesitated, but only for a moment. " It is a 
 little difficult for me to speak quite plainly," he said, in his 
 full, confident voice. " Gosset has his good points ; I am 
 not going to deny them. But nobody who knows him, as 
 I do, having lived in the same place all my life, could say 
 that one of them was the spirit of tolerance that you and 
 I are anxious to exercise towards one another. I have never 
 actually quarrelled with him, but that is certainly not be- 
 cause he has made it easy not to do so. I have done my 
 very best from the very beginning to help him over this 
 matter of his son, and in fact have laid myself open to some 
 criticism on it, in which he has done nothing to defend 
 me, although he was more than ready to act in the way I 
 first advised." 
 
 " I am so glad," said Dr. Merrow gently, " that that 
 part of the question is happily settled. May God's bless- 
 ing' rest on it. It was difficult to see light. But Gosset 
 has told me how much is owing to the tender care that your 
 dear lady of mercy gave to the poor sinning girl, and what 
 it had made of her." 
 
220 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 The Rector's face changed completely. " Did Gosset 
 tell you that? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes. He spoke warmly of her goodness and sympathy. 
 They had been brought to bear upon him and his own 
 wife, when they were in trouble. These gracious acts are 
 not forgotten." 
 
 The Rector was moved, both by Dr. Merrow's way of 
 referring to his wife, and the proof that she had been able 
 to make her influence felt over Gosset. " I am very glad 
 to hear that," he said in a lower voice. " My wife has got 
 a wonderful way of making her true kind nature felt. It 
 has almost worked a miracle with that girl. I feel no mis- 
 giving now about a marriage, although I was against it at 
 first. But, my dear Dr. Merrow, how is one to take a man 
 like Gosset? He is now reconciled to the marriage, I 
 understand. It is actually to take place with his full con- 
 sent. And yet, when I broached the possibility of it to 
 him — take my word for it, with the utmost care to avoid 
 all offence — he was — ^well, impossible; there's no other word 
 for it. I know that you gave him the same advice later, 
 and that that probably disposed him towards it. No doubt 
 it did. He would listen to you when he wouldn't listen to 
 me, and I'm not grumbling at that. But there are ques- 
 tions in connection with this affair in which I have to act. 
 There's the boy himself. He is headstrong — more so than 
 I had thought. I didn't know much of him. I suppose 
 it's the Gosset breed coming out. Gosset told me he had 
 washed his hands of him. It was his own phrase. He said 
 it again and again — to me. And he had said it to George 
 Barton — about Canada — and let a fortnight go by without 
 communicating with his son, though he had promised to 
 go up and see him. One took him at his word, and did one's 
 best for the boy. At least, I have had very little to do 
 with it. It is George who has taken him in hand. I said 
 
THE RECTOR AND DR. MERROW 221 
 
 I would see him about his confirmation, and make arrange- 
 ments for it, as part of his general change of existence. And 
 now Gosset turns round and says that things are being done 
 which he doesn't approve of. I dare say they are; but they 
 wouldn't have been if he had behaved himself. You can't 
 treat a man like that as a reasonable human being." 
 
 " You throw . a new light on our friend Gosset," said 
 Dn Merrow, rather unwillingly. " I can only speak of 
 him as I find him. It was a big thing for him to bring 
 himself to consent to this marriage. I feel that, — in his 
 position here — if he was justified in speaking as he did of 
 the parentage of the girl his son is to marry." 
 
 " He was probably justified in anything he may have 
 said, from his point of view. Morton is a rough-tongued 
 working-man, of the sort who likes to have a handle against 
 religion. He would have brought this up against Gosset 
 all his life, and the child would have been here in Roding 
 to point his attacks. You have to remember. Dr. Merrow, 
 that Gosset is removing a standing disgrace to his name in 
 consenting to this marriage. He is now taking a high line 
 about it — it is the right thing to do, whatever it may cost 
 him, and so on. But he gets all three of them out of the 
 country, all the same. He didn't talk about doing his 
 duty, whatever it might cost him, when Morton interviewed 
 him in my presence. He talked in a very different style. 
 lAlthough I didn't want the marriage then, and said so, the 
 things Gosset said, and the way he looked at it, disgusted 
 me. And as I told you, he took exactly the same line two 
 or three weeks ago. No doubt you helped him towards a 
 better attitude, but one really can't take the professions of 
 a man who acts as he does without a grain of salt; and to 
 come back to where we started, I cannot in conscience feel 
 that he has the right to direct his son's actions any further ; 
 and if the boy has made up his mind, from not unworthy 
 
22a THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 motives — as I think he has — to take this step of joining 
 our Church, I do not feel myself called upon to take what 
 you must admit would be an action on my part needing a 
 very convincing cause — of refusing to accept him, because of 
 what Gosset might think, or say, about it. I do care what 
 you might think, and am anxious not to be misunderstood." 
 
 Dr. Merrow looked distressed. Here again was a ques- 
 tion with which he felt himself unfitted to cope. It had 
 nothing to do with deep and vital truths; it was much more 
 in the nature of an unpleasant wrangle. Although the 
 Rector had spoken with straightforward and reasonable ad- 
 vocacy of his cause, it was plain that his irritation against 
 Gosset was strong. And Gosset, although he had referred 
 once or twice to the Rector in a way that Dr. Merrow had 
 deprecated, had not actually shown the same degree of irrita- 
 tion. Dr. Merrow had pierced through to whatever there 
 was of good in him, and was unwilling to judge him as 
 di£Eerent from what he had shown himself under his own 
 reconciling influence. 
 
 " It is all very painful," he said. " I must believe that 
 the poor man has not borne himself in all respects as he 
 should, under the disturbing experiences he has been through. 
 But there is good in him, Mr. French, a great deal of 
 good. I have found it there, and thanked God for it. May 
 we not hope, now that difficulties are working themselves 
 out to their end, that the good will largely prevail? Oh, 
 I hope so ! " 
 
 The Rector thought he knew his Gosset, and had no 
 such hope. His irritation divided itself into three streams. 
 The larger was still directed against the impossible Gosset. 
 One of the lesser was against himself. He had allowed him- 
 self to speak more freely than he had had any intention of 
 doing when he began. He and Dr. Merrow were gentle- 
 men, with a gentleman's educated standard of behaviour. 
 
THE RECTOR AND DR. MERROW 223 
 
 and Gosset was — ^well, Gosset; and his behaviour was inde- 
 fensible. The men of breeding would stand together against 
 the man of none. But he ought to have remembered that 
 Gosset was Dr. Merrow's chief supporter, and that even if 
 he thought him blameworthy, he might find a difficulty in 
 saying so. Also that the fellow was cunning enough to 
 have represented himself in the best light before his minister, 
 and to have taken him in. 
 
 But he also felt irritation against Dr. Merrow himself. 
 Dr. Merrow ought to have been able to see that unless he, 
 the Rector, was actually lying, Gosset had behaved badly; 
 he ought to have been able to see through mere cant and 
 time-serving. Besides, there was a little too much of the 
 peacemaker — who takes his stand on a consciously superior 
 level — about his last speech. The Rector had had no in- 
 tention of pleading his case against Gosset before Dr. Mer- 
 row sitting as an assessor, and did not like to be told, as 
 he supposed himself to have been, that there were faults 
 on both sides, and he was making an unnecessary fuss about 
 a small matter. And he thought that there was rather too 
 much self-conscious piety in Dr. Merrow's habit of speech. 
 He had said he had thanked God for the good he had found 
 in Gosset. Had he really done that? He had interspersed 
 his speech with phrases and expressions that men of their 
 cloth did not commonly use towards one another, unless 
 they were talking of deep matters. It was the trick of the 
 sanctimonious dissenter, acting up to his professions. 
 
 " The difficulties are not working themselves out," he 
 said, " if Gosset is preparing to raise trouble about his son 
 being confirmed. My conscience is quite clear on the mat- 
 ter. The boy is very nearly of age, he has a right to choose 
 for himself on such matters, and he has chosen. He can 
 settle it with his father, himself. The trouble that Gosset 
 will try to raise will be between you and me, at the outset 
 
224 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 of your residence here ; and I don't want that. If yoii will 
 be a little watchful with him, I think you will come to see 
 that it was necessary that I should speak plainly in order 
 to avoid it." 
 
 " There can be no trouble between us," said Dr. Mer- 
 row, " now that you have shown me so kindly that we may 
 talk freely together. I should not take the word of an- 
 other over anything which might lead to misunderstanding ; 
 I should, come to you." 
 
 " I hope you always will," said the Rector, mollified. 
 " The sort of thing that is happening now is very rare with 
 us, and I am sorry it has come just at the beginning. Even 
 Gosset and I manage to live in peace and good-will — at 
 least on my part — ^as a general rule, although I believe his 
 idea is that most of my work here is done with a suspicious 
 dread of what he may think of it. There will be none of 
 that feeling between you and me, and I am glad you have 
 come here. > I think you have, already, exercised a mollify- 
 ing influence over our Gosset, and when this tiresome busi- 
 ness is all cleared away, we shall find ourselves in an agree- 
 able calm, which I hope will last." 
 
 He spoke the last sentence standing up, with a smile 
 on his face, land now held his hand out in farewell. 
 
 Dr. Merrow rose too, more slowly. " I am still in a 
 little difficulty," he said. " After what you have said, I 
 think I must tell Gosset that I cannot interfere in what his 
 son has decided for himself. I wanted to make friends with 
 the son, and he did come to see me — rather, I am afraid, 
 under protest. That has troubled me. I was unwell on 
 the morning he came, and Mrs. Merrow saw him, and gath- 
 ered, unwillingly, that an interview would not be likely, to 
 be productive of much good to him, and thought that it 
 might be painful to me. So I was not able to see what way 
 I might be able to make with him for myself. Tke oppor- 
 
THE RECTOR AND DR. MERROW 225 
 
 tunity is lost now. But I should like to be able to assure 
 Gosset. He was disappointed at the lad not seeing me. His 
 idea was that — that " 
 
 "That we had kept him back from doing so, I suppose. 
 That would be his idea. There you have your Gosset, Dr* 
 Merrow. I can only tell you that it was George Barton 
 who told him to come, when for some nonsensical reason of 
 his own — mistaken loyalty, I suppose — he hkd said that he 
 wouldn't." 
 
 Dr. Merrow knew this; his wife had told him what had 
 been said. But it left a lot unexplained. A good many 
 reasons might have actuated the advice, and still left this 
 young curate under the onus of having so dealt with the 
 boy and his ideas as to have practically encouraged him in 
 his attitude of irreconcilable revolt. But it was difficult 
 to say this to the Rector. It was rather difficult to say 
 anything to him; he said so much, and at such length, him- 
 self. It was clear, at least, that he himself would not have 
 encouraged the boy in his antagonism, and that must be 
 enough. He could tell Gosset so with a clear conscience. 
 
 He accompanied the Rector to the door, and they parted 
 with friendly words. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 SOME CONCLUSIONS 
 
 The Rector was staying for the two nights he was In 
 Roding with George. Percy Gosset had gone back to his 
 father's house, where the reconciliation, largely owing to 
 his mother's influence, was more complete than might have 
 been supposed. He had been in church that evening, and 
 Gosset had accepted his going there with unusual meekness. 
 The hoy had held his own. The attitude which had struck 
 Mrs. Merrow as so offensive had been effective with his 
 father, who, like many disputatious men, had intervals of 
 enervation, in which he ran away from all discussion, and 
 exhibited a mild and yielding temper. But he only showed 
 this quality to those who " stood up to him," and Percy had 
 stood up to him from the time of receiving his letter, and 
 only consented to spend his last week or two under the 
 paternal roof if his right to independent action were recog- 
 nised. Gosset had complained to Dr. Merrow about his 
 intentions, but he had said little to his son, and was pre- 
 pared to accept them as he had accepted all the rest. He 
 was tired of the fray, and wanted it ended. 
 
 The Rector and George walked home together after 
 church. The evening light was still in the sky, and as 
 they walked down the High Street together, they saw Miss 
 Budd at her dining-room window, looking up and down 
 the street. A few weeks before she would have allowed 
 herself to be noticed, and indeed insisted upon it; but now 
 she turned away as they came within view, and it was still 
 light enough to see that she tossed her head as she did so. 
 
 *26 
 
SOME CONCLUSIONS 227 
 
 " By-the-by, I have made a dreadful discovery," said 
 the Rector. " When I went over the house this morning I 
 discovered a dirty envelope addressed to Miss Budd in 
 Sylvia's writing. It was one of those envelopes that they 
 used for sending out invitations to the ball, and I've not 
 the slightest doubt that it contains Miss Budd's card. It 
 must have fallen down behind something, and lain there 
 ever since." 
 
 " Then that accounts for her not going," said George. 
 
 " I'm afraid it does," said the Rector with a laugh. 
 " You always put things in a very clear light, my dear 
 George. And I'm inclined to think it accounts for a good 
 many things. I never quite understood why she should 
 have taken such violent offence against us. Your cousin 
 and I spoke to her plainly, but she is not the sort of woman 
 to throw us over for that, and I have been quite expecting 
 her to make advances before this. Now I think it is pretty 
 plain that she v^s already offended with us before she 
 came that evening, and of course, if there had been noth- 
 ing else, she would have been vastly annoyed at being left 
 out of a thing like that if she thought it had been done 
 fti purpose. Here's a pretty coil! What's to be done 
 now?" 
 
 " But Mrs. Stenning told me, now I remember, that she 
 had had to refuse at the last moment, on account of rheu- 
 matism or something, and it was a great disappoint- 
 ment to her, although she said she hadn't much wanted to 
 
 go- 
 
 "Did she? Well, perhaps Sylvia knew she had lost 
 this card and sent her another one. But, no, I don't think 
 so. I remember her saying that Miss Budd hadn't answered, 
 and we took it as being intended to mark her sense of our 
 unworthiness. Very likely she wouldn't like Mrs. Sten- 
 ning to know that she hadn't been invited. Poor thing! 
 
228 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 I'm afraid she must have suffered a great deal. She likes 
 to be in everything that is going on. I can't help wishing 
 it hadn't happened, and just at that particular time." 
 
 " Shall you explain to her what's happened ? " 
 
 " Well, I don't know. / shan't. We'll see what your 
 Cousin Ruth thinks about it. I should be inclined to leave 
 it alone. She has behaved quite rudely ever since, and 
 has certainly gone into partnership, so to speak, with Mrs. 
 Morton, to try and score a point off us. Oh, my dear 
 George, what a burden that whole business has been ! And 
 what a lot of harm spite and jealousy can accomplish. Here 
 are Gosset and Miss Budd, both making more than usual 
 professions of religion, and neither of them can act in a 
 simple matter of honesty and good feeling as you'd expect 
 of a sensible person who made no professions at all. It 
 sometimes makes me wonder what's the good of it all; for 
 it's always happening. I think it's the greatest trial to one's 
 faith that there is, — how so many people can fulfil all the 
 rules laid down, and yet apparently get no good from it 
 whatever." 
 
 " I suppose one learns, as one goes on, that it isn't a ques- 
 tion of fulfilling rules." 
 
 " I mean more than a mechanical fulfilment of rules. 
 There's Miss Budd comes regularly to the altar. Why? 
 She knows it's the means of receiving spiritual grace. One 
 is bound to believe that that is why she comes. And she 
 is too well instructed not to make an examination of her- 
 self before she comes. If she does that honestly, as she 
 knows equally well that she must, we believe that she will 
 gain the grace she comes for. But does she? She goes away 
 as much at enmity with us, for instance, as ever. She 
 intrigues against us. She lets her spite rule her. 
 
 " If she doesn't confess and repent of a bad spirit, before 
 she comes, it would be because she doesn't realise that she 
 
SOME CONCLUSIONS 229 
 
 has it. She would deceive herself in what she does, think- 
 ing she was acting from good motives. 
 
 " No doubt she does grossly deceive herself in that way, 
 or she certainly couldn't come at all, believing what she 
 does. But then one asks, if the motive is right, might one 
 not expect that the grace would not be denied, but would 
 show itself in illuminating the mistake — ^would work in the 
 spirit, so that the wrong — the sin — that the recipient was 
 blind to, would, perhaps gradually, be made plain? That's 
 the problem, dear George. We believe that the grace is 
 something outside of ourselves. We ought not to be satis- 
 fied with the belief that only just so far as a sinner sees 
 his own sins he gets grace to correct them." 
 
 " It seems to me," said George, looking out over the 
 broad stretch of quiet twilit country, to which they had 
 now come, " that the doctrine of conversion — of a real 
 change of heart — is the only one that meets the case. After 
 that the sacrament is a food that nourishes the soul." 
 
 The Rector seemed to have only half listened to him. 
 " Well, there's Gosset," he said, " who would certainly 
 claim to have experienced conversion. He also follows 
 his rule, — on occasions. I can't honestly say more than 
 that, for one is bound to judge a man by the light he 
 shows, and for once that one has known him do a con- 
 scientious thing, like that giving up his license — possibly, 
 to some extent, in his accepting this marriage — one has 
 known him do a dozen things that an honourable straight- 
 forward man of the world wouldn't do. This talk of ' vital 
 religion ' that's always on his lips — he means something 
 by it. He means that he claims to put himself in closer 
 relation with God than he thinks the ordinary churchgoer 
 does when he comes and repeats prayers twice a Sunday. 
 He thinks he does that; any mental effort he makes is 
 made to that end, unless he's an absolute hypocrite, which he 
 
230 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 isn't. But where's the leading — the guidance?. Are we 
 to believe that it really shows itself in making him give up 
 selling wines and spirits, which nobody will drink less of 
 because they have to go to Barrow for them instead of 
 him, and hides itself in much more real things. We know 
 what the fruits of the Spirit are. They're much higher than 
 any action that arises out of a mere opinion, even if it is 
 an action of some degree of self-sacrifice. Mightn't we ex- 
 pect that they would show themselves, as a result of putting 
 one's self honestly in connection with the Holy Spirit, how^ 
 ever blind one might be? But — love, peace, long-suffering, 
 gentleness !— one wouldn't expect them from Gosset. Well, 
 here we are! It's a puzzle, George. We've got to see that 
 we don't make the same mistakes, at any rate." 
 
 George was anxious to hear how the Rector had got on 
 with Dr. Merrow, and how he had been struck by him. 
 The information came while they were at supper. 
 
 " Well, I saw Dr. Merrow. I think I opened his eyes 
 a little for him. I don't want to make mischief between 
 him and Gosset, but as he has come just at the time when 
 we are unfortunately mixed up with Gosset, it is imperative 
 that he shouldn't be allowed to take his opinion of us from 
 him. I told him exactly how matters had gone, and the 
 end of it was that he seemed satisfied to leave it alone." 
 
 " You mean about Percy being confirmed ? " 
 
 "Yes. He's a broad-minded man, George, for a Dis- 
 senter, though a little tinged with their unnatural phrase- 
 ology. I assured him that we didn't make a habit of get- 
 ting the young Dissenters over to us, and I think he'll take 
 the hint and leave us alone. In fact, he said as much. Of 
 course, people will go and hear him preach. I don't mind 
 that. But I doubt whether he'll make much more differ- 
 ence to us than old Thomson did in the long run. He'll be 
 over their heads." 
 
SOME CONCLUSIONS 231 
 
 " He wasn't over people's heads when I heard him," said 
 George, vaguely disappointed at the evident absence of 
 impression made upon the Rector by his visit. " He was 
 as simple as possible in his language, and in what he preached 
 about." 
 
 "Well, that sort of simplicity is above most people's 
 heads. I don't deny it to him, after what I've read of his. 
 It is a high quality, and would come home to you and me. 
 But to Gosset and people like that it wouldn't seem much. 
 That Welsh humbug they got down a year or two ago — 
 that's the sort of thing they like. If Merrow had been 
 that sort of preacher I think he would have drawn people 
 away from us, and given us trouble in other ways beside. 
 I'm Very glad he isn't. There didn't seem to me to be any 
 fewer people in church this morning than usual. What 
 about last Sunday?" 
 
 " About the same. Do you think Merrow thinks that I 
 acted in any way I shouldn't have done about Percy ? " 
 
 " Oh, no! I think he is quite satisfied now that we have 
 done nothing more than we were entitled to do. After 
 all, there's a limit to one's toleration, or whatever you like 
 to call it. We do believe that we are right and they are 
 wrong. We shouldn't be justified in refusing to accept 
 any one who wanted to come over to us, only for the 
 sake of avoiding offence. It would be the same for them; 
 and of course Gosset has actually put pressure on people 
 before now. Merrow won't do that; he's too much of a 
 gentleman." 
 
 " Did he' say anything about coming to see me ? I 
 called on him, you know, nearly a fortnight ago." 
 
 " Oh, he'll come, all right. He hasn't been well. His 
 wife seems to look after him very carefully. I wasn't very 
 much taken with her, but I should think she's a good sort 
 of woman. I'm afraid she won't have much in common 
 
232 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 with your Cousin Ruth, though. I shouldn't wonder if we 
 didn't almost forget they were there after a bit. We shall 
 do all that's necessary to show that we want to be friendly, 
 but their life is so different from ours that there's not likely 
 to be any close friendship. By-the-by, they told me about 
 their son. He's putting up for Parliament, too— as a 
 Radical, no doubt, though they didn't say so. A county 
 constituency, too, and hopes to get in. Seems odd, doesn't 
 it, that Ralph should be trying for a seat in London, and 
 ' this young fellow, who, I suppose, has lived in London all 
 his life, should be hoping to represent an agricultural con- 
 stituency? It shows the topsy-turveydom of politics nowa- 
 days. He will probably be a good deal more advanced 
 than his father, and we shall have to look out for ourselves 
 when he comes down here. The whole thing is a little 
 bit of a bore, George. I suppose it's a good thing for us 
 to be shaken up a bit sometimes; but we were really get- 
 ting on very well." 
 
 A week or two later Percy Gosset was quietly married 
 to Jane Morton, very early one morning in Roding Church. 
 Morton, becomingly subdued to the occasion, gave his 
 daughter away. He had consented to do this if he was 
 not required to meet Gosset, for whom he still expressed a 
 scathing contempt; and as Gosset had had no wish to be 
 present, the matter had been easily arranged. Mrs. Gosset,. 
 a gentle meek-looking woman, was there, crying softly to 
 herself throughout the service. Lady Ruth was beside her, 
 and cried a little, too. Otherwise the church was almost 
 empty. It was known that the Rector would object to 
 people coming merely out of curiosity, and there were few to 
 be found in Roding willing to brave the look he would 
 have given them for disregarding his wishes. 
 
 It was rather a sad little service. The poor young bride, 
 her fresh country girlhood already changed to the pathetic 
 
SOME CONCLUSIONS , 23 J 
 
 look of coming motherhood, was pale and serious. Lady 
 Ruth kissed her afterwards, and she broke down and clung 
 to her, and not to her own mother, who was resplendent 
 in a new bonnet. Mrs. Gosset kissed her, too,' and she 
 told her that she would try to be a good wife and mother. 
 
 Percy Gosset sailed on the same day for Canada. She 
 was to follow him in six months' time, with their child. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 CHARLES MERKOW 
 
 One afternoon in July, when the country round Roding 
 was beginning to take on its rather monotonous dress of 
 summer greenery, which it would wear until the autumn 
 touched its embosomed woods with gold and russet, Charles 
 Merrow got out of the London train and drove to " The 
 Limes," with luggage enough to indicate that he was going 
 to make something of a stay. It was his first visit since 
 Dr. and Mrs. Merrow had settled there. He had been 
 spending his time in Germany, looking into all sorts of 
 questions, social and political, and not disdaining the lighter 
 aspects of travel. 
 
 He was a fortunate young man. His mother's money, 
 which would be his some day, while not running into the 
 figures sometimes whispered in confidence by Gosset, was 
 ample enough to relieve him of the necessity of keeping his 
 nose to the grindstone of a profession; and since his tastes 
 ran to pursuits in which he could not be said to be wasting 
 his time, enough of it had been at his service since he had 
 taken his degree and been called to the bar to enable him 
 to go where he liked in the world, and to do what he liked. 
 
 He was fortunate in other ways. He had brains above 
 the ordinary, and willingness to use them. He had some- 
 thing of his father's idealism, but it was tempered by a 
 good deal of his mother's hard-headed rationality; he had 
 her sound physical health, too, but his energy was not so 
 restless. The amiability of his expression, which gave 
 significance to features neither handsome nor plain, was 
 
 234 
 
CHARLES MERROW 235 
 
 nature's adaptation to a character less rarely conceived of 
 the peculiar kind of piercing sweetness that was sometimes 
 seen on Dr. Merrow's face; but it was difficult to find 
 the source in either parent of the humour that lurked about 
 Charles Merrow's eyes and mouth; for Mrs. Merrow was 
 devoid of it, and her husband's humour was of a childlike 
 kind that showed happiness, perhaps, but would not have 
 availed towards lightening any times of stress. 
 
 Charles Merrow's attitude towards the world around 
 him appeared to be one of amused tolerance, rather rare 
 in one of his years, which numbered seven and twenty. 
 Behind it were convictions of some force, which found 
 expression in his speeches and writings. But he could 
 never disguise his liking for mankind at large, even when 
 represented by his political opponents. No doubt he 
 inherited this trait from his father ; but it was of a different 
 quality. Dr. Merrow loved his fellow-humans because 
 he saw something divine in each one of them. His son 
 hardly saw that, but found most of them likeable. It 
 followed, therefore, that he was very generally liked him- 
 self. 
 
 His life, except for its background, was very much like 
 that of Ralph French. It is a truism to say that money is 
 a great social solvent, but in the case of a young man of 
 good address and conventional education it seems capable 
 of breaking down almost all barriers, even a little of it. 
 Dr. Merrow was the son of a poor nonconformist minister, 
 and had gained his education by his own efforts. His grand- 
 father was a shadowy figure, of a social status probably 
 not higher than that of Gosset. Mrs. Merrow's ancestry 
 was hardly more definite. She came of people engaged, as 
 far back as they were known, which was not very far, in 
 commerce, who had died without leaving any mark behind 
 them, but occasionally a little money. Her father had 
 
236 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 turned a small business into a large one, and I-eft a good 
 deal of money. Otherwise his life had been of no more 
 significance than that of his forbears. 
 
 Compare Charles Merrow's ancestry with that of Ralph 
 French. On his mother's side Ralph had behind him gen- 
 eration after generation of men and women who had played 
 a leading part in their world, some of whom had risen to 
 eminence, perhaps most of whom had at least left behind 
 them some sign of their having existed; which, if you go 
 back a few years beyond living memory, is a sufficiently rare 
 thing in itself. On his father's side, besides a few tentacles 
 stretching back and branching out in the same way, arising 
 from such marriages as the Rector had made, there were 
 two centuries of wealth and station, which had preserved 
 at least a name, and usually a character, to each unit of 
 which the successive generations had been composed. By 
 the accident of his uncle being unmarried, Ralph enjoyed 
 already some of the solid advantages of an assured place 
 in the world. But for that, it is difficult to see where the 
 fact of conspicuous descent helped him against the fortuitous 
 combination of brains and a sufficiency of money as repre- 
 sented by Charles Merrow. The prizes for which both of 
 them were running were as attainable by the one as by 
 the other. Even the lesser rewards, to be enjoyed in the 
 meantime — opportunities for social intercourse, sport, travel, 
 art — ^were almost equal. There are none of these nowadays 
 that a young man of attractive personality and an adequate 
 income cannot enjoy. Charles Merrow was sociably in- 
 clined, and had invitations in plenty. There were no big 
 houses of his relations to go to, as there were in Ralph's 
 case; but there were plenty of others. If they had been 
 guests at one of them together, they would have been there 
 on equal terms; except that Ralph might not have been 
 discouraged from making love to one of the daughters of 
 
CHARLES MERROW 237 
 
 the house, and if Charles had done so he would probably 
 not have been asked again. 
 
 Tea was set under the big limes in the garden. That 
 itch for improvement which is aroused by the possession of 
 a house in the country had so far affected Dr. and Mrs. 
 Merrow that they had had a large square of ground levelled 
 and floored with brick, and a garden house erected^; and 
 here Dr. Merrow encamped himself with books and papers 
 whenever the weather invited him. 
 
 " Why, father, you're looking better than I've ever 
 known you to 'look before," his son said to him. 
 
 "I am a great deal better, dear Charles," he said. 
 " It is the country air, and the quiet. I think that if 
 we had gone to live in the country within reach of 
 London a few years ago I shouldn't have had to give up 
 work." 
 
 " You wouldn't have been able to take it so quietly as 
 you do here," said Mrs. Merrow. " I am glad we made the 
 complete change. It has given us everything we could have 
 hoped from it." 
 
 "And you, mother? You really like burying yourself 
 in the country?" 
 
 She laughed. " I am quite happy,'' she said. " There 
 is more to be said for it than I thought." 
 
 " We mustn't say that we are buried," said Dr. Merrow. 
 " We have more people living about us than we could pos- 
 sibly get to know if we lived in Roding for a lifetime. 
 One gets to know them better, too, than one's neighbours 
 in London." 
 
 " Well, now, tell me who there is. I'm glad you've made 
 friends. You ask me about French. I didn't know him 
 at Cambridge. I looked him up and found he was a fresh- 
 man when I was in my third year. But I think I just 
 remember him; he was rather a good oar, and rowed in 
 
238 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 Trials the term after I went down. What are the rectory 
 people like?" 
 
 There was the slightest pause. "We don't see a great 
 deal of them," said Mrs. Merrow. " Lady Ruth French 
 called on me, and I called on her. They asked us to dine, 
 but your father was not going out in the evenings then, 
 and we had to refuse. She has been a great deal in London 
 since then, with her daughter, but I believe they are both 
 of them at home again now." 
 
 "You didn't like her, mother," said Charles with an 
 accusing smile. 
 
 " My dear boy," she said, " it isn't a question of liking 
 or non-liking; we have absolutely nothing in common. She 
 is a lady of fashion — ^very pretty, very charming, and I— 
 well, I'm not a lady of fashion." 
 
 " TTien you didn't get on with her, mother. I can see 
 quite well that you didn't get on with her." 
 
 " I didn't try very hard. I think she tried. She was 
 as nice as possible. When you say I don't like her, that 
 isn't true. But, you see, we haven't come down here to mix 
 ourselves up with the county people and their amusements. 
 We should look rather foolish, in our position, if we tried 
 to do anything of the sort, and of course we don't want to, 
 in the least. We want to be quiet and go on with aS' 
 much of our work as we can." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know. But you don't want to cut yourself 
 off from people entirely." 
 
 " You see," she went on, " it is not as if Lady Ruth were 
 the ordinary clergyman's wife, interested in her husband's 
 work, and busying herself about it. In that case we might 
 have had something to talk about, and there might have 
 been things we could have done together — if she had wished 
 it, of course; the suggestion wouldn't have come from me. 
 But she seems to think it is rather amusing that she should 
 
CHARLES MERROW 339 
 
 be a clergyman's wife at all. She laughed when I asked 
 her if she had a district, and said that she had tried visiting 
 when she was first married, but that she didn't know what 
 to say to the people and they were always taking her in; 
 so her husband stopped her, and she had been much happier 
 ever since." 
 
 Dr. Merrow laughed. " She can't do her visiting to or- 
 der," he said. " But she does visit her friends amongst thp 
 poor; and they like to see her. I haven't met Lady Ruth 
 yet. I want to. My own dear people have nothing but 
 affection and admiration for her. Your mother admires 
 her as much as anybody, but she cannot quite approve of 
 her apparent lack of seriousness." 
 
 Mrs. Merrow looked vexed for a moment, and then 
 laughed, too. " I said that she was a very attractive woman, 
 and I meant it," she said. " If I were a poor person in 
 Roding, it would give me a good deal more pleasure to 
 see Lady Ruth coming in at the door with her pretty clothes 
 than to see — myself, for instance. But I'm not a poor 
 person. If we meet at all, it has to be on equal terms, 
 and as neither of us is in the least interested in what chiefly 
 interests the other — well, we shall meet occasionally and be 
 friendly when we meet, but there it is likely to end." 
 
 Charles accepted this for the moment, with reservations. 
 He was very fond of his mother, who had always treated 
 him with a large generosity, both mentally and materially, 
 and he was jealous for her. He had known, better than 
 either of his parents, the dangers to their comfort that would 
 come from settling down in an environment so far re- 
 moved from that to which they had been accustomed. He 
 had pressed on them the alternative house, because it was 
 not so surrounded by undiluted squiredom and Toryism, 
 but he had not given that reason. Now he thought he 
 saw his mother beginning to realize what it meant, and was 
 
240 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 flustered by the discovery. With her straightforward chai'- 
 acter and solid achievements, she was a woman of mark, 
 if she were placed where they could tell. They had been 
 her passport into any society she might wish to enter. But 
 they would not carry her far in the sort of society that 
 Lady Ruth so well adorned, which she had never had the 
 least desire to enter. Had it already begun to come home 
 to her that she could not treat it with such entire absence 
 of consideration as she had done before; that she must in 
 some measure allow for its existence, since it would be all 
 around her; and that it carried more weight than she had 
 ever been disposed to admit? If so, it would be bound 
 to set her at issue with herself, to find that her own out- 
 standing qualities were unhonoured, when they had hitherto 
 made her life so full, and that she had planted hel'self in 
 a world where she would be affected by a kind of superi- 
 ority she had never acknowledged. i 
 She would feel it much more than his father. Dr. 
 Merrow would dream his dreams and see his visions if he 
 were to be placed for a time in the exclusive society of a 
 set of smart racing men, and would find something essen- 
 tially lovable in them. He would make no demands of 
 community of pursuits or interests, wherever he might be 
 placed. Common humanity would form his basis. Charles 
 could allow his humour to play safely and affectionately 
 round his father's capacity for making way with the most 
 unlikely subjects. He had not infrequently seen preliminary 
 ■disapprobation — at the very existence of such a person as 
 a dissenting minister — ^melted to abashed concealment of such 
 feeling, and sometimes to the warmest esteem for this par- 
 ticular representative of a despised order. During his 
 undergraduate days he had made various experiments in 
 introductions. A fellow-member of his college crew, some- 
 what notorious for loose living, in a society where loose 
 
CHARLES MERROW 241 
 
 living is not the rule, in spite of loose talk, had told Charles, 
 after spending an evening in Dr. Merrow's company, that 
 he was damned lucky to have such a father, and he would 
 be a brute if he ever gave him any trouble. It was only 
 the men who were trying to fit themselves into a set of 
 opinions, to which they imagined Dr. Merrow to be op- 
 posed, who seemed to hold out against him; and after one 
 of these had tried to draw him into argument, Charles had 
 come definitely to the conclusion, to which he had been for 
 some time tending, that opinions on ecclesiastical matters 
 were the devil, and he would have as little as possible to do 
 with them on his own account. 
 
 "What about the Rector himself?" he now asked. 
 
 Again there was the slightest pause, but it was Dr. Mer- 
 row who answered. " He is a man who gives himself up 
 whole-heartedly to the work he has in hand," he said, " a 
 kindly, considerate man. I assure you we are very proud 
 of him in Roding. We like his handsome aristocratic air. 
 It does us good to see him walking about the streets, and 
 he always has a nice word for gentle or simple. He fulfils 
 the ideal of ' a gentleman in every parish,' and I think there 
 is a good deal to be said for it, if they were all as charitable 
 and painstaking as our Rector. We always talk about him 
 as ' The Rector ' here. He is the figure-head of Roding, 
 and a very fine figure-head." 
 
 There was no spice of irony in all this, although Charles 
 knew very well that the ideal of a gentleman in every parish 
 was far from being his father's, if it was to stand for any 
 part of the spirit he wished to see quickened into life. 
 
 " But, dear Charles," Dr. Merrow went on, " why do 
 you ask us exclusively about our highly-placed neighbours? 
 I begin to suspect you of Whiggery. If you must leave 
 the paths in which I tried to bring you up, Charles, don't 
 become a Whig, I beseech you; become a dear, stupid, 
 
242 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 crusted Tory. They have great virtues; at their best they 
 treat their poorer neighbours as human beings." 
 
 " They don't give them much of a chance in the mass." 
 
 "Ah, but you can't treat any body of people exclusively 
 in the mass. It is the mistake a good many of us make. 
 Who thinks of himself as one of a mass? I have never met 
 any such person." 
 
 " My experience is that the treating of the pdor with 
 the sort of friendliness that's made so much of is a very 
 poor substitute for freedom and independence. Cheap 
 enough, too, when there's everything on the one side, and 
 nothing on the other." 
 
 " Well, we're not talking about that for the moment, 
 and I don't say it should be a substitute for anything. I 
 only say that it's a good thing in itself. It is a very good 
 thing not to count all your friends amongst those who wear 
 black coats and live in comfortable houses. I am making 
 many friends in Roding, Charles. They are the dearest 
 people, always pleased to see me. They tell me all about 
 themselves, and what they are doing, and what they are 
 hoping for. You don't get to that sort of intimacy when 
 you dine out in big houses. And their lives are of such 
 variety. I am getting initiated into a whole new world, 
 even in this small corner of it. One of my friends is a 
 cabinet-maker, and he likes to talk to me while he works. 
 Do you know how those patterns of different coloured woods 
 are made, Charles? It is very interesting. I'll take you 
 to see him some day. Another goes out and works in other 
 people's houses by the day. She is a widow with two little 
 children. Her life, which she takes as if it were the most 
 natural in the world, makes me ashamed of my comforts 
 and my idleness. She thanks me for coming to see her 
 when she has a moment to spare — sajrs it does her good to 
 see me. The good, tender, courageous soul — she little knows 
 
CHARLES MERROW 243 
 
 what good it does me to be taken into her friendship. Oh, 
 dear Charles, I'm learning the truth of that saying, 
 ' Blessed are the poor.' You can't learn that lesson in kings' 
 houses. I am very happy living here." 
 
 After tea Dr. Merrow was left to finish letters for the 
 post, and Charles and his mother went out to stroll up 
 and down together by the river. A gate had been made in 
 a corner of the garden, which led to the meadow and across 
 it to the path which ran from Roding to Farncombe. 
 It was hardly shorter than the road, and was little 
 used except by those who wanted a pleasant saunter. The 
 flowers and the grass were high on the river banks 
 now, the water-weeds swayed in the shallows, swifts 
 and swallows darted and swooped across the gently flow- 
 ing stream. 
 
 " Your father has come to love the river," said Mrs. 
 Merrow. " He walks up and down here very often. Oh, 
 Charles, I am so glad we came here. It has turned out so 
 well for him. You see the improvement, don't you? It is 
 plain for anybody to see ? " 
 
 She spoke anxiously. No one, not even her son, had 
 been allowed to see the awful abyss of terror that had shud- 
 dered before her for months. But now that the strain was 
 over and she was daring to breathe freely once more, she 
 wanted support for her hopes. 
 
 Charles slipped his arm into hers. " He's a different 
 man altogether," he said. " I have never seen him looking 
 so well since I can remember." 
 
 " Ah, well," she said with a sigh of relief. " That makes 
 up for everything." 
 
 " Dear old mother ! " he said. " You haven't got quite 
 used to it yet, have you ? " 
 
 "Oh, what does that matter," she said, "if he's happy? 
 And he is happy here; much more so than I should have 
 
244 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 thought possible. He loves his little flock; you heard what 
 he said about them. I never thought he would take to it 
 all as he has; it is so different from what he has been accus- 
 tomed to. At first I tried to keep him to himself, as I used 
 to have to, if he was to get through what he had to do. 
 But he is always so much wiser than I am. He said that 
 he must at least see all of them once in their own homes, 
 and, of course, he made himself loved wherever he went. I 
 don't know whether these people are more warm-hearted 
 than usual; I know so little about it all, though, of course, 
 I've visited and visited, in London; but they gave him the 
 kind of welcome that he liked, and now he spends a great 
 deal of his time going in and out amongst them. He really 
 looks upon them all as friends, even those that are better 
 off than the rest, who are always more difficult than the 
 poor." 
 
 " Do a lot of people come to hear him preach ? " 
 
 " Not nearly so many as you would think. I was sur- 
 prised at it, at first. But he does not seem to think of that, 
 or want it very much. He preaches the simplest kind of 
 sermons — more like talks, addressed to the people who belong 
 to us, inspired by what he is learning day by day of their 
 lives and their needs. It is very restful, and very beautiful 
 too ; and extraordinary, how completely he has adapted him- 
 self. But he always goes beyond what one could have 
 imagined. There is nobody like him." 
 
 " Tell me about the Rector. Not exactly spiritually 
 minded, I should imagine, though father made the best of 
 him." 
 
 "He always makes the best of everybody. But you can 
 translate what he said. It's all work, work, work, and self- 
 satisfaction. I'm getting rather tired of all this talk of 
 work, that the Church prides itself on so. It isn't work with 
 your father; it's pure love." 
 
CHARLES MERROW 245 
 
 " He shows himself friendly? " 
 
 " Mr. French ? Oh, yes. Of course, through it all you 
 can see that he is rather proud of himself for being friendly." 
 
 " Is he inclined to be jealous? " 
 
 " I don't think so. The Church is everything here, and 
 father makes no sort of attempt to dispute the supremacy on 
 which he prides himself." 
 
 " But father must have made some difference. Surely, 
 more people go to the chapel than used to ! " 
 
 " The congregations are always increasing. Quite a lot 
 of people walk in from the villages round on Sunday evenings, 
 and a good many Roding people come occasionally that used 
 not to come. But I don't think the membership has in- 
 creased at all — or only a very little. Of course, if father 
 liked to make an effort! But he is content with his num- 
 bers. No doubt Mr. French thinks that it is all owing 
 to his superiority that more people go to church than to 
 chapel." 
 
 Charles laughed at her, and pressed her arm affection- 
 ately. " Well, whatever you may say about Lady Ruth,", 
 he said, " you don't like her husband, mother." 
 
 " No, I don't. It seems to me extraordinary that a man 
 like that, with nothing to lift him out of the ruck, except 
 his mere relationships, should think that he is on an equality 
 with such a man as your father, let alone superior to him, 
 as he does." 
 
 Charles felt a little sad. Even when allowances were 
 made for his mother's loyal jealousy, it was plain that the 
 Rector was not one of those who had succumbed to his 
 father's rare personality, or perhaps was capable of recognis- 
 ing it. 
 
 "What about other people?" he asked. "There's a 
 curate, isn't there, who was also at Cambridge with me, 
 . though I don't remember him ? " 
 
246 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 " Mr. Barton. He came to see your father directly after 
 we arrived, and before he was seeing anybody. He hasn't 
 been near us since." 
 
 " Did father return his call? " 
 
 "Return his call? He just came to ask after him; the 
 rectory people were away. I think Mr. French- asked him 
 to come. I don't much want to see him again. There was 
 rather an unpleasant occurrence here, which I don't want 
 to go into. But there was a son of Mr. Gosset's whom he 
 got hold of, and persuaded to join the church. At least, 
 Mr. French says he didn't persuade him. But at any rate, 
 he prepared him for confirmation, as they call it. He's 
 about five and twenty, and spends most of his time on horse- 
 back. I don't want your father to be bothered with that 
 sort of young man. He would probably try to get up an 
 argument with him about the Athanasian Creed, or some- 
 thing of that sort." 
 
 " Are there any other people you have got to know ? " 
 
 " There's the doctor and his wife. He smells of tobacco, 
 and she is a harmless sort of scarecrow without an idea in 
 her head. And the master of the grammar school and his 
 wife — neither of them very interesting. Then there's Mr. 
 Curtis, the vicar of Farncombe. Your father likes him, and 
 his wife is a sensible sort of woman, who was a governess 
 once, she told me. I can talk to her. One or two other 
 people have called, and we've returned their calls. It's 
 likely to end there, as far as I can see. They all live some 
 way off, and there's none of them who is really worth know- 
 ing, though no doubt they think they are." 
 
 Charles felt disappointment. His mother had adapted 
 herself even less than he had thought she would; and the 
 review in which she had passed her neighbours was quite 
 unlike her usual way of referring to people. She had always 
 had such an abundance oi congenial acquaintances that it 
 
CHARLES MERROW 247 
 
 had not been worth while criticising the people she had not 
 cared about. 
 
 " There, now, I've told you about everybody," she said 
 in a different tone. " The fact is that I never expected to 
 find people here who could make up for all the friends we 
 have parted ourselves from. I thought we should be quite 
 contented to live our own life and to have some of our 
 own friends to stay with us occasionally, as we have had, 
 and shall have. Your father is quite contented. He has 
 made real friends amongst his own people, and doesn't miss 
 anything. And if he is contented that is enough for me. 
 Still, Charles, as you have surprised me into grumbling, I 
 will confess that I do miss seeing people, and what makes 
 me miss it is that one seems to be expected to take the un- 
 congenial people one does have to to see in place of the others. 
 I never thought of that, and I really can't make up my 
 mind to do it." 
 
 " I think you'll fall into it, mother," he said. " You 
 don't expect to find everybody very interesting in the coun- 
 try; but there are always lots of nice people amongst them, 
 nice in different ways. You don't want to make close friends 
 with any of them, perhaps; but they make a background of 
 acquaintances." 
 
 " Yes, I see that that is what all this coming and going 
 amongst country neighbours means. It's a method of passing 
 the time. Obviously, even a woman like Lady Ruth, who 
 has no intellectual interests, can't find all the people she 
 is continually going to see and take meals with and so on — 
 she can't find them all equally congenial. Well, I don't 
 care about wasting my time in that way. My life has 
 always been a serious one, and what little time I have had 
 for social pleasures I have expected to give me real pleasure, 
 and added interests. I have enjoyed meeting new people, 
 and there was always the chance of meeting somebody that 
 
248 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 one was really glad to meet. What would be ofEered one 
 here, if one cared to take it, would be a very poor substitute 
 for all that. I don't think it is worth it, and as long as 
 your father is happy I shall be quite content to let it all 
 go by, and live in a very retired w^." 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE YOUNG MAN 
 
 The Rector was drinking a cup of tea alone in his study. 
 Lady Ruth arid Sylvia were out; Joyce and Eddie were 
 playing in the garden. 
 
 A maid came in with a card. " Mr. Harry Evans." No 
 address. 
 
 The Rector looked puzzled. " Who is he ? " he asked. 
 
 " A young gentleman, sir. I think he has come by train. 
 He has a little bag, and I thought he was the piano-tuner. 
 But he said he wanted to see you, sir." 
 
 The Rector frowned, possibly at her volubility. She was 
 new in service, had been a favourite of his as a child in 
 the schools, and was doing temporary duty for the parlour- 
 maid. 
 
 " Show him in here. 
 
 The frown did not leave his face when she went out. He 
 rose and seated himself at his writing-table. 
 
 A young man came into the room, dressed in^ a suit of 
 black. He seemed to be suffering from acute nervousness. 
 He had very black hair, rather long, and very black eyes. 
 The maid's guess at his calling showed some observation on 
 her part. But he was not a piano-tuner. 
 
 The maid allowed time, before she shut the door, to hear 
 the pleasant greeting which would put a stranger, whoever 
 he was, at his ease. She admired her master, and liked to 
 hear him speak to people. 
 
 But no such greeting came. The Rector motioned the 
 young man to a seat. "You wanted to see me?" he said. 
 
 249 
 
250 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 The young man cleared his throat nervously, and dropped 
 his eyes. " I come from Llanruthin," he said. 
 
 The Rector rose and closed the glass doors leading into 
 the garden, where the happy voices of his children were 
 heard at their play. When he took his seat again, his face 
 was white, but firmly set. He looked at the young man 
 with searching eyes, and there was aversion in them. " Tell 
 me straight out who you are, and what you want," he 
 said. 
 
 The young man moistened his lips; his eyes were still 
 downcast, and he played with his soft felt hat, round which 
 there was a band of crape. 
 
 " My mother died a fortnight ago," he said. " Her name 
 was Mary Evans. She had always told me my father was 
 dead. But before she died she told me the truth." 
 
 "What did she tell you?" 
 
 " She told me that when she was a young girl living at 
 Llanruthin, you came down there with a party of young 
 gentlemen from Oxford, with a tutor,. for the summer; and 
 — that I was your son.' 
 
 There was a long pause. The Rector sat with his eyes 
 on the desk in front of him. The young man plucked up 
 courage to raise his eyes to his face, but it told him nothing. 
 " I can give you particulars, if you like," he said. " I've 
 got letters with me, written by solicitors on behalf of Sir 
 Horace French." 
 
 "What did those letters say? I suppose you have read 
 them." 
 
 " Yes. My mother told me to. They were to pay her 
 money." 
 
 " On what conditions? " 
 
 The answer came unwillingly. " On condition that she 
 made no further claims." 
 
 "Was that all?" 
 
THE YOUNG MAN 251 
 
 "And that she was not to make known who the father 
 of her child was." 
 
 " To anybody in particular? " , 
 
 " Not to the child itself if it lived." 
 
 " Never." 
 
 "No, never." 
 
 " And she accepted the money on those terms. In fact, 
 she swore to keep them. Is that so ? " 
 
 " Yes, she did. But on her death-bed she was in great 
 trouble " 
 
 "Wait a minute. Were there any other stipulations?" 
 
 " She could live anywhere she liked except in Llanruthin." 
 
 " The money was paid to her regularly. It was enough 
 for her to live on, and bring up her child." 
 
 " Yes, in a small way." 
 
 " In at least as good a way as she had lived in before, and 
 her parents had lived." 
 
 " She never said it wasn't enough." 
 
 " You say you come from Llanruthin. Did she live there 
 in spite of her undertaking? " 
 
 " She went back there when she thought she was dying. 
 She died there." 
 
 " How did the money come to her? " 
 
 " She was only there for two months. It would have 
 come to her at Swansea, where we had always lived." 
 
 Again there was a pause. Then the Rector asked : " Well, 
 what have you come to me for ? " 
 
 The young man moistened his lips again. He had seemed 
 to pluck up courage during this cross-examination, but now 
 his eyes fell again. 
 
 " I've never had a father," he said awkwardly. " I wanted 
 to see you, and tell you about myself." 
 
 The Rector's expression changed. He looked out of the 
 window and his face became sad. 
 
252 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 "Well, tell me about yourself," he said, in a voice in 
 which there was some kindness. 
 
 " My mother brought me up very respectably. She was 
 a good mother to me, and it was a great blow to me to learn 
 what she told me before she died." 
 
 " Tell me what she died of. I think It was very wrong 
 of her to break her pledged word, when she could no longer 
 suffer for it — ^very wrong towards me, and towards you. 
 But you say she died only a fortnight ago, and was a good 
 mother to you, for — how old are you ? " 
 
 " Thirty, nearly thirty-one. She'd been ill a long time. 
 It was cancer." 
 
 "Ah!" The trouble that was taking the place of sur- 
 prise and hostility on the Rector's face deepened. " Did 
 she have everything that she needed ? " he asked. 
 
 " She had two operations in Swansea, and she had a nurse 
 at the last." 
 
 "Could she afford to pay for all that?" 
 
 " The solicitors sent money for it. She was to have every- 
 thing that was necessary." 
 
 The Rector looked at him in some surprise, but turned 
 his head again, and made no comment on this statement. 
 
 " She thought you had told them to send it. That's why 
 she told me at the last. She thought you were still think- 
 ing kindly of her, and would like to hear about her, and 
 about me." 
 
 The Rector turned again and looked at him closely. His 
 expression was now kind, almost tender, but deeply troubled. 
 " You are a man," he said. " I can talk plainly to you. 
 When I was very much younger than you — hardly more 
 than a boy — idle and selfish and unthinking — I fell into 
 temptation, you know how. Such wrongs as I committed 
 can't be done away with, they can only be patched up. 
 Everything was done, when the truth had to be known — 
 
THE YOUNG MAN izss 
 
 to my father — that could be done, to mend the wrong to 
 your mother. She was satisfied, her parents were satisfied. 
 It was so arranged that the child that was to be born — that 
 you — should be brought up in such a way that the facts of 
 your birth should not be known, and you should not suffer 
 for them. You — and she — would be rather better circum- 
 stanced than if your mother had married in her own sphere, 
 and had been left a widow. This was done partly out of 
 justice to her, partly for my sake — so that a fault — a serious 
 fault — of my early youth should not wreck the whole of my 
 life. A bargain was made. It was kept on our side, it 
 seems to have been more than kept. It rested on your 
 mother's keeping her side whether I could carry out the 
 plans already made for me, whether I could occupy the posi- 
 tion I now occupy, whether I could marry, and my wife and 
 children should not suffer from a fault of mine long since 
 repented of. Can you see this? Can you see how little 
 likely I should be to wish to have the past brought up — 
 now after more than thirty years? " 
 
 The young man showed himself moved by his. He was 
 of an emotional temperament, and his eyes grew moist. " I 
 know it's a very dreadful thing all round," he said. " Some- 
 times I wish she hadn't told me anything." 
 
 The Rector's face changed again. " Why do you wish 
 that, only sometimes ? " he asked. " You say your mother 
 brought you up well. You look, and talk, as if you had 
 been better educated than — than she was. Surely, it would 
 have been better for you to have remained in ignorance." 
 
 The young man made no direct reply to this. A hint of 
 distrust showed itself in the Rector's face as he looked 
 closely at him. 
 
 " Mother wanted to bring me up for the ministry," he 
 said. " She determined on that after she got converted 
 herself. She did all she could for me. I did well at school, 
 
254 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 and went to college, and I did well there, but — well, it 
 wasn't anything bad — I got into mischief — and at the end 
 of it they put it off." 
 
 " Put what off? And what sort of mischief did you get 
 into? Speak plainly." His tone had reverted to that of 
 his earlier questions. 
 
 " I stayed out at night — only one night. There were 
 two or three of us in it. It was just before we should have 
 been taken into the ministry, and they said we must wait 
 for a year, and then come up again." 
 
 The aversion showed itself again now in the Rector's 
 eyes. " You must speak more plainly still," he said. " You 
 mean that two or three of you, who were just about to be 
 ordained, got out of your college at night — or stayed out — 
 which? And what for?" 
 
 " We stayed out. We had been for a church excursion 
 in the country." 
 
 " Were you alone? " 
 
 " There were young ladies with us. It was in the sum- 
 mer. We stayed out of doors all night. We'd missed the 
 brakes — going back with the rest. We couldn't get back. 
 There was nothing more than that." 
 
 " Is that the truth ? Are you telling me the wholfe truth ? " 
 
 " Well, one of the students did go wrong. They dis- 
 missed him altogether when it was known. The rest of us 
 they knew all about, and they sent us away for a year; but 
 if we had done nothing wrong in the meantime we could 
 come up for acceptance again." 
 
 " When it was known ! You mean that this one man be- 
 came the father of a child." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And it was after that was known that they dismissed 
 him altogether. Before that they had only put him off 
 for a year." 
 
THE YOUNG MAN 255 
 
 "Yes, it was like that." 
 
 " Had you all declared that there had been nothing wrong 
 between you and these girls." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " He, with the rest, of course? " 
 
 " Yes." All his answers came unwillingly, but as if he 
 had no power to hold bacic anything, in face of the sharp 
 peremptory questions. 
 
 " You said at first that you had stayed out all night, but 
 there was nothing more than that. Then that was a lie." 
 
 " I'm very sorry I said that. I never thought you would 
 ask me about it, and it was all over years ago, and every- 
 thing was confessed and forgiven. I didn't want to have 
 to go all over it again." 
 
 " Do you say now that there was nothing wrong, except 
 with this one man, whose lie couldn't be hid? Nothing in 
 your case, I mean ; you can't speak for the others." 
 
 " Oh, I won't keep anything back. They brought us all 
 up again, and we confessed. We were all repentant. There 
 was a minister who spoke very kindly to us. We were 
 really repentant; two of the men have been called to the 
 ministry since, and they are already doing a great work. 
 Their names are well known; it has never been brought 
 up against them again." 
 
 " Well," said the Rector sadly, " it's not for me to throw 
 stones. But I think this confession of yours ought to re- 
 move from your mind anything like reproach that you may 
 have felt against me. As far as I understand you, this 
 happened when you were on the very eve of joining your 
 ministry. I'm very far from wanting to boast about my- 
 self in those days, but I don't think I could have fallen in 
 that way at such a time as that. My fall had happened two 
 or three years before, when I had hardly begun to think of 
 what lay before me. And I very much wish you hadn't told 
 
256 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 me lies about it. You told more than one. You said at 
 first that you got into mischief — there was nothing bad." 
 
 There was no answer to this. 
 
 "Well, go on," said the Rector, with a sigh. "Why 
 didn't you go back with the rest ? Or perhaps you did. Are 
 you a minister? " 
 
 He looked with distaste at the black clothes, which, ex- 
 cept for the soft felt hat, had nothing clerical in them. 
 
 " No; I became a schoolmaster. I got on well, and when 
 the time came when I could have gone back, I put it off. 
 Then after that my religious views began to change, and I 
 didn't want to go on in the denomination I was brought 
 up in." 
 
 "What was that?" 
 
 " Congregationalist." 
 
 " Did you join another body? " 
 
 " I haven't yet. I've been thinking it all over carefully ; 
 but I've made up my mind now. I'm going to join the 
 Established Church." 
 
 " Oh 1 " The news apparently brought none of the gratifi- 
 cation which the young man seemed to have expected; for 
 he had spoken for the first time with his eyes fixed upon 
 the Rector's face. ' 
 
 " Why ? " The question came sharply, and the eyes 
 dropped again. 
 
 " Because I believe in their tenets. I've studied them. 
 And because I believe there's a great work to be done in 
 the Church in Wales. It's increasing slowly, in spite of all 
 the talk against it, and there's a great chance in it for 
 preachers." 
 
 The look showed more aversion than ever. " Do you 
 mean to say that you want to take Orders in the Church ? " 
 
 " Yes. That's what I do want. It's what I've come 
 to talk to you about." 
 
THE YOUNG MAN 257 
 
 The Rector leant back in his chair. His face showed 
 angry annoyance. " I can't see that you're fitted for it in 
 any possible way," he said. " And why should you have 
 come to me ? " 
 
 The young man seemed to take hold of himself, to plead 
 a cause more efficaciously. He had shown himself hitherto 
 submissive, and somewhat shamefaced, as if he felt himself 
 at a strong disadvantage. Now he sat upright, and spoke 
 with more freedom than he had yet done. 
 
 " I've told you the worst about myself," he said. " It 
 was just one mistake, and it has never been repeated. Except 
 for that, I've kept straight all my life, and considering what 
 I sprang from I've raised myself a good deal." 
 
 " You needn't talk about what you sprang from. By your 
 own admission you knew nothing of it till a fortnight ago, 
 and it could not have afEected you in any way." 
 
 " I didn't mean that. I was talking of what I thought 
 I'd sprung from. My mother was a poor woman, and she 
 always told me that if I wanted to get on I should have to 
 depend on my own exertions. I did all I could have done 
 at school, and I passed second out of all into college. If 
 I hadn't done that one wrong thing I should have passed 
 out high — ^perhaps first. I was already known in the de- 
 nomination, for my preaching, as a student. I should have 
 got a good charge. I'd done all that; I'd raised myself, and 
 mother was very proud of what I had done. And I've got 
 on well with teaching too. If it was only to get on in the 
 world I wanted, I should have nothing to complain of. But 
 I feel called upon to preach the Word. I have great gifts 
 for it; I'm not going only by what I feel myself; it's what 
 others say of me. The professors at the college said it; 
 they have asked me to go back. That' mistake I made is 
 quite forgotten; they know I've repented of it; and I've 
 shown ever since that I'm earnest in whatever I do." 
 
258 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 " Have you told them that you have made up your mind 
 to leave them ? Do you go to church — or to chapel ? " 
 
 " I haven't told any one yet. I go to church sometimes; 
 not very often. It's a serious thing in Wales to make any 
 change of that sort until you can see your way clearly ahead." 
 
 " How long is it since you began to think of making any 
 change? " 
 
 " About a year. I've been reading and thinking about it." 
 
 " Tell me one point — ^just one single point that seems 
 to you important — where you think the Church is right and 
 those amongst whom you were brought up are wrong. Some- 
 thing that decided you." 
 
 He thought for a moment. " I think that a national 
 recognition of religion is an important thing," he said. " I 
 think it is right to have a State Church." 
 
 " But you know perfectly well that the Church in Wales 
 is likely to be disestablished very soon if the bulk of your 
 countrymen have their own way." 
 
 " You asked me for something that had decided me. I 
 have thought what I said for a long time." 
 
 " Have you said so to others? It has been the chief move- 
 ment amongst those with whom you have lived for years." 
 
 " Yes, I have said so, in conversation." 
 
 " Never publicly, I suppose." 
 
 " No, I couldn't have done that in my position." 
 
 " I don't see why you couldn't have done it, if you were 
 so convinced of its truth that it was the chief deciding point 
 with you. Have you ever appeared at a meeting in support 
 of Disestablishment ? " 
 
 " I've never spoken at one." 
 
 " But you have attended meetings. Have you voted ? 
 Have you done it within the last year? " 
 
 " I don't think you can understand how strong the feel- 
 ing is amongst " 
 
THE YOUNG MAN 259 
 
 " Oh, you needn't make excuses. It seems to have been 
 all time-serving. I don't want to hear any more about it. 
 It's no reason at all. And I didn't ask you for that sort 
 of point either. I mean some point of doctrine. You say 
 you have been studying the question for a year." 
 
 " There isn't so much difEerence in doctrine between us, 
 in Wales, except with the ritualists. I'm not a ritualist, 
 I'm an Evangelical still, and should preach the pure Gospel, 
 wherever I went." 
 
 " Do you believe in the Apostolic Succession ? " 
 
 " Not as a doctrine, I don't. I think very likely it's a 
 fact." 
 
 "Or Baptismal Regeneration?" 
 
 " That isn't a doctrine held by Evangelicals in the Church, 
 is it?" 
 
 " It's a doctrine that you will find very plainly stated 
 in the Prayer Book. Do you believe that grace comes 
 through the Sacraments at all?" 
 
 " Yes, I do, if the recipient comes in faith." 
 
 " You believed that before, didn't you ? Do you still 
 take the Sacrament of Communion in the chapel to which 
 you go? " 
 
 "Yes; I have not resigned my membership yet." 
 
 " And you acknowledge no difEerence between that and 
 a celebration of Holy Communion by a priest of the Church. 
 I see you don't. You see no difference at all, except ap- 
 parently, that the Church is established — at present — and 
 the sects are not. There's no need to labour the point. 
 What is your reason for wanting to make the change? Is 
 it because you want to get on, as you say? Because the 
 Church in Wales is still more important — ^socially, or what 
 not — than the other bodies? Isn't that your reason, and 
 your only reason ? You have given me no other, except one 
 that contradicts itself." 
 
26o THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 He spoke with strong irritation, and some contempt. The 
 young man gathered himself together again. 
 
 " I'm afraid you are inclined to think very badly of me," 
 he said. " I said the Church in Wales, because it is the 
 only one I know anything of, and it is plain to any one that 
 if it had been able to draw the good preachers, to the extent 
 that the Free Churches have, it would have been in a much 
 stronger position. There is a very great chance in it for 
 a preacher. I can only say that I have 'felt myself drawn to 
 it, and conscientiously believe that the way is pointed out 
 to me. I hoped you would be pleased to hear that I had 
 been thinking of it, long before I knew — ^who you were. 
 It's your own Church, for one thing. I thought you would 
 be pleased, if you took any interest in me at all, to find that 
 I have been wanting to do the same thing that you are 
 doing. I thought you might perhaps help me to do it in a 
 more regular way." 
 
 " What do you mean by that ? I don't understand you." 
 
 The eyes dropped again. " It isn't so easy to ask what 
 I thought I would ask when I came here. You seem so 
 suspicious of all my motives." 
 
 " You give me no reason not to be. What did you come 
 here to ask ? " 
 
 " I thought you might be willing to help me to go to 
 Oxford, and prepare for the ministry of the Church in the 
 regular way." 
 
 " Why should you want to go to Oxford, at your age ? 
 It would take you two or three years to get a degree, which 
 wouldn't even be necessary. It wouldn't be the regular 
 way for a man of your age to prepare for Orders, if he were 
 really in earnest. It would be sheer waste of time." 
 
 " I thought it was the best way ; especially as it was the 
 way you took." 
 
 "I wasn't at Oxford; but never mind that. It's per- 
 
THE YOUNG MAN 261 
 
 fectly plain to me what is in your mind. You make it so 
 plain, that I can only suppose — and hope — that you don't 
 see it yourself; though the veriest child could see it. You 
 want to raise yourself, as you say you have always wanted. 
 It's your only reason for wishing to leave the sect in which 
 you were brought up. If you really had the strong desire 
 you say you have to preach, you wouldn't have put ofE 
 preaching for years after you might have done it. If you 
 really thought you were called on to preach — ^which is all 
 you seem to think of — in the Church, you would never think 
 of putting it off for another three years to go to Oxford, 
 Young men preparing for Orders go to the Universities to 
 finish their regular education. You have gone through all 
 that already, I suppose. Any further training you would 
 need would be to fit you directly for your work. A Uni- 
 versity degree would necessitate your putting that entirely 
 aside for a time. What you do want is to hang a hood on 
 your back and call yourself an Oxford man; and you are 
 prepared to waste three years of your time for it." 
 
 The young man was obviously cast down by this address. 
 There was something simple about him, in spite of his vanity 
 and self-conceit, which showed itself in his making those 
 qualities so apparent, as well as in his unconsciousness of 
 them himself. Probably it only arose from ignorance of 
 the ways of the world outside the narrow circle in which 
 he had moved all his life, for it did not look like the sort 
 of native simplicity of mind that commands respect. 
 
 " You made up your mind to come and ask me for money 
 to enable you to go to Oxford," the Rector went on. " What 
 should you have done if you had not — What should you 
 have done up to a fortnight ago, before there was any one 
 you thought you could have asked for that?" 
 
 He lifted his head, and spoke with some eagerness. " I 
 hadn't wanted to settle anything before mother died," he 
 
262 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 said. " I knew it couldn't be long. But they are ready to 
 take me into the Church. At least I talked in confidence 
 to a clergyman, and he was glad I was thinking about it. 
 He said they wanted men like me. I gave him some of 
 my sermons to read that I'd preached when I was a student ; 
 and he knew what they had thought of me in the college. 
 He said he thought it could be arranged for me to go for a 
 year to a Church Theological College, and- he would do all 
 he could to help me to get there, when I had made up 
 my mind." 
 
 " Well, of course, that would be the proper way. Would 
 there be money to pay for you there ? " 
 
 " Most of the students would pay for themselves. But 
 there are grants besides. I've saved up a little money 
 towards it, and mother left me a few pounds and some fur- 
 niture." 
 
 The Rector sat for a long time in thought. His face 
 had become softer again, and deeply troubled. No one, if 
 they had seen it during the foregoing conversation, would 
 have guessed what a weight he had at his heart. It was 
 getting heavier and heavier now every moment. 
 
 He roused himself. " I don't know what to say," he 
 said. " I feel inclined to leave it to the man you say you 
 have already consulted with. I can't see that your motives 
 are sincere, and I shouldn't do anything towards helping 
 you to raise yourself socially by means of the Church — 
 certainly nothing like sending you to Oxford. But I might, 
 perhaps, pay for you for a year at a Theological College, if 
 they are willing to take you — not, of course, on my recom- 
 mendation ; I wouldn't give that in any case." 
 
 " Oh, if you would do that ! I see what you say about 
 Oxford. And I don't want to waste time. I want to begin." 
 
 Apparently Oxford had only been a forlorn hope. He 
 showed great eagerness now for the other plan. 
 
THE YOUNG MAN 263 
 
 " I don't say I will do it. I must think matters over 
 very carefully. I am not at all sure that I ought to do 
 it, after everything you have told me. And, besides that, 
 there are very serious considerations to take into account. 
 I am not going to do anything that can be made to bear the 
 interpretation of hushing things up." 
 
 Was there a shade of anxiety in the look with which 
 these words were accompanied, as if he were inviting some- 
 thing which he was yet ashamed to ask? He was nerving 
 himself to the strictest rectitude; but he was only human, 
 and a dreadful pit of shame, for himself and others, yawned 
 before him. 
 
 " I wish you hadn't said that," said the young man, not 
 without dignity. " I was thinking all the time I travelled 
 Tip that if I wasn't careful it would look as if I wanted to 
 hold threats over you, because of what I'd learnt. I hoped 
 you wouldn't think so badly of me as that. I hoped I 
 should be able to make it plain that I wanted to see you just 
 once, because of what my mother had said about you. She 
 said you were different from all the others — I mean the 
 gentlemen who came vvith you to Llanruthin — and she had 
 never wanted to get married, as she might have done after- 
 wards; and she had many a time wanted to tell me what 
 my father was like, and hoped I would grow up like him. 
 That was why she told me at the last, and she said you 
 were so kind that she knew you would forgive her for break- 
 ing her word when you heard she was dead. And I thought, 
 too, that you'd be glad to know I hadn't disgraced you — 
 except that once, which I thought you wouldn't know about 
 — and perhaps be glad to hear of what I had done, and what 
 I wanted to do. I'm sorry you don't think better of me. 
 You've got different ways of looking at things than I 
 have. After all, you're a gentleman born, and I'm only 
 trying to make myself one. I don't know all their ways yet ; 
 
264 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 but there's one tKing I wouldn't do, whatever you thought 
 of me, and that's to bring disgrace on you. Even if I didn't 
 want to act right, I shouldn't be likely for my own sake 
 to let the facts of my birth become known. It couldn't do 
 me any good." 
 
 The Rector breathed deeply. His relief was mixed with 
 some shame and some compunction. This was his son who 
 sat before him, not intentionally as an avenging spirit of 
 the past, but seeking for some consolatory sign of fatherhood. 
 And he had given him none. 
 
 He felt no emotion of fatherliness towards him even now. 
 He was so unlike — in spirit, in training, manner, appear- 
 ance — everything — ^what a son of his should be. He seemed 
 to come between him and the children upon whom his proud 
 fatherhood was so amply and righteously expended. It was 
 a pang to hear him utter the word father. 
 
 But he felt sorrow on his behalf. His lapses from any 
 ordinary standard of good breeding would not have made 
 those ugly marks on his character, would not have existed 
 at all, if he had not been denied his birthright. Even the 
 graver faults might have been corrected; he seemed amen- 
 able enough, in spite of his self-conceit. He had been left 
 to make what he could of himself. His only help had come 
 from the woman who had been got rid of, paid off, left to 
 bear the burden of a common sin as best she might, to sin 
 again, for all that the man who had first sinned with her 
 cared, so long as she undertook not to cross his path again. 
 That she had not sinned again, but had set herself to help 
 the child of her shame to rise above his surroundings, even 
 if it only meant a poor step or two in gentility, was a 
 positive virtue in her, under all the circumstances. The 
 same desires in her son were not altogether deserving of 
 contempt, considering from what he had sprung. How was 
 he to know how the naive exhibition of them would strike 
 
THE YOUNG MAN 265 
 
 a man standing upon a plane on which such struggles ap- 
 peared mean and absurd, because he had never had to strug- 
 gle for such things himself, but had always enjoyed them of 
 right? 
 
 He spoke to him more gently. " A great deal of what 
 you have told me about your mother and yourself I am 
 very glad to hear," he said. " I do forgive her for having 
 told you the truth. I think it would have been better for 
 you if you had not known it; but as you do know it, and 
 have come to me, I can't fall back upon the bargain as it 
 was originally made. That was to end with your mother's 
 death, but now it can't end so. But I can't treat you as a 
 father should treat his son. That is out of my power now. 
 I should have no right to do it, remembering what I owe 
 to others. But I will help you as far as I can — as far as I 
 can satisfy myself that I ought to. I will not lose sight 
 of you." 
 
 Before the young man could reply a chiming clock on 
 the mantelpiece struck the hour. The Rector looked back 
 at it, and rose hurriedly to ring the bell. The interview 
 had already lasted a long time. 
 
 He did not speak again until the maid came into the 
 room, but stood with his back to the room looking into the 
 empty grate. 
 
 " When her ladyship comes in, tell her I am engaged." 
 
 He took his seat again. " Are you going back to Wales? " 
 he asked. "Where are you living now?" 
 
 " In Swansea. I went back there after mother died. I 
 am still teaching there, at any rate till the end of the month. 
 I got leave to come away for two nights. I have to leave- 
 London to-morrow. I can get a night train." 
 
 Had he expected, in his ignorance, that he would be asked 
 to stay at Roding that night ? He had brought his " little 
 bag." 
 
266 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 " You had better go back to London to-night. There 
 is a train at seven. Have you got money ? " 
 
 He flushed. " I don't want money," he said. " I didn't 
 come for that." 
 
 " No, I know you didn't. In many ways you have be- 
 haved very well. I will write to you. Your address isn't 
 on your card. Write it down." 
 
 The Rector had spoken hurriedly and anxiously ever since 
 the clock had struck. He looked at it again now as the 
 young man leant over the writing-table. 
 
 " I will take you out this way," he said, opening the 
 window into the garden. 
 
 They went along the terrace that ran behind the house 
 to the door in the wall of the churchyard. The young man 
 cast surreptitious glances at the spreading lawns of the 
 garden, the well-filled flower-beds, the great pots and vases 
 of flowers on the terrace itself, and the encampment of 
 chairs and tables under an awning outside the drawing- 
 room window. Nobody was about. Joyce and Eddie had 
 gone in to their nursery upstairs. 
 
 A paved path led through, the churchyard diagonally to 
 the lych-gate. Lady Ruth's carriage passed as the Rector 
 opened the door in the wall. Neither she nor Sylvia was 
 looking that way. 
 
 But Miss Budd was; although the Rector did not see 
 her. She was coming through the churchyard by another 
 path on the other side of the church. She saw the Rector 
 put his hand on the shoulder of a common-looking young 
 man and say something to him earnestly. Then he turned 
 round sharply, and the garden door shut behind him. 
 
 The young man came down the path, and took out his 
 handkerchief to rub his eyes. He cast a glance at Miss 
 Budd, and put his handkerchief in his pocket again. She 
 followed him out through the lych-gate. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 STEPS UP 
 
 The Rector did not go back to the house. He wanted to 
 think undisturbed, and he felt that if he were to see his 
 wife or any of his children now, he must show signs of 
 what had befallen him. He felt smirched, unworthy to be 
 in their presence. 
 
 He was going over to dine with his brother, who had re- 
 turned to Roding Court a few days before. He was going 
 alone, which was fortunate, for it was imperative that he 
 should talk to his brother. Lady Ruth and Sylvia were 
 also dining out, at a house some distance off. They would 
 not have more than time to dress before they started, which 
 was also fortunate. He need not go in until they had 
 left the house. 
 
 He went down through the garden to where a broad path 
 ran along by the river, masked by trees from the house. 
 Joyce and Eddie were not allowed to come here, and the 
 gardeners seldom had occasion to do so. He would be quite 
 alone. 
 
 He walked up and down with his hands behind his back, 
 his eyes fixed on the ground. Sometimes he sat for a minute 
 or two in the garden house at the end of the path under 
 the high boundary wall, but never for long. His troubled 
 thoughts drove him to motion ; they threatened to overwhelm 
 him when he sat still. 
 
 The river ran here in two channels, divided by a long 
 narrow island, on which were trees and a thick shrubbery. 
 It was part of the rectory garden, and an ornamental bridge 
 
 267 
 
268 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 ran across to it at the end of the walk. There was a low 
 boom at each end of the island to keep this part of the 
 stream private. 
 
 This walk under the trees was as secluded as possible, but 
 on the other side of the island boats were continually pass- 
 ing to and fro, and voices from them were continually heard. 
 The townspeople were much on the river on summer even- 
 ings. There was a landing stage, with boats for hire, just 
 above the rectory garden. The continuation of the treed 
 path ran beneath an open stretch of sloping lawn in full 
 sight of the main stream for some distance; the rectory 
 garden — which ran below the churchyard as well as along- 
 side of it — was the first ground that the boats would pass 
 dropping down the river from the town. It was always 
 much admired — in spring when the slopes were thick with, 
 daffodils and narcissus showing through the grass — in sum- 
 mer when the gay flower-beds and a glimpse of the large 
 picturesque house could be seen, between the trees on tl^e 
 higher ground. 
 
 " Wouldn't mind changing places with the Rector," was 
 a common form of comment on all this spacious well-en- 
 dowed prospect. And sometimes something was added to 
 the effect that he'd no cause to worry himself over anything. 
 He was one of the lucky ones. 
 
 If his parishioners could have seen him now, walking up. 
 and down in a hidden part of his fine garden, within hear- 
 ing of their voices, and could have seen the look on his face, 
 they might have paused before wishing themselves in his 
 place. 
 
 He put off going into the house until the last minute. 
 From his dressing-room window he saw the dog-cart, which 
 he had intended to drive himself, already standing in front 
 of the door. He sent down to order the brougham in its 
 place, and when he got into it, he drew up both the windows, 
 
STEPS UP 269 
 
 until he had passed beyond the town and George Barton's 
 house. 
 
 It was after eight when he reached Roding Court, and 
 his brother took him straight into the dining-room, with a 
 good-humoured expostulation over his unpunctuality. 
 
 He could say nothing to him of what filled his mind until 
 they were alone together, and nerved himself to talk of 
 other matters in a natural way, so long as the servants were 
 in the room. 
 
 There was one other matter of considerable importance 
 to be mentioned. It was what he had wanted to talk to his 
 brother about when he had written a note inviting himself 
 to dine; but he would much rather not have talked about 
 it now before the servants. 
 
 However, Sir Richard could not know that. There was 
 no reason why the servants should not hear that the Rector 
 had been offered the Archdeaconry of Medchester, since 
 it had always been taken for granted that it would be 
 offered to him whenever "it should fall vacant, and there 
 could be no question of his refusing it. 
 
 " Well, my dear Henry, J congratulate you on your 
 news," was the first thing that Sir Richard said when they 
 sat down at the table. " The Bishop has taken his time 
 about it. But there was never much doubt about which 
 way it would come. I suppose he didn't move sooner out of 
 respect to the memory of old Bodington. He had a long 
 innings, that old fellow. I remember his being appointed, 
 when old Uncle John was still at Roding. He thought 
 he ought to have had it, and was rather annoyed about 
 it." 
 
 " How is Uncle John?" asked the Rector. "Have you 
 seen him lately? " 
 
 " Saw him this morning. I went down to tell him the 
 news. He's a little disappointed that it hasn't been offered 
 
270 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 to him, even now. He says he couldn't have taken it — at 
 eighty-nine — but he doesn't like to feel he's laid on the shelf. 
 What will it mean for you, Henry? You'll have to go 
 about the diocese a good deal more, I suppose." 
 
 " I haven't decided to take it yet," said the Rector. " It 
 would give me a great deal of extra work, and I've got 
 pretty well as much as I can do already." 
 
 " My dear fellow ! " Sir Richard exclaimed ; and then 
 with a glance at his brother's face said : " Well, of course 
 it wants thinking over. One doesn't jump at that sort of 
 thing the moment it's offered one." 
 
 They went into the library to drink their wine. Every- 
 thing was as when we last saw them there, except that the 
 window open to the summer night was the place of their 
 symposium, instead of the warm hearth. The light had 
 not quite left the sky; the yews and cypresses of the formal 
 garden stood up black against it, and the thick masses of 
 flowers and foliage in the ordered rectangles still showed 
 faint gradations of colour. Fountain-jets here and there 
 cut the darkness of the yews with spears of white, and their 
 falling made a pleasant sound. The wide enclosed garden 
 was so private and so expensively trimmed to domesticity 
 that it was hardly more than an extension of the richly fur- 
 nished room. Here were the two men again ensconced in 
 the fortress of their visible well-being. But for one of them 
 It was no longer impregnable. A breach had been made in 
 the walls, through which that might enter which would 
 make havoc of all the comfort and security within. 
 
 " Richard, did you know of money being paid to that 
 woman, Mary Evans, in her last illness?" 
 
 So that was it! It had been plain, since the statement 
 of doubt about the Archdeaconry, that something had hap- 
 pened. 
 
 " She's dead, is she? They haven't told me that yet. 
 
STEPS UP 271 
 
 Yes, Henry. I told them to do whatever they could for 
 her, and not worry you about it." 
 
 " It was very good of you, Richard. I had heard nothing 
 of her, since it was all settled at our father's death." 
 
 " No reason why you should have heard anything, old 
 fellow. It was all settled, and she kept her part of the 
 bargain, and never gave us any trouble. Well, it's all over 
 now. I suppose it has upset you, hearing about her death. 
 But you can put it out of your mind for good and all now." 
 
 " I wish I could, Dick. Her son came to me this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 " Whew ! " Sir Richard looked grave, and a little fright- 
 ened. " She'd told him, then? " 
 
 " Yes, quite at the last. Poor thing ; she seems to have 
 thought that money for her illness came from me, and 
 that I was thinking kindly of her. God knows, I'd no 
 reason to think harshly of her; she has borne it all. But 
 the fact is I had felt so secure that I hadn't thought of her 
 at all, except sometimes a few months ago, when that 
 business of young Gosset's brought it before me. I'd thought 
 then how tongues would wag if it had been known that I, 
 who was sitting in judgment, had done just what he had, 
 and with less excuse."' 
 
 " Oh, my dear fellow, don't let yourself think of it like 
 that. There were a great many excuses. She was older 
 than you ; she made a set at you. I defy any young fellow, 
 unless he's one in a thousand, at the age you were then, 
 to stand out against that sort pf thing. It's always the 
 man who is blamed when anything happens, as if he must 
 have laid himself out from the first to ruin the girl. Very 
 often it's quite the other way about; it was so in your case. 
 She knew very well what she was about, and under the 
 circumstances you were likely to have to pay more heavily 
 than she was if it became known. She was very well treated. 
 
272 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 But it's bad that it should have come out now. I'm distressed 
 to hear, that. We'd better consult Brailes at once. He's 
 always had it in hand, and he ought to be able to tackle the 
 son. I suppose he has found out that the annuity ends with 
 her life. It needn't, you know. He would have got some- 
 thing if she had died before he was of an age to earn his 
 living." 
 
 " He didn't come to me for money. At least he wanted 
 me to do something, which I'm not going to do. I may 
 do something else for him. I wanted to consult you about 
 it." 
 
 " Yes, tell me all about it, old fellow. Two heads are 
 better than one. And whatever we do we'd better do 
 through Brailes. It simply can't be allowed to come out 
 now." 
 
 The Rector told him of what had passed during the after- 
 noon. 
 
 " Well, it's rather an extraordinary story," he said. " She 
 seems to have done well by him. Perhaps it would have 
 been better if she had brought him up to some trade. Still, 
 I suppose these Welshmen have got to hold forth, if they've 
 got the slightest gift for it. I should almost feel inclined 
 to send him to Oxford, if it will keep his mouth shut. Did 
 he say he'd hold his tongue, if you did? " 
 
 " Oh, I couldn't ask him that." 
 
 " No, I suppose you couldn't. But Brailes could — ^and 
 see that he did it too. It's what we've got to think about, 
 anyhow." 
 
 " I don't think he will say anything. He behaved de- 
 cently, according to his lights. Poor fellow, he knew that 
 he would bring disgrace upon me if his parentage became 
 known. On himself too, in the line he wants to follow." 
 
 "Yes, there is that. It's a safeguard. But I doubt 
 whether it's enough." 
 
STEPS UP 273 
 
 " Dick, I can't look at it altogether in the light of my 
 own safety. It seems to me that I should be acting meanly 
 if I did. After all, he's my son. He said things that touched 
 me. He's never had a father. He came to me — after what 
 his mother had told him — thinking that I should be pleased 
 to see him, hoping that I should be proud of the way he's 
 raised himself, as he calls it, expecting that I would do 
 something to help him raise himself still further. His ideas 
 of raising himself are paltry enough, no doubt, and I showed 
 him that they struck me so. But whose fault is it that he 
 has those ideas? What have I ever done to help him 
 towards higher ones? I tell you it struck me to the heart 
 when he gave in about it, as he did. I was a gentleman, 
 he said; he hadn't known how gentlemen looked at such 
 things ; he was sorry that he hadn't understood how I should 
 feel about it. And yet he's of our blood — ^yours and mine. 
 Our great-grandfather married a wench out of a tavern. 
 She was no better than this poor woman; but her son suc- 
 ^ceeded, and we're descended from him. This poor fellow 
 comes to me with all his glaring Imperfections, and half of 
 them rise from the sort of society in which he's been brought 
 up — ^which we thrust him into; the other half, very likely — 
 I don't know — from the very blood of ours that he has in 
 his veins. We've been ' gentlemen ' for two or three hun- 
 dred years; it's quite possible that his being willing to use 
 any lever to get near the place we've denied him comes 
 from that, in some twisted sort of way — ^like water trying 
 to find its own level. Oh, I do feel that we were wrong — 
 years ago — in hiding it up. I'm beginning to feel that there 
 was a double sin, and the greater of the two was the denial 
 of fathership. What right had I — ^what right has any man 
 to bring children into the world and forsake them? " 
 
 Sir Richard leant forward to fill his glass. His face was 
 very serious. " My dear Harry," he said, in a low but firm 
 
274 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 voice, " if you will take the word of a man who is not in- 
 clined to take a light or cynical view of such questions as 
 these, you have no right to let your mind run on them now. 
 We needn't go back to the time when they might have been 
 discussed and acted upon. They were discussed, and they 
 were acted upon. Such as that action was, you've got to 
 stand by it ; you know as well as I do why. The first thing 
 we have to consider is how to keep this story as dark as 
 it has always been kept. Everything else gives way to that. 
 It's your first duty. When we have taken all possible pre- 
 cautions, you can think of other things; but not before." 
 
 The Rector's tone dropped. "Yes, I suppose you're 
 right," he said. " You must be right. If he had shown any 
 wish to make use of his discovery for getting out of me 
 what he wanted — I mean in the way of making a bargain 
 for his silence — I suppose I should not have thought of 
 anything but closing his mouth. But I assure you that he 
 has no intention of making the fact known." 
 
 " That makes it easier to deal with him. I think I had 
 better do it myself. If Brailes were to do it " 
 
 " I shouldn't like Brailes to do it. He was hurt — it was 
 the best thing he showed me — at the very idea of his being 
 willing to do me an injury. Brailes could only put it into 
 his head that we thought it a natural thing to buy his 
 silence — ^we, the ' gentlemen,' when he, poor fellow, was 
 ready to keep it without any price. It can only depend 
 upon his word. It only depended upon his mother's word. 
 After all we did, we didn't buy her silence." 
 
 " Yes, I feel all that. It isn't a matter for bargaining. 
 Henry, what's to prevent me from taking some of your re- 
 sponsibilities on my own shoulders? It's out of your power 
 to play the part of a father to this son of yours. You've 
 got other sons you would injure by doing it. It isn't out 
 of my power. Let me see him; and leave it to me. I'll 
 
STEPS UP 275 
 
 make something of him; I'll give him his chance. If He 
 thinks he can make a gentleman of himself by going to 
 Oxford, I'll send him to Oxford. Why not? It isn't much 
 to do for a man who has got himself ready for it, under all 
 the dilHculties he must have had. If we had known before 
 that he had the brains to lift himself out of the ruck, we 
 should certainly have been willing to help him — do more 
 than we have done. It isn't too late, and if he is going 
 to behave decently, I think that anything of that sort we 
 can do for him is only his due." 
 
 " You're very good, Dick ; very good indeed. I think it 
 will be a good thing if you will see him. About Oxford 
 — I don't know. I refused very definitely: I only looked 
 at it from one point of view. He doesn't want to go there 
 to get learning; he wants to go so that he shall cut a better 
 figure in the Church; and he wants to take Orders in the 
 Chutch because he'll cut a better figure than in the dissent- 
 ing ministry." 
 
 " Oh, well — what if he does ! We all like to cut a figure, 
 I suppose. I know I for one should be infernally annoyed 
 if anything could happen to deprive me of the position I 
 hold; although when one has any sort of a position, by 
 accident, a bit above the rest, one doesn't think much about 
 it. If you're disposed to care for that sort of thing over- 
 much, you generally wish you'd got the position of the fel- 
 low next above you." 
 
 " Yes ; and no doubt that will happen in this case. He 
 goes to Oxford with those ideas, and soon discovers that 
 it isn't much of a step up. What will he want then ? " 
 
 " Nothing more for over three years, at any rate. Be- 
 sides, it will be a good step up for him; and it will lead to 
 something that he wants. Anything that he does afterwards 
 will have to be done off his own bat. There may be ways 
 in which we can help him. We needn't bother about them 
 yet." 
 
276 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 " I don't like his wanting to use the Church to lift him- 
 self socially." 
 
 " My dear fellow, it's done every day, by people who 
 are — what shall I say? — not quite up to the mark. What 
 we were talking about just now comes in. When they get 
 there, they find they're not on such a lofty pinnacle after 
 all, and they settle down to do their job with the rest. Men 
 with those ideas aren't thinking of them all the time; they 
 have other motives; and if they have anything in them, the 
 other motives come to count for much more." 
 
 " No doubt, that's true. But the bad motive is very 
 much in the ascendant in this case. I can't find the slightest 
 reason for his wanting to change over, except that. He 
 has all the ideas, and ways of expression — appearance — every- 
 thing — of a dissenting preacher; he seems to have no idea 
 that anything else is wanted. If I had had nothing to do 
 with him — if he had come to me, say as Bishop's Examining 
 Chaplain, I think I should have refused him. He knows 
 nothing; though he says he has been ' studying.' " 
 
 " You wouldn't have refused him. You would have sent 
 him away to learn more about it. And that's what we'll 
 do. When he gets to Oxford, he may want to do something 
 else altogether. Let him have his run, poor chap. Good 
 heavens! Fancy wanting to go to Oxford at — thirty, is 
 it ? Shows what a thin time he must have had, poor fellow ! 
 You leave it to me, Henry. I'll do the right thing, what- 
 ever it is. And I think I will send him to Oxford. It 
 rather strikes me, — his wanting to go there. And there's 
 another thing about it, too. If you were to let him go to 
 a Theological College, as you thought of, you would be 
 pushing him into the Church. This would postpone that. 
 If Oxford is worth anything, it ought to give him some idea 
 of values." 
 
 " Well, I'll leave it to you, Dick. I needn't say what a 
 
STEPS UP 277 
 
 weight you have taken off my mind. No, I can't do what 
 I ought to ; as you say, I have put it out of my power. Oh, 
 it would be a terrible thing for Ruth and the children, if 
 this were to come out now. As far as I am concerned, I 
 should have to take my punishment; it would destroy all 
 the value of my work ; and if it happened, I suppose I should 
 have to believe that the work hadn't any value — hadn't been 
 accepted. It's hard to believe that when one has been doing 
 one's best for so many years, and has got keener on it than 
 one ever thought one would be. And yet, if the work was 
 right, — if it is to go on, — something has to be concealed. 
 It depends upon that. I have been asking myself, Dick, 
 whether it is possible for such work to rest on concealment." 
 
 This was beyond Sir Richard's practical unexploratory 
 mind. " I know we've got to conceal it," he said, " or 
 trouble will come to those whom we think more of than we 
 do of ourselves. That's quite enough for. me to work on. 
 It will be more difficult for you, Henry, because you can 
 do nothing for yourself ; you can only go on as usual. You 
 said something about refusing the Archdeaconry. You can't 
 do that. Everybody has known that it was coming to you, 
 and that you were prepared to accept it." 
 
 " I don't know that everybody knows that. I have never 
 talked about it outside; it would not have been becoming 
 to do so. I feel very much averse to putting myself in a 
 situation where I shall be more exposed to attack than I 
 am now. Supposing it should come out after all! Besides, 
 this affair hasn't exactly heightened my opinion of myself, 
 Dick. Who am I that I should take upon myself a position 
 of authority in the Church? It seems to me that that, at 
 any rate, would be wrong, until I feel some assurance that 
 the work I am doing now is not to be spoilt. No; I think 
 I have made up my mind to refuse it. I have no inclination 
 for it at all. I shrink from it." 
 
278 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 Sir Richard considered this. " Perhaps it would be bet- 
 ter to wait till I have seen the young man," he said. " I 
 don't think anything will come out; but if it did, you are 
 right in saying that you would be a bigger mark. But 
 don't do anything yet, Henry. You can ask for time to 
 consider, and prepare some sort of excuse, in case you should 
 refuse. I don't know I'm sure, what it can be. You're in 
 the prime of life, and full of energy. It is bound to make 
 talk, if you refuse. However, you can think over that." 
 
 The Rector smiled ruefully. " The punishment is already 
 beginning," he said, "whatever happens. I must find 
 excuses; tell lies would be a truer way of putting it. I 
 don't know how far I can bring myself to go on that road, 
 Dick, — whether I should be right in taking it at all. But 
 I will tell the Bishop I can't decide at once, if you like. I 
 don't think I shall accept it, though. I don't think I can." 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 IN THE TRAIN 
 
 "Are you Mr. Evans?" 
 
 Sir Richard, standing in the booking office of the Lon- 
 don terminus, had already asked that question three times, 
 and once it had been answered in the affirmative, but not, 
 as it turned out, by the right person. 
 
 But this was the right one. He breathed a sigh of relief. 
 The Rector had not known where his son would stay in 
 London; only that he was travelling down by the night 
 train. 
 
 " That's right then. Come along with me. I've got 
 your ticket." 
 
 The young man puzzled, but constitutionally amenable 
 to authority, followed him across the platform, to a first- 
 class carriage. 
 
 " Get in here," be said, " we shall have it to ourselves. 
 I want to have a talk with you. I'm your father's elder 
 brother. Have you had your dinner — supper, whatever it 
 is?" 
 
 The young man stammered something about not want- 
 ing anything. 
 
 " I've ordered a couple of baskets. No harm in having 
 something ready if we want it. You get in and make your- 
 self comfortable; I'm going to get some papers. Glad I 
 caught you. I was going down to see you, in any case; but 
 I thought we might as well talk in the train as anywhere. 
 When we've finished we can go to sleep." 
 
 "Well now! " The train had started; Sir Richard had 
 279 
 
28o THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 lit a cigar, and had been looking through a paper, which he 
 now laid down. " First of all, let's have the position quite 
 clear. Your father was a good deal startled at your turn- 
 ing up yesterday. I think you can see under the circum- 
 stances, that that was only natural." 
 
 The young man found his voice. He had hardly said 
 anything hitherto, though Sir Richard had talked incessantly, 
 in a genial matter-of-fact way designed to put him as much 
 as possible at his ease. 
 
 " I suppose I ought not to have gone to see him," he 
 said. " It was bound to give him a wrong idea of me. 
 He thinks I want to get something out of him. But I 
 don't want anything at all. I can't be anything to him now, 
 and I have come to see that. He won't be troubled with me 
 any more." 
 
 " When you say that you can't be anything to him now, 
 that's only half true. If you mean that he doesn't care what 
 becomes of you, it isn't true at all, and I'm here to tell you 
 that. He does care — ^more than he gave you reason to be- 
 lieve yesterday." 
 
 The young man's eyes dropped, but he said nothing. 
 
 " What you must think of is this — I can say it to you 
 plainly though he couldn't i He did a wrong to your mother 
 many years ago, and a wrong to you through her, though 
 you weren't born then, and if she had kept the silence that 
 she promised to keep, you wouldn't have felt the wrong at 
 all." 
 
 " I don't want to listen to blame of my mother, sir. She 
 was mistaken in what she did, but she did it for the best, 
 and if anybody has got to suffer for it, it's me." 
 
 " I don't want to blame her. What's done is done, and 
 I hope you won't suffer for it. What I want to make 
 clear is that the amends that were made for the wrong done 
 to her were accepted by her as payment — payment in full — 
 
IN THE TRAIN 281 
 
 and he acted, and had a right to act, as perhaps he couldn't 
 have done if she hadn't accepted those amends." 
 
 "Yes, I know; he told me all that, and I see it. It's 
 for me to keep the bargain now, as far as I can. If I didn't 
 do that, then I should be bringing blame on mother for 
 telling me, and of course, in other ways too, which would 
 be a cruel thing to do — so good as she was." 
 
 Sir Richard felt a sensation of relief. There was delicacy 
 of feeling in that speech — more than he had expected from 
 what his brother had told him. And silence was more 
 likely to be assured if it rested on filial affection as well as 
 on self-interest. 
 
 " I'm very glad to hear you say that," he said. " It is 
 the right way of looking at things. Now, my brother has 
 told me everything that passed between you, and he has 
 said a good deal more to me than he did to you. He feels 
 that he gave you the impression that he denied all rights of 
 sonship to you — that he treated you with some harshness." 
 
 He paused, and the young man said slowly: " He did 
 make me feel that I wished I hadn't come." 
 
 " I know — I know. Well, you can see why that was, 
 can't you? Why it must have been so after all those years. 
 It wasn't only himself he was thinking of — though naturally, 
 in his position, it would be a serious thing if it were known 
 — by anybody who might have seen you in Roding, for 
 instance — ^who you were. He is very much respected, very 
 much looked up to — and deservedly so. It would do him 
 a great deal of harm, and a great deal of harm to his work. 
 But there's his family — his wife, one of the sweetest and 
 best women that God ever made — it would be a cruel blow 
 to her; his sons — ^well, they'd get over it, perhaps, but two 
 of them are boys still. It would affect their relationship 
 if they were to know of it; his young daughters. There's 
 a very happy family life at Roding Rectory, and it would 
 
282 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 be a dreadful thing if that sort of sorrow came to spoil 
 it." 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir, I see all that. Iriaeed, I wouldn't be the 
 one to spoil it; it would be a wicked thing. I would keep 
 away; I wouldn't tell a soul that could do harm to them. 
 I ought not to have come at all." 
 
 " Well, I don't think you need be sorry that you came. 
 If you s^e that side of the question, and> act on it, as I'm 
 sure you will, there will be nothing to regret. I'm not re- 
 minding you of it only to beg you to be careful, to keep a 
 watdi over yourself, that no harm can come to all those 
 innocent people — brothers and sisters of yours, you know. 
 What I want you to see is that your coming suddenly on 
 him like that was bound to strike your father in that way 
 first of all, before he knew you — the danger you brought to 
 him. It was only afterwards, when he had time to think, 
 that he could see your side of it, and his own side too, as 
 it affected you personally. If he had never known you, he 
 might have been able to leave you out of account altogether. 
 He has done that for over thirty years ; but he can't do it now. 
 He recognises you as his son. He told me to tell you so." 
 
 The young man showed himself moved. " I'm glad that 
 I have seen my father," he said. " I don't want to bring 
 trouble on him. He won't hear of me again, unless I do 
 something that will make him think well of me." 
 
 " My dear fellow, he wants to hear of you, and he wants 
 to help you. So do I. I can do more than he can, because 
 I haven't got the ties that he has. Whatever I can do will 
 be done on his behalf, because he is your father, and he 
 doesn't want to leave you to yourself, now that you have 
 claimed the relationship. He told me everything that you 
 had told him, about what you had done with your life, 
 and I was interested in it. It shows that you are worth^ 
 helping. You want to go to Oxford, he says. Well, let's 
 
IN THE TRAIN 283 
 
 talk over that. He didn't see his way to it — didn't think 
 it would be a good thing to do. Now, I'm inclined to 
 think it would. You would have three quiet years for read- 
 ing, and no worry about having to earn your living; and 
 after that, well, whatever you want to do we can talk over, 
 and you can feel you have me behind you. I shall be pleased 
 to do it. I've never had a son of my ovirn, and you can 
 make a friend of me, if you feel you would like to, and talk 
 over things with me from time to time." 
 
 Sir Richard was doing it handsomely, and may have felt 
 that he was, for if he had had a son of his own he would 
 have borne small resemblance to this young man, who was 
 not so very young, and had acquired characteristics that 
 it would be too late to gpt rid of, whatever he did and 
 wherever he went. Consequently, he was surprised by the 
 almost frightened refusal with which his offer was met. 
 
 " Oh, but I don't want to go to Oxford now. I have 
 put that out of my head entirely. And I don't want to go 
 into the Church, either. I'm a very different man, sir, to 
 what I was yesterday. I was full of worldly pride and 
 worldly desires then. Please God, I've put them behind 
 me now for ever. I can't even be tempted with what I 
 wanted so much. It's all nothing to me now. I've found 
 my Saviour again, sir. I've been denying him for a long 
 time past, though I didn't know it. He will make up to 
 me for the want of an earthly father; he will make up for 
 everything. Oh, my heart is full of joy and peace. If 
 you hadn't spoken to me I should have gone down with 
 others, and it would have been a night of rejoicing. The 
 word would have been given me. It would have gone hard 
 with some poor sinners — with me and Jesus on the same 
 side together. They couldn't have resisted me. He has 
 filled my whole soul. I ought to be on my knees now giving 
 thanks to him, pleading with him for other poor souls who 
 
284 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 haven't yet been brought to wash themselves clean in his 
 precious blood. I've been talking as if I had forgotten it 
 for a time. But I don't want to think of anything now 
 but the wonderful thing that has happened to me. Oh, 
 sir, perhaps it was through him that you were led to speak 
 to me. Perhaps it's his way of bringing you to him, if you 
 haven't let him take possession of you yet. Let me talk 
 to you. Let me plead for you at the Mercy Seat. Don't 
 let another hour go by resisting him. Let us get on to 
 our knees now, and ask him to show his wonderful power, 
 and save yet another sinner. I can do nothing, but he can, 
 bless his holy name." 
 
 His face was aflame. He poured out his words in a 
 flood that it was impossible to stop. 
 
 But Sir Richard made no attempt to stop it. He sat 
 back and looked at him as if fascinated, his mind working 
 all the time, and becoming heavier as it worked. He had 
 had no great experience of religious excitement, but he 
 thought he knew enough about it to recognise it as a dan- 
 gerous thing. A man taken in that way was not altogether 
 responsible for his actions. This one had been talking sensi- 
 bly and reasonably; and he had felt dependence upon him, 
 and upon his word. But there was no telling what he 
 would do, if he was like that. At any time he might get it 
 into his head that he was called upon to blurt out everything. 
 No considerations of right and wrong that would affect 
 normal men would appeal to him. 
 
 And it was a shock to find that his hold over him, which 
 he had prided himself on taking so cleverly, without show- 
 ing he was taking hold at all, was gone; had not even ex- 
 isted. Perhaps, though, it was not too late to acquire it. 
 
 " I think you must be content to leave me alone," he 
 said, with some dryness. " I've not lived all these years 
 without thinking matters over for myself, and whatever faith 
 
IN THE TRAIN 285 
 
 I may have I prefer to act on, and not talk about. But 
 I shall be interested in hearing anything you like to tell me 
 about yourself. What has happened since yesterday that 
 has caused you to take such a difEerent view of things? " 
 
 There is probably something about the military air, which 
 Sir Richard, with his spare upright figure and close-clipped 
 white moustache, still possessed, that is inclined to damp 
 pietistic ardour. There was a drop m temperature as the 
 young man said : " I know you are much above me in worldly 
 position, sir. Perhaps you think it is an impertinence for 
 me to talk to you about your soul. But we're all alike' 
 in God's sight, aren't we? If he has taught me something, 
 and brought you and me together in this unexpected way, I 
 should be denying him if I didn't speak out. If you haven't 
 found Jesus yet — if you are still wandering in sin far from 
 him — don't think about me; fix your eyes upon him, and 
 he will save you. It isn't too late ; it is never too late with 
 him, praise God." 
 
 " I think the mistake you and the people like you make," 
 said Sir Richard, in his level courteous voice, " is that 
 you take it for granted that everybody you come across 
 is material for you to exercise your zeal on. We are not 
 living in a heathen country, you know. You can safely 
 take it for granted that a person like myself isn't hearing 
 of religion for the first time from you; and if he happens 
 to have reached the age that I have, he isn't likely to throw 
 over everything experience has taught him in a single mo- 
 ment, and accept something in its place that you have learnt 
 during the last few hours. What is it that has changed you 
 since yesterday? Was it finding that your father was not 
 glad to see you? I have told you why that was, you know, 
 and have told you, too, that he does not want to throw you 
 over, as you may have thought." 
 
 " It was God's guidance that led me to Roding. I went 
 
286 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 there hoping for some signs of a father's love, and he gave 
 it me in full measure ; but it was the love of a heavenly, not 
 an earthly father, that was waiting for me there. I shall 
 always think of Roding now as a blessed place. I had been 
 wandering in the cold and darkness, and it was there he 
 found me, and forgave me for my desertion of him. I shall 
 never wander from his side again." 
 
 "What happened to you at Roding?" asked Sir Richard, 
 concealing his growing impatience. 
 
 " God's servant found me there, and brought me to him. 
 It was Dr. Merrow who showed me myself, and brought 
 me back into the right way." 
 
 " Dr. Merrow ! " Sir Richard sat up in his seat. " You 
 saw Dr. Merrow! You didn't tell him what you had come 
 for ! Surely you didn't give Dr. Merrow your secret ? " 
 
 " It is quite safe with him, sir. We hardly talked of it 
 at all. It seemed a very small matter beside the great facts 
 he brought home to me." 
 
 " Look here," said Sir Richard, speaking in a peremptory 
 voice. " Just bring yourself to tell me in plain language 
 exactly what happened. How did you come across Dr. 
 Merrow ? Did you know him before ? Did you go straight 
 to him when you left your father ? " 
 
 The air of command brought him some way towards 
 the earth. " I had met him before," he said, speaking more 
 quietly. " When I and others got into trouble some years 
 ago, he was near by and he talked to us — oh, so lovingly and 
 kindly. It did me far more good than punishment could 
 have done. He brought us to our knees. Oh, if I had 
 only " 
 
 " Yes, yes. Never mind about that now. Then you knew 
 he was at Roding, and went to him?" 
 
 " No ; I didn't know he was there, and I didn't go to 
 him. God sent him to me. I was walking along the street, 
 
IN THE TRAIN 287 
 
 troubled in spirit, and cast down, and I lifted up my eyes 
 and saw him coming towards me. It was like seeing an 
 angel from heaven." 
 
 "He recognized you?" 
 
 " I stopped him, and told him who I was, and his face 
 lit up, and he put his hand on my shoulder, and all of a 
 sudden I broke down, just as we were, there in the street." 
 
 " H'm! . Did anybody see you? " 
 
 " I wasn't thinking of that. There were people in the 
 street, but it was too sacred a moment for me to care 
 about what they might have thought about me." 
 
 " I suppose so. You wouldn't be likely to care what they 
 thought about anybody else. Was this immediately after 
 you left the rectory? Had anybody seen you coming from 
 there?" 
 
 " No : I had come out through the grave-yard, and 
 crossed over to the other side of the street." 
 
 " Very well ; what happened then ? " 
 
 " Dr. Merrow saw that I was much moved, and I think 
 he cast about in his mind where he should take me. We 
 went down a side street to his chapel. They have fitted 
 him up a little room there, which he sometimes uses, and 
 he took me into that. He talked to me there and prayed 
 with me. It was a blessed time. The Christian love and 
 tenderness that he showed " 
 
 " You told him everything — ^what you had come to Roding 
 for — about your father. What did he say to that? " 
 
 " He said very little. It was of such little importance, 
 he " 
 
 Sir Richard showed strong irritation. " Can't you bring 
 yourself to see," he said, " that to me — to your father — 
 it is of the greatest possible importance? When this reli- 
 gious change comes over a man does it always make him 
 as blind and selfish as it has made you? You can think 
 
288 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 and talk about nothing but yourself. For God's sake, put 
 yourself aside for a moment and try and think of others." 
 
 He descended a little further. " I don't want to be self- 
 ish, sir," he said ; " and I hope to spend my life in the serv- 
 ice of others. But when a wonderful thing like this has 
 happened to you, you don't seem able to think about any- 
 thing else." 
 
 " So I see; and it doesn't attract one very strongly 
 towards the experience, or those who undergo it. Ordinary 
 people are inclined to look for something special in the 
 way of consideration for others from those who claim to 
 stand on a pinnacle above their neighbours; and they very 
 seldom see it. Not long ago you showed yourself sensible 
 and high-minded about the difficulties you have brought 
 into your father's life and the trouble you may be the means 
 of bringing to his wife and children. Now you talk of 
 it as if it were of no account at all — and they were of no 
 account in comparison with yourself." 
 
 " But that isn't my feeling, sir. I think just the same as 
 I did about them. I couldn't bring trouble on them. I 
 am so happy now in myself that I should " 
 
 " Well, make an effort and put yourself and your hap- 
 piness aside for the moment. In thinking about that and 
 nothing else you may have brought trouble upon them 
 already. Tell me exactly what was said and how it was 
 received." 
 
 " Dr. Merrow asked me about myself and what I had 
 been doing since he had seen me, and I told him. He 
 didn't seem to be surprised to meet me in Roding, but when 
 I told him that I had thought of joining the Church, and 
 we had talked about that, and he had made me see how 
 unworthy all my ideas had been, and how wrong it was 
 of me to go outside the way God had appointed me to 
 serve him in, he asked me who I had seen about it, and I 
 
IN THE TRAIN 289 
 
 mentioned something that my father had said. I didn't 
 call him my father. I have never done that before talking 
 to you; and yesterday, after I had seen him, somehow I 
 didn't seem to think of him as my father, but just a clergy- 
 man in the Church." 
 
 " Do you mean to say you referred to him — to something 
 he had said to you — ^without having it in your mind what 
 he was — ^what had just passed between you— what you had 
 gone to Roding for ? Surely that's impossible ! " 
 
 " No, it wasn't quite like that, sir. My mind was dis- 
 turbed; I suppose at the time I wasn't thinking that Dr. 
 Merrow didn't know everything. It was all part of the 
 same thing. I said that Mr. French — that's what my 
 mother always called him to me — ^had said' that I ought not 
 to be thinking of joining the Church in the way I did." 
 
 " Ah ! " This was what would happen. The mind full 
 of other things; no thought of prudence or self-control; the 
 secret at the mercy of anybody. 
 
 "Well, how did he take it? Tell me his exact words 
 if you can remember them ? " 
 
 " I think he was surprised that I knew Mr. French, and 
 then I told him the story. He tried to stop me when I 
 had gone a little way; but I had to tell him everything, 
 so that he should understand." 
 
 " Understand you! Yes, of course that was the only 
 thing that mattered! You throw your father over — blurt 
 out his secret in the very place in which it can do him most 
 harm — probably to the very man who will make use of it 
 to do him harm. It was a base and selfish thing to do." 
 
 " Oh, but you can't know Dr. Merrow if you say that 
 of him. He wouldn't make use of a secret to do anybody 
 harm!" 
 
 " I don't know him. Did he give you any undertaking 
 that he would keep what you told him to himself?" 
 
ago THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 " I see now, sir, what you are thinking of. You think 
 that Dr. Merrow, living in Roding, may tell other people 
 there of my father's sin as a young man. But " 
 
 "Why, what on earth do you suppose I'm thinking else? 
 Have you lost your senses entirely? " 
 
 He came finally- to earth for a time, passing his hand 
 across his eyes, and leaning back in his seat. When he spoke 
 again it was in the reasonable submissive tone he had used 
 before. 
 
 " I will try and make it as plain as I can," he said. " If 
 you don't know Dr. Merrow, I suppose it is natural that you 
 should blame me for telling him anything. The idea that 
 he would tell anybody else what I told him never entered 
 my head; and if you knew him you would know that he 
 couldn't do such a thing. I would have confessed a murder 
 to him with just as much faith in his keeping silence. I 
 never thought of asking him to keep it to himself." 
 
 " Well, you have confidence in him. Now you have to 
 make me feel the same confidence. Tell me how he received 
 your statement.'' 
 
 " He looked very grieved, and asked a few questions to 
 make sure I was making no mistake. Then he said : ' It 
 is a sad story — sad not only for you but for your father. 
 You won't want to think of it more than you can help.' 
 And then he went on to talk of other things. It was not 
 mentioned again." 
 
 If he could be trusted to have told the whole truth, it 
 looked as if he had some grounds for his confidence. Sir 
 Richard knew that a priest would never disclose anything 
 that he might have heard in confession. He did not know 
 whether a man in Dr. Merrow's position would so consider 
 himself bound to silence; but it seemed that he had taken 
 the confession in the right spirit. He would have to think 
 very carefully over what could be done, if anything. 
 
IN THE TRAIN 291 
 
 " Well, I hope you may be right," he said ; " and I also 
 hope you may not consider it necessary to make any more 
 confessions of that sort. It isn't your secret to give away, 
 you know. We've had that out. As far as you are con- 
 cerned, it's your mother's, and you ought to have kept it. 
 It had nothing whatever to do with what you seem to have 
 consulted Dr. Merrow about, and from what you say he 
 seems to have seen that." 
 
 " He is full of wisdom, as well as loving-kindness." 
 
 " Quite so. And you might take a lesson from him in 
 that respect. You haven't shown much wisdom — or loving- 
 kindness either, except towards yourself. However, the 
 mischief is done now, and there's nothing to be gained by 
 harping on it. I shall feel more at ease, though, if you will 
 give me your definite promise to keep the secret absolutely 
 from henceforward." 
 
 " I will promise that, sir. It will be put out of my mind. 
 Now my conscience is clear again, my way lies plain and 
 straight before me. My orders have been given me, and I 
 shall spend myself on the Lord's work, and on that only." 
 
 " What are you going to do — become a preacher? " 
 
 " Yes. I am going back to the life that was shown to 
 me once before — the life that I ought never to have left." 
 
 " Still you did leave it, and you might want to leave it 
 again. I suppose neither your father nor I can be of much 
 use to you at present; but if you are inclined at any time 
 to change your mind, we are ready, you know, to help you 
 on." 
 
 But he was strong in his determination to renounce all 
 desire for worldly advancement. He had been unfaithful 
 once before; he would not be so again. He was not re- 
 lying on his own strength. 
 
 Sir Richard, during his outbursts of aspiration, which 
 brought again the look of the fanatic into his eyes, and the 
 
292 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 tones of the fanatic into his voice, considered that there was 
 nothing more to be done with him, or for him, for the 
 present. When the edge of his fervour became blunted, he 
 might have it in him to tread his path none the less surely, 
 or he might not. He had already left it once. In case of 
 his doing so again it should be impressed upon him before 
 they parted that he could always look to him for help if he 
 wanted it. That was all that could be done. 
 
 As his tones ran higher, and he seemed to be bringing 
 himself to the point of making another attack upon his 
 companion as a possible convert, Sir Richard announced 
 that he was going to sleep. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 SIR RICHARD AND DR. MERROW 
 
 " Dr. Merrow, you and I are near neighbours, and I hope 
 we are going to be friends. But there is something between 
 us that has to be faced first." 
 
 Sir Richard was sitting under the limes in Dr. Merrow's 
 garden. He had come to pay his first visit, and they had 
 talked for a few minutes without anything much having 
 been said on either side. Mrs. Merrow was 'In London for 
 the day, and Charles had gone ofE for a long ride on a 
 bicycle. 
 
 " Yes ; if you know what has passed," Dr. Merrow said 
 simply, after a long pause. 
 
 " I went down to Swansea two nights ago. I heard all 
 that had passed." 
 
 " What is it you want to say to me. Sir Richard ? " asked 
 Dr. Merrow, lifting his grave eyes. 
 
 What did he want to say? He had talked matters over 
 with his brother, who, although deeply troubled at what 
 had happened, had said that it was impossible to ask Dr. 
 Merrow for a promise of silence. Sir Richard had agreed 
 with him, but had said that if he saw him and talked to 
 him he should be able to judge whether or no he intended 
 to keep silence. 
 
 " I have already said what had to be said," he replied, 
 a shade brusquely. " We couldn't meet on equal terms if 
 you didn't know that I knew that you had seen my brother's 
 son." 
 
 Dr. Merrow thought again, long and earnestly, and Sir 
 
 2q3 ^ 
 
294 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 Richard waited, determined that the next word should be 
 with him. 
 
 " You are anxious," he said at last, " for some assurance 
 from me that the story I have heard shall not be repeated." 
 
 Sir Richard was rather taken aback. " I should never 
 have asked you for such an assurance," he said. 
 
 " Well, you have it, Sir Richard. I can think of no cir- 
 cumstances that would make it right for me to tell others 
 what was told me in such sacred confidence." 
 
 Sir Richard had not had to wait long to form his 
 judgment as to how this man would act. But he 
 had not thought that a statement which should have re- 
 lieved him of his fears would make him feel somewhat shame- 
 faced. 
 
 His fears had not been small. It was owing to Dr. Mer- 
 row that the young man had plunged into the excitable un- 
 dependable state in which he had found him. He could 
 hardly have avoided the belief that Dr. Merrow would re- 
 gard that state as desirable, would be at least liable to be 
 taken by the same excitability himself, in which case he 
 would be as little dependable as his disciple. 
 
 " You must forgive me," he said, " for thinking it pos- 
 sible that you could act otherwise. My brother didn't think 
 it; but he knew you, and I didn't; and the fact is that I 
 could put so little reliance on — on — Evans, I suppose I must 
 call him, that I don't know what to think." 
 
 " I can talk to you about him. You won't want me to 
 talk about anything else." 
 
 It was Sir Richard's turn to think. " I don't know that 
 I want my brother left out of account," he said. " I'm a 
 plain sort of man, and if I have to pick my way carefully 
 so as to leave out what I'm chiefly thinking of, I shan't 
 make much of a hand of it." 
 
 Dr. Merrow looked at him more carefully than he had 
 
SIR RICHARD AND DR. MERROW 295 
 
 done yet. His face was of the ordinary good-looking ex- 
 pressionless type that might have been expected from one 
 of his up-bringing and environment; but there was straight- 
 forward honesty in it, and now there was a look of trouble, 
 which touched Dr. Merrow, as if he had seen it on the face 
 of a puzzled child. 
 
 " I know that it must be painful to you," he said, " to 
 feel that I know of something in your family that you 
 would not wish known. You think that I might be in- 
 clined to sit in judgment. It was because I so shrink from 
 that, even in my own thoughts, that I was unwilling to 
 refer to it at all. Perhaps it will be enough if I say that 
 my feelings are very tender towards your brother. I feel 
 deeply for him. It has caused me great pain to know 
 what he must be suffering — so much so that I have wished 
 I could go to him. Now that you have made it possible 
 for this to be mentioned between us, and I could do so with- 
 out being misunderstood — I don't know — perhaps I couldn't 
 go to him; but you will tell him that there is nothing in 
 my heart but sorrow for him — and — and — love." 
 
 He had hesitated over the word. He felt it, but he knew 
 that such expressions of feeling were outside the code of 
 such men as the one who sat before him, and the one 
 towards whom this one was used. 
 
 But Sir Richard's nature was simpler than his brother's. 
 In his long lonely wanderings he had come closer to reali- 
 ties, and he was less bound by conventions. He would have 
 detected insincerity in such a speech, if it had been there, 
 and closed up against it. As it was, he felt strongly drawn 
 towards this man, who was so different from what he had 
 imagined him to be. He had brought a sense of comfort 
 to bear on the tense difficult situation — of human sympathy 
 and understanding. He had thought to find danger, and 
 had found support instead. 
 
296 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 But the real man whom he saw seemed strangely to 
 have escaped his brother. The Rector had talked of Dr. 
 Merrow as a kind and, on the whole, a wise man — a gentle- 
 man by training, who might be expected to act as such — 
 not without criticising him. He had some of the ways 
 of the dissenting preacher — Pharisaical would be too strong 
 a word to use, perhaps, but there was a tinge of it, as in 
 all of them; in his position it would be too much to expect 
 that he would not make use of his knowledge, at least to 
 the extent of holding a righteous nose in the air over a 
 man of whom he had some cause to be jealous, even though 
 he had disclaimed any such feeling. If Dr. Merrow were 
 to go to him, he would almost to a certainty be misunder- 
 stood. 
 
 " I am very glad to hear that you feel like that," Sir 
 Richard said. " It is what I feel myself. This bringing up 
 of what happened thirty years ago when he was a very dif- 
 ferent man to what he is now — he wasn't a man at all, 
 only a boy of twenty or so — it has thrown him out of his 
 reckonings altogether. It would have been bad enough if 
 he had been in the position that I am, for instance. There 
 would have been his wife and children to think of. It would 
 make it all the worse their being what they are; my sister- 
 in-law has a sort of — innocence — I don't know what to 
 call it — she has such a character that you can't tell how the 
 blow would strike her. And the children are everything you 
 could wish them to be, and they all look up to him, as they 
 ought to, in the way he has brought them up. I don't think 
 it is too much to say that the mistake he made in his youth 
 steadied him, and had something to do with the serious way 
 in which he has taken his life, and all his responsibilities, 
 since. I know he has never forgotten it. Then this comes 
 that may upset it all." 
 
 " Yes, I have felt all that. He is going through a black 
 
SIR RICHARD AND DR. MERROW 297 
 
 time. He is wounded for those who are dear to him. In- 
 deed he is very much to be pitied." 
 
 " And that isn't all. He is bound up in his profession. 
 You know how these things go with people like us. There's 
 a family living; a younger son is put into it as a matter of 
 course; there's a good house, and so on, and something to 
 do; he is expected to behave himself and do his duty, and 
 that's about all. But my brother hasn't taken it like that. 
 It has been the chief thing with him. He has made a great 
 difference in Roding. It's a better place than it was before 
 his time. Now he is asking himself whether all he has spent 
 his life in doing is to be upset, and all sorts of other ques- 
 tions about his work which I can't follow, but which show 
 how distressed he is." 
 
 " Yes, he must be going through a time of self-questionings 
 But he will come through it. No work done for God can 
 be spoilt; It is in his hands, and cannot be rejected, even 
 if the agent seems to be so." 
 
 " Well, perhaps that isn't much consolation if the agent 
 feels himself cut off. Perhaps I can't look at these things 
 quite in the same light as you do. I can see what my 
 brother has done in his parish, and outside it, too, and I 
 can see what an upset will be caused all round if scandal 
 is to be attached to his name. And that isn't all he is 
 thinking about, either. I think that if I had been in his 
 place it would have been — that and my wife and children. 
 But he is thinking about this son of his — what's to become 
 of him — ^what he can do for him." 
 
 Dr. Merrow roused himself. " I think I can help there," 
 he said. " His son's path has been marked out for him 
 for some years, and he will take it now. It will hardly 
 cross that of his father, but if he is solicitous for his welfare, 
 he may be assured that there are those who have always- 
 had it at heart, and will still help him if he wants help." 
 
298 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 " I understood that he was going to take up preaching — 
 I suppose in Wales. If one could be sure of his sticking 
 to it, perhaps it would be the best thing. But he came to 
 my brother with other ideas, and such as they were I don't 
 know that they won't recur to him. He thinks they won't 
 now; but when he has had time to get over his excitement 
 a bit, it wouldn't be surprising if he were to give it all up, 
 as I understood he did once before." 
 
 " I hope not. I think not. He will not be without 
 encouragement when, as you say, the first fervour of his 
 determination may be lessened — encouragement and help. 
 We all need it, weak as we are, when our wings droop and 
 we come near the earth. But God's strength is often shown 
 in those very times of weakness. In this case my own faith 
 is strong. It is the right course for him to take — that was 
 made plain to me. He will not be forsaken in it." 
 
 It seemed to Sir Richard that there was a trace here of 
 the young man's own emotionalism; and he had small faith 
 in emotionalism as a guide to action, and none at all as a 
 guarantee for perseverance. 
 
 " I was ready to help him on," he said, " on my brother's 
 behalf. My brother felt that as the truth of his parentage 
 had become known to him, he couldn't leave him to 
 himself entirely; and I was ready to do what he couldn't, 
 and " 
 
 Dr. Merrow interrupted him. " Sir Richard," he said, 
 leaning forward in his chair, and speaking more quickly 
 than his wont, " I think I can see more clearly here than 
 either ygu or your brother. This young man has been 
 brought up without a father's care; he knew not that he 
 had a father. He has been trained, and helped on his way 
 by those who made up for him in part for his orphanhood. 
 It is they who have a claim on him now, and they who 
 have the right to advise him." 
 
SIR RICHARD AND DR. MERROW 299 
 
 Sir Richard felt a little uneasy. "As for his becoming 
 a Churchman," he began ; but Dr. Merrow interrupted him 
 again. 
 
 " That is a temptation," he said, " that comes to some 
 of us in our youth, which you would hardly understand. 
 In some cases it is a temptation of the devil; in most cases 
 at least a temptation of the world. Here it was a clear 
 case of temptation, and all desire for it was driven away 
 when his eyes were once opened and he came back to him- 
 self. Even your brother saw it in the light of a temptation, 
 although no doubt he believes that his Church has more of 
 the truth than mine." 
 
 " He said he wasn't fit for it, and told him so." 
 
 " Then he must be content, and you must be content, 
 to stand aside. I wouldn't say a word to add to his distress, 
 but rightly or wrongly he gave up his rights of fatherhood 
 even before his son was born. He is too good a man to 
 fall back upon the bargain that was made, now that it has 
 been broken to his detriment. He is even now casting about 
 in his mind for something he can do to atone to this poor 
 son of his who has learnt the truth. He can do nothing; 
 it is too late now. And you can do nothing. All you could 
 do would be in the way of some worldly advancement, and 
 that, knowing him and taking full responsibility, I reject 
 for himi We have him now, and we must keep him. He 
 has given up his soul again, and it must not be tampered 
 with further." 
 
 They were strong words, delivered not without a trace 
 of the excitement that Sir Richard looked upon with such 
 misgiving. But he did not misunderstand them. It was 
 not a case of Dissent fighting jealously for a man of mark 
 against an encroaching arrogant Church. The prize wa^ 
 one which nobody who gained it would have much reason 
 to be proud of. He did not even see in the claim what 
 
300 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 the Rector would certainly have seen — a fanatical claim of 
 superior virtue. 
 
 " If you think about the poor chap like that, of course 
 you are right," he said. " I will interfere no further. I'll 
 leave it to you. And so will my brother. It's the best 
 thing we can do. If money is wanted for any further 
 training or what not, you won't misunderstand me when I 
 say I shall be glad if you will come to me. I shouldn't 
 offer it as a set-off against anything you are doing, or are 
 going to do." 
 
 Dr. Merrow leaned back in his chair, the tension relaxed. 
 " If you like to send me a subscription towards a Students' 
 . College we are building," he said with a smile, " I should 
 not refuse it." 
 
 " I will send you a cheque," said Sir Richard. " Under 
 the circumstances, you had better enter it as from 'A 
 Friend.' You have made me feel I have a friend in you, 
 Dr. Merrow — I and my brother, too. I hadn't looked for 
 so much kihdness and understanding. I won't say any 
 more, except that I hope we shall come to know one an- 
 other better still. We've made a good beginning." 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 THE HOLIDAYS 
 
 An exhaustive study of time-tables, an early rise, and a 
 taxi-cab driver bribed to exceed the speed limit between 
 London termini, enabled Ronald French to lunch at home 
 on the first day of the summer holidays. It was with 
 deep satisfaction that he found himself surrounded by the 
 amenities of the rectory. The food seemed to him super- 
 latively good. The appointments of the table satisfied his 
 artistic tastes; and the windows open to the garden sym- 
 bolised a freedom to which no bounds were at present visible. 
 Some visits were to be paid later, but in the meantime Roding 
 Rectory would afford all that a schoolboy home for the 
 holidays could demand in the way of amusement. 
 
 Ronald was going to lose no time in getting into it. 
 " First of all I shall have a talk with little mother," he 
 said. " Then I'm going to dig out George, and see what's 
 going on in the world of cricket. Then I'm going round 
 to look up a few of the parishioners. Then I'm going to 
 take Joyce and Eddie on the river. Then we're going to 
 play lawn .tennis, and that will bring us to dinner-time, 
 when I hope and trust there'll be an ice-pudding. After 
 that we'll see. We might have a little family Bridge, if we 
 feel well enough." 
 
 The talk between mother and son took place in the 
 garden, where they strolled arm in arm up and down the 
 long walk. 
 
 " Mother, I want to know about Sylvia. Is she going 
 to marry the Earl of Henley Regatta, or not?" 
 
 301 
 
3oa THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 "Why, Ronnie, what do you know about that?" 
 
 " My dear, I know more than you'd think about lots 
 of things. I've got a pair of eyes, you know, and a 
 pair of ears. Are we going to have another Earl in the 
 family?" 
 
 " Well, if you know that there was a chance of it " 
 
 " Oh, of course I know that ! He wanted it ; but Sylvia 
 didn't. She was to see how she liked him. / think he's 
 all right, you know, though perhaps a trifle on the venerable 
 side for Sylvia." 
 
 " Oh, Ronny, he's only thirty-five. I'm much older than 
 that, you know, and you don't call me venerable yet." 
 
 He stopped and embraced her. " You're the youngest 
 and most beautiful thing there is," he said. " It is refresh- 
 ing to have you again. I don't think I can go away from 
 you next term. I must stop at home and have a governess. 
 But you haven't told me about Sylvia. I suppose she isn't 
 going to marry him, or you'd have said so." 
 
 " Nothing is settled. She likes him : but she doesn't want 
 to leave us, you know, Ronnie. We are very happy at home 
 here, aren't we ? " 
 
 " I should think we were. It's perfectly beastly having 
 to go back to school. Still, Sylvia must marry some time 
 or other. We don't want to see her an old maid." 
 
 " Darling Sylvia! There is plenty of time. I don't want 
 her to marry yet. I shouldn't know what to do without 
 her." 
 
 " I suppose he'll meet her in the autumn when she goes 
 visiting about." 
 
 " Oh, I suppose so. And perhaps she will have to make 
 up her mind then. But I am glad nothing has happened 
 yet. Although we are not going away these holidays, Sylvia 
 and I have been looking forward to them just as much as 
 you have. Perhaps another year we shan't be able to have 
 
THE HOLIDAYS 303 
 
 our holidays altogether. Ronnie, I hope you have been work- 
 ing well this term." 
 
 He looked at her and laughed, and after an attempt to 
 keep serious she laughed, too. " I think you are very im- 
 pertinent," she said. " But I am so glad to have you back 
 that I can't be angry with you. Now you must go and 
 pay your visits, for I have a lot to do. Who are you going 
 to see?" 
 
 " George. I'll tell him to come and dine to-night, shall 
 I? I'll tell him there'll be an ice pudding." 
 
 " Yes, do. And to-morrow, too. I suppose he knows that 
 Ralph is coming home to-morrow. Who else ? " 
 
 " Stenning. I want to see his dogs, and I like talking 
 to old mother Stenning. She's so inconsequent. Shall I go 
 and see old Mother Budd? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 He looked at her quizzically. " Has she been making 
 mischief ? " he asked. 
 
 " I can't tell you everything that has happened, Ronnie," 
 she said seriously, " but we don't want to see more of Miss 
 Budd than we can help; and she doesn't want to see us. 
 There are plenty of other people in Roding." 
 
 " Oh, yes, rather ! Mother Budd belongs to the feline 
 tribe, I don't want to see her; but it used to be rather 
 fun getting rises out of her," 
 
 If a readiness to make friends is a good quality in a 
 parish priest, as no doubt it is, Ronald French promised 
 well as a future rector of Roding. It had always been 
 supposed that he would take Orders, but very little had 
 been said about it. If he showed any marked inclination 
 for some other profession or occupation no pressure would 
 be brought upon him. There was Eddie as a reserve; but 
 no pressure would be brought upon Eddie, either. It was 
 probable that one of them would follow his father, and 
 
304 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 Ronald was the most likely, on account of that happy 
 facility of his for interesting himself in the details of the 
 lives of his neighbours. 
 
 He went out into the High Street prepared for affable 
 conversation with anybody he might meet. He told the 
 fishmonger's boy that he was growing into a fine lad and 
 ought to go for a soldier, and asked after his mother, who 
 had once been a maid at the rectory. He looked in at 
 Cosset's shop and was interested in the price of raisins, which 
 had risen. He told Gosset that Tariff Reform would prob- 
 ably put that right, but admitted that under a tariff food 
 might cost rather more. He heard from a friend in the 
 stationer's shop that the child of a woman living in Bolter's 
 Yard had been burnt, and went there to enquire into it. 
 He did not know the woman, who was a new arrival in 
 Roding, but they came together on the subject of flannelette, 
 arid Ronald was shown the burn, and agreed that it was a 
 mercy ^t wasn't worse. As he was in Bolter's Yard he 
 looked in on an old Army Pensioner who lived there, and 
 asked a few questions about the Balaclava Charge. It was 
 now nearly time for the children to come out to school, so 
 he bought three pennyworth of acid-drops, and stationed 
 himself by the school gates. He examined into the be- 
 haviour of those who congregated round him, and gave 
 sweets to the most deserving, consuming his own fair share 
 meanwhile. Then he went on to George's house, but not 
 without further bursts of conversation on the way. 
 
 All the time he was thinking what a glorious thing it was 
 to be home for the holidays. The realisation of his good 
 fortune came over him in wafts of joy. There was not 
 the smallest speck of cloud on his horizon. Home was de- 
 lightful, and his "people" were just those whom a fellow 
 liked to be with; there was any amount to do, with the 
 cricket and the river and the garden and the horses, Ralph 
 
THE HOLIDAYS 305 
 
 coming home, George only just round the corner, and plenty 
 of jolly houses and jolly people within reach. And there 
 were all the townspeople of Roding, too, most of whom 
 he knew, all of whom liked him and made him welcome 
 when he came home. Roding Rectory, with all that went 
 on in and around it, was about the joUiest place in the 
 world. It did cross his mind that by-and-by, after long 
 years, Roding Rectory would be his to live in, in the same 
 way as his father lived there now. It was quite as satis- 
 factory a lot as that which lay before Ralph. A parson's 
 life wasn't all amusement, but in a place like Roding, where 
 everybody knew their parson and liked him and looked up 
 to him, there wasn't much to grumble at. 
 
 Miss Budd came along the street towards him, and 
 crossed over to the other side as she caught sight of him. 
 He had half a mind to cross over, too, and make her recog- 
 nise him, but the remembrance of his mother's face deterred 
 him. Apparently Miss Budd was one of the people in 
 Roding who was not liking the Rector and his family at 
 the moment. But one needn't take any notice of her; if 
 she liked to quarrel it was her own loss. It could make no 
 difference otherwise. 
 
 As he neared the French Arms, Dr. Merrow and Charles 
 were coming up the road from " The Limes " together. Ron- 
 ald had forgotten to ask about Dr. Merrow, but thought 
 that this was a good opportunity for getting to know him. 
 He rather liked the look of Charles, too, and wanted to 
 find out if he was likely to be in Roding for some time. 
 If so he would be useful for lawn tennis, and they might 
 even put a Four on the river. 
 
 He waited for them to come up, and then held out his 
 hand. "How do you do. Dr. Merrow?" he said. "I'm 
 Ronald French. I've just come home. I didn't see you last 
 holidays to speak to." 
 
3o6 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 Dr. Merrow's face lit up. This frank address from a 
 boy of Ronald's age enchanted him. He shook hands with 
 him warmly and put the other hand on his shoulder. " I'm 
 very glad you have spoken to me now," he said, " or days 
 might have gone by before we knew each other. This is my 
 son, Charles, who is spending a quiet holiday with me." 
 
 Ronald shook hands with Charles. " I was just think- 
 ing," he said, " that now I've come home, and Ralph is 
 coming home to-morrow, we needn't be so very quiet. You 
 were at Cambridge with Ralph, weren't you? Did you 
 row or play cricket?" 
 
 "A little bit of both," said Charles, "but chip'' 
 rowing." 
 
 "Yes, I thought so. I'm going to row when I get to 
 Cambridge. We've got a pair-oar at home. Would you 
 like to come out to-morrow morning? I'm not much good, 
 but I'm going to row a lot these holidays." 
 
 Charles accepted this invitation, and a time was arranged. 
 After a little further conversation, in which Ronald told 
 them of the woman at Bolter's Yard whose child had been 
 burnt, they parted, very well pleased with one another. 
 
 George was at his writing-table, which was covered with 
 papers. He was very pleased to see Ronald, and accepted 
 the invitation for dinner, but refused to go back to the 
 rectory with him to play lawn tennis. " I've got a great 
 deal to do," he said. 
 
 " But, my dear old boy, you ought not to be indoors on 
 a day like this," expostulated Ronald. " I'm sure father 
 wouldn't expect it of you." 
 
 George laughed. " I'm not doing parish work," he said. 
 " Ralph and I have got something on together. We are 
 looking after some boys who are going out to Australia in 
 October. There's a lot to arrange." 
 
 Ronald had thrown himself into one of George's easy 
 
THE HOLIDAYS 307 
 
 chairs. "You're not going with them, are you?" he asked 
 idly. 
 
 George looked at him. "Why do you say that?" he 
 asked. 
 
 Ronald sat up. " Surely, you're not going, George? " 
 he said. 
 
 George came up to the fireplace. "Yes, I am," he said. 
 " I told Cousin Henry this morning. But don't say any- 
 thing about it till Ralph comes down." 
 * " But this is horrible, George. I thought father seemed 
 rather under the weather, at lunch. I expect that was why. 
 Wre you going to stay in Australia? " 
 
 " Yes ; for some years, at any rate." 
 ''^ " But why, George? I thought you were settled down 
 here for years and years. Are you going to give up this 
 HbliSe, and everything? How perfectly beastly! What on 
 earth do you want to go to Australia for?" 
 
 George did not reply at once, and Ronald gave vent to 
 further expressions of surprise and regret. " I was only 
 thinking as I came down," he said, " how jolly everything 
 was here, and sort of settled — you know what I mean. 
 And now you're going to chuck it. Don't you like Roding, 
 George? I thought you liked it better than any place." 
 
 " I do," said George. " I'll tell you about it, Ronald. 
 Perhaps you are going to take Orders some day, as I have, 
 and you'll understand; or if you don't now, you will by- 
 and-by. Cousin Henry understands, though he's sorry I've 
 made up my mind to go." 
 
 " I should think he was. So shall we all be. You're 
 one of the family; it's just as if Ralph were going away." 
 
 " Well, old boy, I feel just as you do about that. It's a 
 pretty good wrench leaving you all, and leaving Roding, 
 too. But I've only got about half a job here. It has been 
 all right for me for a time. I have got into the way of 
 
3o8 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 things, and I wasn't ready for anything bigger. But now 
 I think I am." 
 
 "Well, I suppose Australia is bigger than England; 
 but I should have thought you could have found a place 
 here where there was plenty to do, if that's what you want. 
 You could get a living of your own in a year or two." 
 
 " I've been thinking it all over for some months," George 
 went on. " I haven't hurried. I thought, perhaps, I might 
 go to some big town parish. Most fellows, who are keen, 
 start like that. But somehow I never felt that that was 
 the thing to do. I should be like a fish out of water, and 
 though I dare say I could stick it all right, I know I should 
 always be hankering to get away into the open. Then I 
 thought of going to the Central African Mission. A lot 
 of splendid fellows go and work there. But that didn't 
 seem right, either — for me, for a lot of reasons. So I just 
 waited. I knew I should find the right thing sooner or 
 later, and when Ralph talked to me about these fellows 
 emigrating, and asked me if I knew of anybody who would 
 care to go out with them as chaplain for the voyage, I 
 thought it over, and then I said I'd go myself." 
 
 " Yes, for the voyage, perhaps. But why stay there ? " 
 
 " Well, Ronald, it's just what I'm suited for. I'm going 
 into the Bush. My father was Admiral on the Australian 
 Station, you know, when I was a child, and I haven't for- 
 gotten all about it. The Bush is glorious. I shall be in 
 the saddle half my time." 
 
 "Yes, that will be rather jolly; but you said you only 
 had half a job here. You can be in the saddle the other 
 half in England, at least in the winter." 
 
 George smiled. " It isn't quite the same thing," he said. 
 " I read about a parson in Queensland the other day whose 
 parish was as big as the whole of Scotland, and I don't 
 think his was the biggest parish there, either. You have 
 
THE HOLIDAYS 309 
 
 to ride to get at your people. They are scattered all over 
 the place. You go to the different stations, and you find 
 groups of men doing various things where nobody ever gets 
 at them. You see, Ronald, I'm not a clever fellow, but 
 I can get on with men, and I can do the sort of things 
 that they expect a man to be able to do in a new country. 
 And I feel I've got something to tell them about. They are 
 just the sort of people I can talk to. They don't get many 
 chances of hearing about religion." 
 
 " Dear old George ! " said Ronald affectionately. " I 
 expect they'll be jolly glad to see you. And you'll be as 
 good a nian on a horse as any of them. I dare say you'll 
 get a lot of fun out of it. I think it's beastly, you're going, 
 all the same. You can get plenty of fun here." 
 
 " Well, it isn't the fun exactly that I'm going for, though 
 no doubt I shall enjoy it, when I've once got used to pulling 
 up stakes." 
 
 He threw a glance round his comfortable room, so ad- 
 mirably expressive of his tastes, so permanently, as it seemed, 
 a part of his life. Ronald caught the glance, and divined 
 something of what it would be to a man of his cousin's 
 unadventurous home-loving disposition, to make the change 
 he had decided upon. 
 
 He was thoughtful for a minute. " You are really going 
 as a sort of missionary," he said. 
 
 " Well, it will be about as near to a missionary's life as 
 going for a voyage on a P. & O. steamer would be to going 
 on an expedition to the South Pole," said George, with 
 unwonted brilliance. " There'll be no real hardships. I 
 wasn't quite certain at first whether I ought to decide upon 
 a life that will suit me so well. But I think it is just 
 because it will suit me that it's the right one. And very 
 likely there will be a lot of things I can do there that I 
 haven't thought of yet. I've got more money than I want, 
 
3IO THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 you know. There'll be ways that I can use it, I've no doubt. 
 Anyhow, I'm easy in my mind now, and that's more than 
 I've been for a long time." 
 
 Sir Richard dined at the rectory that evening as well as 
 George. He was in good spirits, and added a good deal 
 to Ronald's satisfaction in finding himself amongst his own 
 people. But none the less there was a slight air of con- 
 straint to be felt. The Rector was obviously depressed, 
 although he was as obviously trying to keep his depression 
 from showing. Ronald put it down to the news he had 
 heard from George, and wished George had not asked him 
 to keep silence about it. It would have been easier if his 
 departure could have been talked about, and the new life 
 that he was embarking upon. Ronald felt rather depressed 
 himself when he thought about " old George " going away. 
 He had seemed so much a part of Roding, and likely to go 
 on for ever, or at least as long as Ronald, at his age, was 
 capable of looking forward. Ronald didn't want changes 
 at Roding; it was all just right as it was. 
 
 The two elder men went into the Rector's study after 
 dinner, and the rest of them played card games in the 
 drawing-room, and talked; and Sylvia sang. Ronald en- 
 joyed the quiet evening as much as if it had been filled 
 with excitement. He kept on hugging himself over the 
 fact that he was at home. He liked to feel himself clean 
 and comfortable in his evening clothes, sitting in a deep 
 chintz-covered chair in the pretty room, over which his eyes 
 constantly wandered, while Sylvia sang the songs he liked 
 and his mother played her accompaniments. He thought his 
 pretty sister prettier than ever; and as for his mother, he 
 admired her more every time he came home. He had chosen 
 the frocks that she and Sylvia were to wear this evening, 
 and the result gratified his artistic eye. Very few fellows 
 had mothers and sisters who could turn out as well as his. 
 
THE HOLIDAYS 311 
 
 He would have liked the whole of Harrow School to see 
 them this evening. 
 
 When Sir Richard and the Rector were alone together, 
 Sir Richard said : " Henry, old boy, you must throw this 
 unfortunate business off your mind now. You're worrying 
 about it. Ruth told me just now that she was sure you had 
 something on your mind. It's all over now. The best thing 
 you can do is to forget it." 
 
 " I wish I could," said the Rector, with a groan. " It 
 isn't all over. Read that, Dick." 
 
 He had unlocked a drawer of his writing-table and taken 
 a letter from it, which he handed to his brother. 
 
 Sir Richard's face grew very grave and he gave a long 
 whistle of dismay as he turned the paper over. " Anony- 
 mous! " he said. " That's bad." 
 
 Dear Sir (the letter ran), 
 
 Your secret is known. I do not desire to add to the remorse 
 you must be feeling, but you cannot be allowed to bring scandal 
 to bear upon religion by putting yourself in a more pominent posi- 
 tion than the one you now occupy. You must refuse the Arch- 
 deaconry that has been offered to you. If you do this promptly 
 you will hear no more from A Well-Wisher. 
 
 The brothers looked at one another. "Who wrote it?" 
 asked the Rector. 
 
 Sir Richard looked at the post-mark on the envelope. 
 " Farhcombe," he said. " Whoever did write it — in a care- 
 fully disguised hand — means it to be thought that it came 
 from Dr. Merrow. Which is absurd." 
 
 The Rector looked down. " What could it matter to 
 him whether I took the Archdeaconry or not?" he asked. 
 
 " Exactly. The scum that writes this sort of letter al- 
 ways makes that kind of mistake. A woman wrote this, 
 Henry; that's plain enough from the hand. But how could 
 
312 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 she have found out? And who is there that would do a 
 thing like that — ^who would wish to injure you? " 
 
 " Merrow must have told somebody." 
 
 "Oh, no, he hasn't! He said so definitely." 
 
 " Did he say he hadn't told his wife? " 
 
 " But surely you don't suspect her ! " 
 
 " I don't suspect her of having written an anonymous 
 letter. At least, I should be very much surprised if it were 
 proved that she had done such a thing. But she doesn't 
 like us; she doesn't even like Ruth. I think she has told 
 somebody, perhaps in confidence — somebody in Merrow's 
 congregation — and^ — " 
 
 " Well, I don't, Henry. I don't believe Merrow has even 
 told her. Besides, what you said just now about him would 
 apply to his people. What difEerence would it make to 
 them — ^your taking the Archdeaconry." 
 
 " A man like Gosset, for instance, would be jealous of 
 my filling any place of honour." 
 
 Sir Richard had read the letter again. " It looks to me 
 much more likely to be one of your own people who has 
 a spite against you," he said. " ' Scandal to bear upon reli- 
 gion.' A spiteful dissenter wouldn't write like that. He, 
 or she, would be glad of the scandal. Is there anybody you 
 know of who goes to church and has a spite against you ? " 
 
 "Yes, there's Miss Budd. I thought of her. But how 
 on earth could she know? She turns up her nose at the 
 Merrows, because they are dissenters. She would write a 
 letter like that, I believe. She would be the most likely 
 person. But I don't see how she can have heard it from 
 them, or how she can have heard of it in any other way, 
 unless it's all over the place. Well, it's here to face now, 
 Dick. I've got to go through with it. It doesn't much 
 matter who wrote that vile letter. They won't leave it 
 there, whatever I do." 
 
THE HOLIDAYS 313 
 
 " I'm afraid not. I'm very much afraid not. Wliat shall 
 you do about the Archdeaconry? The time you asked for 
 from the Bishop is up now, isn't it?" 
 
 " I wrote to him this morning, and accepted. This 
 decided me. After all, Dick, I'm what I've always been. 
 It's thirty years since I made that mistake. All my work 
 in the Church has been done since then. I can only go 
 on with it, to the best of my ability. If it is to be brought 
 to nothing, it will not be my doing. I shall hold on as 
 long as I can. But I shall have to tell Ruth now. If the 
 devil who wrote that letter wants me punished, he need 
 do nothing further. Nothing else matters much beside 
 that." 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 DISCOVERIES 
 
 Ronald slipped his arm into Charles Merrow's. When he 
 liked a person, he was inclined to like him very much. 
 
 " That's right," said Charles. " Now we shall support 
 each other. I haven't rowed for two years. I shall be so 
 stiff by-and-by that I shall hardly be able to hobble." 
 
 They were coming away from the town boat-house, 
 where the rectory boats were kept. Ronald had insisted 
 upon Charles coming back to the rectory to lunch. He 
 admired his new friend, and wanted to show him to his 
 family. 
 
 " Now, don't you like him, Sylvia? " he asked his sister 
 after lunch. "Don't you think he's a nice fellow? He 
 took an awful lot of trouble about me this morning, and 
 says I ought to turn out quite a decent oar. He's a very 
 good oar himself; not so good as Ralph, perhaps, but I think 
 he coaches better. He takes more pains. You do like him, 
 don't you, Sylvia ? " 
 
 " Yes, Ronnie, I think he's very nice." 
 
 " He's amusing, isn't he? I like that way his eyes screw 
 up when he says something amusing — rather like Uncle 
 Richard's. Father laughed at that story of his about the 
 Irish priest. I think father likes him, don't you?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, we all liked him, Ronnie. You liked him, I 
 liked him, the cook liked him, the boot-boy liked him." 
 
 " How silly you are, Sylvia! Have you got your tennis 
 shoes on? I should think he would be ready to play in a 
 few minutes." 
 
 314 
 
DISCOVERIES 315 
 
 Charles was in the study with the Rector, who was quite 
 inclined to like him personally, but found it a little irk- 
 some to have a member of Dr. Merrow's family enthusi- 
 astically inserted into the rectory life at that particular time. 
 He had not seen Dr. Merrow since his brother had talked 
 to him, and disliked the idea of seeing him. But if his son 
 were to be welcomed at all hours — Lady Ruth had already 
 asked him to dine that night, for she had liked him as much 
 as even Ronald could desire — then Dr. Merrow and his wife 
 must be asked, too, sooner or later. 
 
 But during the quarter of an hour in which they smoked 
 and drank their cofEee together the sense of embarrassment 
 died down. Charles had something of his father's persuasive 
 quality, and it was devoid of the pietistic phrase that had 
 got in the way of the Rector's recognizing its charm in Dr. 
 Merrow. He was much more a man of the world than his 
 father, and his conversation had salt in it. He showed a 
 pleasant deference towards a man considerably older than 
 himself, but not of the sort that shrinks from expressing 
 independent views. The Rector found him an agreeable 
 companion, and almost forgot his troubles for a time in 
 talking to him. It seemed to him plain, at any rate, that 
 if there had been leakage at " The Limes," as seemed prob- 
 able, it had not affected this well-conditioned clever young 
 man, with his already wide experience, and his sane humour- 
 ous outlook. His ripeness of view attracted the Rector; 
 it was that of a man of more years than Charles could claim. 
 In his state of soreness — ^wondering what was to come 
 to him, and how those among whom he lived would behave 
 towards him if his secret became generally known — it was 
 gratifying to believe that it would make no difference here. 
 As for Charles Merrow himself, perhaps it would not mat- 
 ter much whether it made a difference or not; but he was 
 expressive of the tolerant sensible attitude that he might 
 
3I& THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 hope for from those who know the world, and were in- 
 dulgently disposed towards it. 
 
 " Well, I hope you will come here as often as you care 
 to," he said, as he rose to go out into the parish. " You 
 will find Ronald energetically disposed to all forms of ex- 
 ercise, and Ralph will be home this evening, and will no 
 doubt be ready to play games vigorously. Come and help 
 us to keep up the holiday atmosphere." 
 
 The holiday atmosphere was sufficiently in evidence dur- 
 ing the rest of the afternoon. Myra Curtis was spending 
 the day with Sylvia, and they and Charles and Ronald 
 played lawn tennis with untiring persistence, and after 
 tea went on to the river again, with the children as an 
 addition to their party. 
 
 As the two girls were dressing for dinner, Myra said: 
 " Sylvia, I think that new lad is rather a lamb. He is 
 nice without trying too hard to recommend himself." 
 
 " He was awfully sweet to Joyce and Eddie," said Sylvia. 
 " It is a good point in a man if children like him." 
 
 "Yes; and if girls like him." 
 
 Sylvia laughed. " Don't you think it's rather unfair," 
 she said, " that men have to take such a lot of trouble to 
 make us like them, and we don't take any trouble at all 
 about them? " 
 
 " That's the point of view of the spoilt darling," said 
 Myra. " I should have to take a lot of trouble if I wanted 
 a man to like me. I did take a good deal of trouble 
 with Mr. Merrow, and he responded affably. But he didn't 
 really care much whether I liked him or not." 
 
 " He didn't care much whether I liked him, either." 
 
 " Well, I thought he did, rather. He looked at you a 
 good deal. But I suppose you're used to that. You cer- 
 tainly did look very sweet. I think probably he was trying 
 to find out whpther you were as sweet as you looked. 
 
.DISCOVERIES 317 
 
 .Lots of girls aren't. I'm a good deal sweeter, fortunately 
 for me; for I'm not much to look at." 
 
 " You're always saying that, Myra. Fishing for com- 
 pliments, I suppose. You're a good type of healthy, happy 
 girlhood." 
 
 " And the man will be lucky who gets me. Yes, I 
 know. It's very satisfactory. What did you and Mr. 
 Merrow talk about when Ronald and I were playing with 
 Joyce and Eddie? That's a good test — what a man talks 
 about when you are alone with him." 
 
 "About Ronald mostly. He appreciates Ronald thor- 
 oughly. And I tried him with one or two family jokes. 
 He quite entered into them. I think he's a bright lad." 
 
 " I think so. Dad likes him awfully. He says he is 
 very clever, but a terrible Radical. They have great argu- 
 ments, but they never seem to quarrel." 
 
 "Is he like his father?" 
 
 "What, Dr. Merrow? Haven't you seen him?" 
 
 " Not to speak to, yet. Have you ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes! Now he's a real lamb, of the most precious 
 order. It's such a pity he isn't a proper clergyman. But 
 you don't mind it when you're with him. He's like an ador- 
 able infant who doesn't know anything; but I expect he 
 knows a good lot, really." 
 
 " What is Mrs. Merrow like? " 
 
 " Managing order. She managed Dr. Merrow away 
 just as we were beginning to love each other. Mother 
 likes her; she says she's a very capable woman. Hasn't 
 Lady Ruth called on her yet?" 
 
 " Yes, but she didn't take me, and I wasn't in when she 
 called back. Mother was a little frightened of her, I think ; 
 but she says she's very nice." 
 
 In the meantime Charles Merrow was discussing his new 
 friends with his mother, who was sitting by the vrindow 
 
3i8 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 of his room while he put the finishing touches to his 
 toilet. 
 
 " I think they're quite a delightful family, mother," he 
 was saying; " I can't think why you don't like them. Have 
 you seen the daughter?" 
 
 " I've seen her in the town. I never said I didn't like 
 them — except Mr. French, and I don't dislike him, really." 
 
 " He seems to take himself seriously; but he warms up 
 when you talk to him. He is genial enough. But the rest 
 of them are a pure joy, mother. Lady Ruth is like a nice 
 girl of seventeen." 
 
 " I know she is. In certain moods one likes to meet 
 women who are like that. As you are here for a holiday, 
 dear Charles, I'm glad you should like them so much." 
 
 " She seems hardly older than her daughter. I like to 
 see a girl and her mother such good friends as those two 
 are. The daughter is really an extraordinarily pretty girl, 
 mother, and absolutely unspoilt. She's as nice a girl as 
 I've ever met." 
 
 " Well, don't fall in love with her, Charles. She leads 
 a fashionable life, and they probably have ideas in their 
 heads for her, to which we shouldn't conform at all." 
 
 " Oh, my dear mother ! " said Charles. " I'm past the 
 calf stage — if I was ever in it." 
 
 " I don't know that you ever were. You have always 
 been very sensible. But you're certainly not too old to fall 
 in love, as I hope you will some day, with a suitable girl." 
 
 " Should you consider Miss Curtis a suitable girl ? She 
 was there to-day. I think she is Miss French's bosom 
 friend. I thought her a very nice girl." 
 
 " If you fell in love with her I shouldn't be very pleased 
 or very sorry; but nobody could say that you weren't suit- 
 able. They could say it if you fell in love with the other 
 girl; or at least they would, and one doesn't care to let 
 
DISCOVERIES 319 
 
 one's self in for that sort of comparison. That's why I think 
 it is rather a nuisance that the Rectory people are what 
 they are. You meet them as equals, and know all the time 
 that they don't think of you as equals. However, I sup- 
 pose one has to put up with that in a country place, and I'm 
 glad enough that you should have a house to go to that 
 you like, as long as you only go there to amuse yourself." 
 
 " Well, I'm not going there with any other idea," said 
 Charles, a shade coldly, but relented immediately, and 
 laughed at his mother. " I shall know how to keep my 
 place," he said. 
 
 But as he walked home late that night, under the stars, 
 he found himself thinking of Sylvia in a way in which he 
 had not thought' of other girls who were, as his mother had 
 indicated, beyond his reach. She had looked so beautiful, 
 and had been so gay and friendly, that her face and figure, 
 and the tones of her voice, returned to him like some haunt- 
 ing snatch of melody that sings in the brain when one has 
 heard a long piece of music for the first time. His even- 
 ing had been a very pleasant one. He and Ralph had taken 
 to one another, and the whole family had accepted him 
 cordially as one of themselves, a person with the same tastes, 
 and, because of his good humour and amusing speech, as a 
 most welcome participator in their own amusements. It 
 was gratifying to be taken into a circle of nice people in 
 that way, and to feel one's self so liked. The whole even- 
 ing had been the long piece of music which one would look 
 forward to hearing again with still more appreciation. But 
 Sylvia had stood out from all the rest — her face, her voice, 
 what she had done and what she had said. She sang in his 
 brain now — a memory caught more insistently than any 
 other. 
 
 Remembering his mother's words, he smiled to himself. 
 Was he in love with Sylvia? Oh, no! She was extraor- 
 
320 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 dinarily attractive. She was just the sort of girl he might 
 fall in love with, if he wanted to. But he didn't want to, 
 and he held the theory that will had a good deal to do 
 with such matters. He had no idea of marrying yet awhile. 
 His interests in life were enough for him, and he still had 
 his way to make. He fully intended to make it, and by- 
 and-by, when he wanted to marry, he would be such that 
 it would be natural that he should take a wife from 
 amongst the people to whom such a girl as Sylvia belonged, 
 if he should want to. In the meantime, he was as averse 
 to putting himself into a position in which he could be 
 looked coldly upon as his mother could be for him. Cer- 
 tainly, he didn't want to fall in love with Sylvia, and as 
 certainly he wouldn't. But she was a very pretty girl, and 
 a very charming one; so pretty and so charming that it 
 was even a little thrilling to think of her, and to smile 
 at the remembrance of her speeches and her laughter, as 
 he walked home under the stars. 
 
 Sir Richard French had not been at the rectory that day, 
 but he had been seen in Roding. He had gone into Bolter's 
 Yard to look at the houses there, which belonged to him, 
 and were not such as a good landlord might be proud of, 
 although he had done everything he could for their tenants, 
 short of pulling them down. After that he had gone round 
 by the lower part of the town and walked up a narrow 
 lane which ran parallel to the High Street, and eventually 
 emerged into it, taking a turn when it reached the wall of 
 Miss Budd's garden, and running alongside that and the wall 
 of her house. 
 
 Dr. Merrow's chapel fronted the lower road, and its 
 back was towards this lane, which had risen to about half 
 the height of the building by the time it reached it. The 
 lane was very little used, except at the lower end, where 
 the gates of Dr. Stenning's stable-yard faced the broader 
 
DISCOVERIES 321 
 
 part running into the road. On the higher side was a brick 
 wall with no doors in it. But at the end there was a green- 
 painted door into Miss Budd's garden. The lower bound- 
 ary was a post-and-rail fence on the top of a bank, which 
 was only a few yards from the back wall of the chapel 
 buildings, and descended farther along into cottage yards 
 and gardens. 
 
 Sir Richard walked up the lane and stopped behind the 
 chapel. It was b^uilt on a narrow strip of ground, and it 
 was evident that the accessory rooms were behind the chapel 
 itself. There were two windows of ground glass in the back 
 wall, the upper panes of which were made to open from a 
 hinge in the middle, and were rather higher than the heads 
 of any one standing in the lane. They, were protected by 
 a sort of wire cage. 
 
 Just as Sir Richard had come opposite to the chapel, a 
 door from the stable-yard lower down opened, and Mrs. 
 Stenning came out. He put his foot on to a rail of the 
 fence and busied himself with his bootlace, thinking that 
 she was going into the lower road. But she came up the 
 lane, and he stood up and gave her a greeting. 
 
 " This seems to be a favourite place for people to do up 
 their bootlaces in," said Mrs. Stenning with nervous volu- 
 bility. " The very last time I came up the lane I found 
 Miss Budd doing up hers, in that very place. It's a curious 
 coincidence." 
 
 Sir Richard had much ado to keep himself from gasping. 
 The coincidence was a good deal more curious than Mrs. 
 Stenning had any idea of. 
 
 " Well, now, please don't tell Miss Budd, or anybody 
 else, that you saw me doing up my bootlace," he said. " I 
 am a very tidy person, and I don't like to be caught at it. 
 I throw myself on your mercy." 
 
 " Certainly I won't," said Mrs. Stenning, " if you don't 
 
322 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 wish it. It's a funny thing that Miss Budd made the same 
 request. Oh, there now! What have I done? I've broken 
 my word. Whatever will you think of me, Sir Richard? 
 It slipped out before I thought of it." 
 
 " Well, you won't let it slip out again. I was just looking 
 at these buildings. I haven't been up here since they were 
 finished. I suppose these windows are to vestries and rooms 
 of that sort." 
 
 " That one is Dr. Merrow's study," said Mrs. Stenning. 
 " They fitted it up for him as a sort of introductory gift. 
 It is really very nice. Mrs. Withers took me in to see it 
 one day. There's a Turkey carpet and a writing-table and 
 an easy chair, and a set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. 
 But it is rather dark. This is the only window, and you 
 see they had to put wire up to prevent boys throwing stones 
 in." 
 
 " Yes, I shouldn't want to use a room like that much." 
 
 " I don't think he does use it much. He sometimes sees 
 people in it. He was there on the afternoon I came across 
 Miss Budd here. We heard him talking to somebody, and 
 she hurried me away in case we might hear what he was 
 saying. I thought it rather delicate of her; though, of 
 course, I shouldn't have wanted to listen. I'm going up 
 to tea with Miss Budd now." 
 
 " Ah, I'm going the other way," said Sir Richard. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 THE RECTOR AND LADY RUTH 
 
 "Oh, Henry!" 
 
 It was a cry of pain, almost terror. She was staring at 
 him with wide-open eyes, out of a face from which the 
 colour had departed. 
 
 It was the bitterest moment of his life. It was far worse 
 than he had imagined. That look seemed to remove her 
 from him poles apart. It was as if she saw a stranger before 
 her, instead of the well-loved companion of nearly thirty 
 years. He had no reply to make to her cry. Of what use 
 were excuses, or explanations? He had dealt her a blow as 
 unexpected, as incredible to her, as if he had struck her in 
 the face with his hand. He had destroyed the image of 
 himself that she had set up in her mind, in her heart. It 
 was for her to adjust herself to changed conditions; he could 
 do nothing to help her. 
 
 He sat before her with his head bowed. She looked at 
 him a little longer, then sank her face in her hands and burst 
 into tears. 
 
 Her tears relaxed the tension. Her love for him — as the 
 oncoming tide surges back, remains suspended for a moment, 
 and then rushes forward again — flowed out. The misery 
 in his face and bearing impelled her to comfort him. Neither 
 of them spoke, but she dried her tears resting on 'his breast. 
 
 " I am very cruel, dearest," she said, taking his hand in 
 hers. " It is as dreadful for you as it is for me. We must 
 face it together, and get used to it" 
 
 He knew that she was not thinking of the revelations that 
 323 
 
324 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 were bound to come. They were as nothing compared with 
 the fact itself. 
 
 " I ought to have told you at the beginning," he said. " I 
 wish I had." 
 
 She was silent at this. She shrank from considering what 
 she would have done if he had told her before their mar- 
 riage. It was because she knew him and loved him, after 
 so many years of married life, far more than she had loved 
 him when they first came together, that she was able to 
 cope with the shame that was wringing her. And yet, this 
 had been between them all the time, and she had not known 
 of it. He had, and it had not affected him. She shrank 
 from considering that too. She must cling, for his sake as 
 well as her own, to the good she knew of him, which no 
 past act could alter. 
 
 She asked him timid questions. She must force her feet 
 on to unknow perilous paths, beneath the ashes of which 
 dangerous fires smouldered, since he had trod them. He 
 was tortured with shame. To remove the smirch from him- 
 self, in however small a degree, he must put it on to what, 
 in her white purity of mind, she had thought of as unstained. 
 
 The cleanness of youth. Yes, she had believed in that. 
 She knew, of course, that there was wickedness; she had 
 come across it only lately. But surely it was a rare thing, 
 as rare in the case of young men, brought up in such homes 
 as hers and her husband's had been, as it was in the case 
 of young girls. 
 
 " Oh, no, Henry! Not Ralph! Not my Ronald! " 
 
 He had said that all young men had these temptations, 
 and that it was to be wished^ but hardly to be expected, 
 that they should never fall. 
 
 It seemed a dreadful thing to have said, in face of that 
 cry of pain and rejection. He had wondered many times 
 at her innocence, stood in cleansing awe of it, and dreaded 
 
THE RECTOR AND LADY RUTH 323 
 
 any rude revelation from outside that would shatter it. But 
 it had seemed to him all the time something unnatural, in 
 the case of a woman who lived in the world, as she did — 
 something like the ignorance of childhood, which is a beauti- 
 ful thing in itself, but cannot be expected to last. And he 
 had thought that, with this crisis upon them, unless she could 
 be brought with whatever tenderness he could use, to see 
 the world as it was, and not in the light of her own good- 
 ness, his own fall must appear to her a graver matter than 
 it, actually had been, under all the circumstances. 
 
 But now his mind revolted from that thought. If she 
 could go out into the world, as she did, and keep that wonder- 
 ful faith in its goodness and essential purity, it was for those 
 who loved her to justify, not to destroy it. He saw, as 
 he had never seen before, what an uplifting force that pure 
 trustfulness had been in his own life, and in that of all 
 those who had come in contact with it. If his own sons 
 were to preserve that rare integrity, which it would sadden 
 but not surprise him that they should lose, it would be be- 
 cause of the unconscious influence of their mother's love for 
 them and trust in them. His own exhortations, his ' work ' 
 amongst his parishioners, seemed to him now a small thing 
 beside the spirit of goodness radiating from her. What could- 
 he have done with that poor girl whom she had lately re- 
 stored to herself by the force of her own pure sympathy, 
 probably never saying a word to her in the way of ad- 
 monition, but showing the tenderness and goodness that were 
 in her, and by that example lifting her out of the mire? 
 Even a man like Gosset, trained to suspect all fair qualities 
 that could not be referrefl" b^ck to a stated experience, had 
 been moved by contact with her. She shed light on all around 
 her, and the essence of its flame was that white purity, and 
 faith in the goodness of humankind, that he had thought to 
 rest on ignorance. They did not so rest. The potential 
 
326 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 goodness of humankind was a real thing, and could only 
 be brought out by this loving faith. The real man was 
 not the man when he sinned, but when he sorrowed for his 
 sin. It was the sin that was unnatural, not the virtue. 
 
 " My dear," he said. " You are right, and I am wrong. 
 I will make no more excuses. I sinned deeply, thirty years 
 ago. We must leave it so. I shouldn't be worthy of your 
 forgiveness if I didn't abhor myself for it." 
 
 She pressed his hand. No need to say that forgiveness 
 for any wrong done to her was his already, if it was felt to 
 need forgiveness. She could not think that it didn't, al- 
 though the wrong had been done before he had known her. 
 She could not excuse, but with all her heart she could for- 
 give. 
 
 Her spirit lightened a little, but it was wounded deeply 
 by the thought of another woman who had come before 
 her, who had borne him a child before she had. Snatches 
 of memory printed themselves on her brain — their common 
 pride in their first-born, the tenderness he had shown her, 
 the "deep tranquillity it had added to their love for one an- 
 other, the meaning it had given to it. She dared not think 
 of all these things^ now, nor gauge how far this revelation 
 had altered them, how far they were hers still to hold. 
 There was a dreadful sense of loss in the thought that she 
 could not rest on his understanding of them, but must puz- 
 zle them out for herself. It could never again be quite as 
 it had been between them. Her love for^him would not be 
 less, but it must be of a different quality. 
 
 Even now, it was striving towards other channels. She 
 took, not consciously, the higher place that she had always 
 given to him. It was for her to put aside her own trouble, 
 and comfort him in his; to set him right, where he seemed 
 only dimly to see the truth of things; to help him to act 
 aright, if there should be any call for action. 
 
THE RECTOR AND LADY RUTH 327 
 
 He had already told her of the exposure that now threat- 
 ened them, having felt it to be the worst of what he had to 
 tell her. But she had not seemed to think of it at all, and 
 it did not now appear to him as the chief thing to be con- 
 sidered. 
 
 And yet it was serious enough. He had gone over to 
 Medchester the day before, on a summons from the Bishop, 
 who had asked him to withdraw his acceptance of the Arch- 
 deaconry. The writer of the anonymous letter had not 
 been able to rest content with it. The Bishop had received 
 one written in similar terms. He had disclaimed the charge 
 of acting on such information, but he had none the less 
 acted on it so far as to put it before the Rector, who could 
 not deny its truth. He had told the whole truth, and asked 
 with some indignation whether it was right that a mark of 
 disgrace should be put upon him for a fault of his extreme 
 youth, and whether his whole clerical career, upon which 
 the offer had been founded, was to go for nothing. The 
 Bishop had admitted that it was hard. If the fault had been ' 
 known, and the long service had afterwards taken the sting 
 from it, there would have been no difficulty. But having 
 been concealed, its effect would be as fresh as if it had been 
 committed yesterday. These letters showed that it would 
 be made public, sooner or later. The facts were in the 
 hands of an enemy, who would not scruple to use them, 
 especially if the honour were to be conferred. There was 
 the scandal to the Church to be thought of. He felt the 
 deepest sympathy, but he could not, taking everything into 
 consideration, think that it would be wise — or right — to 
 continue his offer. 
 
 The Rector had come away from the palace, raging, having 
 almost quarrelled with his superior. But he knew him all 
 the time to be right, according to his lights. They were 
 
328 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 those he would have acted upon himself, and in the same 
 way, had their positions been reversed. 
 
 He had felt, on his way home, that his life was ruined. 
 The Bishop had said that his offer had not been made public. 
 But he had hardly been able to adhere to the statement, in 
 so far as it affected the situation. The letters showed that 
 it was known, and as a matter of fact the whole diocese 
 knew of it, and the Rector had already received congratula- 
 tions. All his own parishioners were discussing it, and many 
 of them had mentioned it to him. He could not now even 
 say that he had refused the offer, and he deeply regretted 
 the impulsiveness that had led him into this new difEculty. 
 
 But, after all, it was only part of the general situation. 
 The discussion that would arise, when another appointment 
 was made, would prepare the ground for the reception of 
 the scandal, which could not be long delayed. He was 
 powerless before Miss Budd's malignity. His brother had 
 told him of his discovery. There was no doubt whatever 
 about the source of the mischief, nor unhappily any doubt 
 but that, sooner or later, it would spread. It was not in 
 her to hold her hand, and it was out of the question to 
 make an appeal to such a woman. Even with disgrace staring 
 him in the face, he would not stoop to ask for her silence. 
 Sir Richard had seen that too, although he had thought of 
 making the attempt on his own account. 
 
 In a short time, everything must be known. Roding and 
 the country round would buzz with the scandal. It would 
 not be likely that anything would be said to him, but he 
 would meet everywhere looks of curiosity, here and there 
 of condemnation, and worst of all, of amusement. The 
 sharpest barb was that those who would be inclined to treat 
 the revelation with most tolerance would find something 
 ludicrous in it — ^he, the priestly aristocrat, to be confronted 
 by an illegitimate son in the shape of a Welsh ranter! He 
 
THE RECTOR AND LADY RUTH 329 
 
 could hear the talk over the dinner tables, \yhen the women 
 had left the men to their freedom of speech; the giggles 
 in the drawing-rooms, amongst the women themselves. 
 
 It was the hurt to his pride that he nourished on his way 
 home from Medchester. But behind it was the thought of 
 the damage that would be done to his reputation, as it af- 
 fected his labours of so many years. They had been labours 
 for righteousness; they had stood in the forefront of his 
 life. In his dark mood it seemed to him that their virtue 
 would be swept away; that he would continue in them with 
 his power brought down to nothing. 
 
 Behind that still, was the thought of his wife and family, 
 and the effect that the scandal would have upon them. His 
 heart failed him. It was strongly in his mind that he would 
 give up his work, and leave Roding altogether. If only 
 his position in the Church had been concerned, he would 
 hardly have hesitated. His faith was at its lowest ebb; the 
 fruits of his labours were as ashes to him ; to continue them 
 would be a sterile burdensome effort. There was revolt in 
 his mind against the God whom he had served. If his 
 service was to be brought to naught, after all these years 
 of endeavour, better end it at once. It was because of it 
 that this blow would fall so heavily upon him, and by so 
 much as he had worked earnestly and successfully, by so 
 much was the weight of the blow increased. His attitude 
 of mind approached that of retort, directed vicariously against 
 the authorities of the Church. If his willing sacrifice of 
 time and money were to be met with this return, he would 
 withdraw them. Let them find another rector of Roding 
 who would do what he had done. It would not be such 
 an easy matter. 
 
 But his ties to Roding were not only those of his rectorate. 
 He could not go right away, and keep away, even if he were 
 to act on dictates that were more than half cowardice. He 
 
330 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 was his brother's heir; a stroke of fate at any time might 
 make him squire of Reding, in place of Rector, and in the 
 meantime it was out of the question for him to remove him- 
 self altogether. No, he must live the trouble down amongst 
 the people with whom he was doubly bound up. But one 
 tie might be broken, if the other could not. It might be 
 as well to go away from Roding, for a time at least. It 
 was for Ruth to decide. The shame could hurt her more 
 than it would him, poor girl; and his children. He could 
 not bear to think of them in connection with it. 
 
 In this hard and bitter mood he had come to her, and 
 she had changed it altogether. He no longer thought of 
 the hurt to his pride, nor of injustice done to him. He 
 thought of his sin, as he had never thought of it before. 
 Had he ever really repented of it? He had thought so. 
 But a sin is not really repented, of if it is self-excused, and 
 he had been full of excuses on his own behalf. In the light 
 of her pain and horror, the kind of excuses he had urged to 
 himself, and even to her, were as ugly as the sin itself. It 
 might be the opinion of the world at large that the giving 
 way of a young man, under strong provocation, to a tempta- 
 tion of the flesh, was a venial matter; that if that giving 
 way was part of a single episode in an otherwise clean life 
 he was rather a rare pattern of virtue. But how far did 
 that opinion become a man of his profession? Would he 
 be prepared to uphold it? If not, then the sin was not a 
 venial one, and he was not fit to be wher6 he was if he 
 held it so. 
 
 Still more was the defence untenable befoi-e her. He 
 was ashamed of having used it. 
 
 She was speaking gently and lovingly on the point that 
 had so exercised him. " It is too late to do anything to 
 make up to the poor young man for what he has lost. In 
 other ways, we can make up together, dearest Henry. It 
 
THE RECTOR AND LADY RUTH 331 
 
 will make us kinder to all poor souls in trouble through 
 their own fault. Perhaps there are some of them around 
 us here that we have not thought enough about. And it 
 will bring you closer to the people you are trying to help, 
 if it must be known, as you say it must. Do you think that 
 is what is meant by Christ taking our sins upon him — that 
 those who are in trouble about themselves can look to him 
 because he knows all their difficulties? I suppose it can't 
 mean quite that; but with us, at any rate, any one who has 
 done wrong, and is very sorry for it, is of more- help to 
 others who are in the same sort of trouble than some one 
 whom they think of as higher than themselves. Don't you 
 feel that? I do." 
 
 If he could feel it ! If he were to take the place amongst 
 his people of a man who had sinned much and been much 
 forgiven instead of the place of one to whom they must 
 look up as an example and whose word they must obey, 
 then his work, so far from being destroyed, would be quick- 
 ened into a life that it had never had before. There was 
 enough idealism in him to see that ; whether there was enough 
 to enable him to take up an attitude so at variance with 
 his temperament was another matter. 
 
 But she saw nothing impossible in it. She was ready to 
 take it with him. " It must make a difference to our lives," 
 she said. " We are not quite what people have thought 
 us. We can't go on in exactly the same way — I mean I 
 can't — amusing myself, and going about everywhere. I'm 
 sure I haven't helped you here as I might have done, dearest 
 Henry. • You have been working while I have only been 
 enjoying myself. I don't think that I have felt I have 
 done wrong in living in the way I have, but I should feel 
 I was doing wrong if I went on living in that way now." 
 
 He was profoundly moved by this. She had been the best 
 of wives and mothers. The duties of her home had always 
 
332 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 come first with her. What she now called amusement and 
 entertainment had been the innocent pleasures of intercourse 
 with relations, friends, neighbours, that were natural to one 
 of her upbringing. If ever her help had been wanted in 
 his dealings with his parishioners, it had never failed him. 
 As in the case of Jane Morton, it had been far more effective, 
 because of what she was in herself, than if it had been part 
 of a round of stereotyped duty. It had seemed to him rather 
 an advantage that, in the double position he held in Roding, 
 he should have represented one side and she the other. Her 
 inability to perform the semi-clerical duties to which he 
 had first invited her, had never troubled him. She was so 
 right in what she was, and in whatever she did. There had 
 been no opposition between her life and his. She had never 
 run after pleasure for its own sake. In no way had her 
 attitude towards life contradicted the lessons he had sought 
 to teach, or brought rebuke upon his ministry. It had arisen 
 naturally out of her innocence of mind and untouched sin- 
 cerity. She had fulfilled her being, and the world around 
 her was the better for it. 
 
 But that innocence of evil, which had enabled her to live 
 a life that would have held dangers for more women in her 
 peculiar position, was done away with now. Evil had 
 touched her intimately. Bound up with him, she must take 
 its burden upon her, though innocent of it herself. She 
 could no longer live the happy life that had seemed natural 
 for her, as the joyous life of a child is natural for it, when 
 no pleasures it seeks for are harmful, because it has as yet 
 no weight of responsibility from which they can be flown 
 to as an escape. Sorrow had come into her life. In other 
 kinds of sorrow that had touched her, such as bereavement, 
 she had withdrawn for a time from the lighter kind of 
 social intercourse, which would then have been a trial, not 
 a solace. It was as instinctive to her to retire from them 
 
THE RECTOR AND LADY RUTH 333 
 
 under this heavier sorrow, which had the dark taint of sin 
 in it. Part of the world's burden of sin was laid upon 
 her; the childlike enjoyment of innocent pleasure was no 
 longer possible aS an expression of her attitude towards 
 life. 
 
 How she rang true to every demand made upon her! It 
 would never have occurred to him that the ordinary way 
 of her life would need to be altered. He would rather have 
 been inclined to say : " Go on exactly as you have always 
 done, braving it out before the world, and hiding the hurt." 
 So it might have been right to act, if the hurt had come from 
 some outside stroke, some unmerited attack on reputation. 
 But not here, where there was no defence. There would 
 be no braving of criticism, but it would fall harmless upon 
 those who felt themselves to deserve as much as could be 
 brought against them. In his gratitude to her for so lovingly 
 taking upon herself part of his punishment, he felt great 
 relief in the thought that she would not suffer from the 
 attitude of those about her, except for his sake. 
 
 "You have put everything right, my dearest," he said, 
 " I have been full of revolt, full of base pride. You have 
 shown me where the road lies — in walking humbly before 
 God. Nothing can hurt us if we do that, though I am 
 afraid that it will be a sad time for you — and for the chil- 
 dren. I don't know what to think or do about that. Per- 
 haps it is the worst of all." 
 
 But even here she could drive away his fears. She had 
 none of her own. " We have br^ought up the children in 
 ignorance of evil," she said. " I think it is the right way, 
 whatever some people may say. There is no reason why 
 they should know anything or guess anything. Except 
 Ralph, perhaps. You will know what to say to him." 
 
 "Yes, I shall tell Ralph. But if that wicked woman 
 wants to work further mischief upon us " 
 
334 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 "Oh, she would not do it in that way. The children 
 will be as much sheltered from all knowledge of it as if 
 others were concerned and not ourselves. They may know 
 that we are in some trouble. Sylvia will, and Ronald. But 
 they will trust me, I know. There are many things I could 
 not tell them." 
 
 He still felt doubtful. Ronald went about everywhere 
 in the town, and Sylvia had many friends in and around it. 
 Miss Budd's spite was of an unfathomable quality. 
 
 " I don't say that there is not some danger," she said, as 
 if in answer to him. " But I won't think of it before it 
 comes. I shall know if they hear anything, and I shall know 
 what to say to them." 
 
 At the end, he rose and took her in his arms, kissing her 
 face, upon which the tears were still wet. " God bless you, 
 my darling," he said. " You have restored me to my right 
 mind again." 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 MISS BUDD CONFRONTED 
 
 Mrs. Stenning, taking a quiet hour of relief from her 
 domestic engrossments, was drinking tea in Miss Budd's 
 drawing-room. She had come prepared to " say something " 
 to Miss Budd, to have it out with her about what was 
 troubling her simple honest mind. But she had not done 
 so yet. Life was particularly trying at the moment in her 
 ramshackle home, where there were too many children, too 
 few servants, and too little money. It was such a relief to 
 sit quietly for a time in Miss Budd's prim but restful draw- 
 ing-room, to eat and drink from a tastefully furnished tea- 
 table, and to let her tongue run for a little without sense 
 of responsibility. 
 
 And in accepting these lenitives from Miss Budd's hand 
 she felt a disinclination to bring her to book. She was 
 beginning to think that there were two quite distinct Miss 
 Budds. The one before her, discussing a novel that she had 
 lent to Mrs. Stenning, in what that lady felt to be a clever 
 and improving way, and intent on seeing to it that she had 
 a good tea, had recently expended an immense amount of 
 time and trouble on elaborately smocking a frock for Mrs. 
 Stenning's eldest little girl, which was now finished, and 
 ready to be taken home. It was one of a thousand things 
 that she did to help her friend, and she did similar things 
 for other over-driyen mothers amongst the poor of Roding. 
 It was a great part of her life to do them. Discount her 
 activities as much as you liked; say that it was necessary 
 that she should employ herself somehow, being of an active 
 
 335 
 
336 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 bustling nature, that her interest in the lives of her poorer 
 neighbours contained much patronage and dictation, which 
 was also part of her nature, that she liked plain needlework, 
 and getting things done; say all that, and more, and yet 
 there remained a good deal that answered to any test to 
 which you could bring a life of benevolence. Mrs. Stenning, 
 with her somewhat muddled brain, may be excused for find- 
 ing the contradiction inexplicable. It may puzzle wiser 
 heads than hers. Charity of deed, where there is no charity 
 of heart, — it exists. Or is there always some charity of 
 heart clamouring for outlet somewhere though the main 
 channels are obstinately blocked? 
 
 Conversation between two women living in the same place 
 could not progress for long without discussion or at least 
 mention of neighbours. Mention of neighbors by two women 
 in the position of Mrs. Stenning and Miss Budd must sooner 
 or later concern itself with the rectory. Mrs. Stenning tried 
 to keep away from it for some time. She was grateful for 
 the frock, and for the restful hospitality, and she also liked 
 Miss Budd extremely when she was in her non-acid mood, 
 and knew that it would depart directly the rectory came 
 to be mentioned. But as she was also determined to have 
 it out, with the other Miss Budd, her efforts to direct 
 the unruly channel of her speech became less determined, and 
 finally, pricked on by a certain setting of Miss Budd's face 
 as the rectory came to be rather obviously avoided, she 
 plumped out: 
 
 " Now I want to mention something to you, and I expect 
 you know what it is." 
 
 Miss Budd could not pretend that she didn't. Her face 
 set finally into its pinched disagreeable expression, and she 
 said : " I suppose you mean the way I look upon the people 
 at the rectory. I'm quite aware that you admire the whole 
 lot of them immensely, and don't like my attitude towards 
 
MISS BUDD CONFRONTED 337 
 
 them. You have indicated as much before, and if we are 
 to remain friends you had much better keep your opinion 
 to yourself. I have my reasons for what you disapprove of, 
 and if you knew what they were you might not be surprised 
 at the attitude I think it right to take up. I haven't tried 
 to persuade you in any way to alter yours, and we'd better 
 each keep our own and agree to differ." 
 
 " Well, I've tried to do that," said Mrs. Stenning frankly. 
 " You've been a very good friend to me, and to others, and 
 I've said to myself: ' If she takes up a position that seems 
 to me unworthy of- her, depend on it there's some reason 
 for it that I don't know of.' But " 
 
 " That's just what there is," interrupted Miss Budd. 
 " But my lips are sealed. Whether you will know the reason 
 some day, and do me more justice than you're inclined to 
 do me now, I can't say. But whether you do or not, you 
 won't be able to say that I justified myself by spreading 
 scandal. If the truth becomes known, it will be let out 
 from other quarters." 
 
 " From what quarters ? " asked Mrs. Stenning. 
 
 Miss Budd was somewhat disconcerted by this question. 
 She threw a quick glance away from Mrs. Stenning, then 
 asked in her turn : " How should I know ? " 
 
 Mrs. Stenning gathered herself together. " Well," she 
 said, " whether it's the truth or not, I don't know, but a 
 story is going about, and I should like to know where it 
 does come from." 
 
 Miss Budd stared at her. There was surprise, and a 
 shade of alarm in her face. " What story? " she asked. 
 
 " They say that a young man came to Roding a few 
 weeks ago who told Dr. Merrow that he was the Rec- 
 tor's son — not his proper son, of course, but — ^well, 
 you know what I meen — but before bis marriage to Lady 
 Ruth." 
 
J38 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 " Told Dr. Merrow! " exclaimed Miss Budd. " I never 
 .laid that he told Dr. Merrow." 
 
 " Then you did know of it ! You have told somebody ! " 
 
 Miss Budd bethought herself. Her face gradually cleared 
 as she did so. " Then the secret is out," she said. " I 
 hardly thought they would be able to keep it hidden for 
 long. And it's pretty obvious to me how it has come out. 
 They wouldn't say anything, and I believed that I was the 
 only person in Roding who knew about it^^uite by chance 
 — and I should not have said anything." 
 
 " But you have said something. You said just now that 
 you never said that the young man told Dr. Merrow." 
 
 " I didn't. How should I have known that he told Dr. 
 Merrow?" 
 
 " But you meant that you had told somebody about the 
 young man, although you hadn't told them that." 
 
 Miss Budd looked annoyed. " I have told one person 
 what I know, in the very strictest confidence," she said. 
 " That person would not have let out what I said. 
 If the secret is known now, it is, as I say, from another 
 quarter." 
 
 " Was it Mrs. Bramwell that you told? " 
 
 " No, certainly not." 
 
 Mrs. Stenning seemed to be about to say something, but 
 closed her mouth and looked at Miss Budd instead. 
 
 "Why do you look at me like that?" Miss Budd asked 
 in annoyance. " Do you doubt my word ? Did Mrs. Bram- 
 well tell you that I told her? " 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Stenning shortly. 
 
 " Very well then. It's not for me to say where Mrs. 
 Bramwell got her information from, but from what you 
 have told me I think I could make a pretty shrewd guess." 
 
 "You mean from Dr. Merrow, I suppose. It's the only 
 thing I did tell you that you didn't know before." 
 
MISS BUDD CONFRONTED 339 
 
 Miss Budd was again somewhat disconcerted, but she 
 said: "You can draw what conclusions you like. I make 
 no charges against anybody, but I can put two and two 
 together. Does anybody else know of the story ? " 
 
 " My husband does. He referred to it to me last night, 
 but I didn't know then what he was driving at. You know 
 his way of teasing." 
 
 " You don't accuse me of taking your husband into the 
 secret, I suppose. I tell you again that if the secret is known 
 it has not been known through me. I have known of it 
 for a long time by the merest chance — and I have held 
 my tongue. And perhaps my knowing of it may explain 
 some things that you have thought wanted explanation. If 
 the cat's out of the bag now, there's that advantage for 
 me, that I needn't be misunderstood by my friends any 
 longer." 
 
 Mrs. Stenning did not respond to this conciliatory speech 
 in the way that Miss Budd may have expected. " Do you 
 mean ? " she asked, " that that is the reason why you have 
 been down on Lady Ruth for the last six months and more, 
 and on Sylvia, and all the rectory family? But what has 
 Lady Ruth got to do with it? Well, poor thing, of course 
 she's got a good deal to do with it. If she knows about 
 it, as I suppose she does now, it must be very dreadful for 
 her, and I do think, and I must say, that to set yourself 
 against her — ^well, I can't help it if you don't like it, but 
 I think it's cruel." 
 
 Miss Budd gathered herself together. " I think you are 
 taking up a most extraordinary attitude towards me," she 
 said, " and I don't like it, and tell you so plainly. You 
 only know the bare facts of the case, and you can't posibly 
 judge of what is right or wrong in connection with it. Be- 
 sides, you are not a woman whose life is bound up with re- 
 ligion, and the Church, as mine is, and you cannot be ex- 
 
340 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 pected to understand how I should regard a scandal of this 
 sort." 
 
 " I understand goodness and kindness when I see it, as 
 well as anybody," replied Mrs. Stenning. " There's a lot 
 of it in you, as I've reason to know. But I can't say I see 
 much in the way you have behaved over this. How long 
 have you known of it, and how did you know of it ? " 
 
 It was presumably the necessity of making it quite clear 
 where she wished to stand that caused Miss Budd to reply 
 to those questions, or at least to one of them, instead of 
 resenting the peremptoriness with which they were put. But 
 her reply left a good deal to be desired in the way of 
 explicitness. 
 
 " I am not at liberty to tell you where my information 
 came from," she said. " One hears of a good many things 
 in connection with people in the position of the Frenches, 
 when one — er — moves in the same sort of circles. How this 
 disgraceful business has been kept from the knowledge of 
 people living about here, I don't know, but " 
 
 " Do you mean that it has been generally known out- 
 side?" 
 
 " I didn't say generally known. And really, Mrs. Sten- 
 ning, I don't know what right you have to cross-examine 
 me in this way. What I have known I have kept to myself, 
 and if an accident has now caused it to be spread abroad, 
 it has nothing to do with me." 
 
 " Well, you may have kept what you knew to yourself, 
 but you haven't kept it to yourself that you had something 
 against the rectory people. You began to turn against them 
 early in the year. Was that when you first heard this 
 story? It was about the time when you went to London 
 for a fortnight." 
 
 " You can draw your own conclusions," said Miss Budd 
 again. " It is enough for me to say once for all that, when 
 
MISS BUDD CONFRONTED 341 
 
 I found out that the Rector was not what he had always 
 professed himself to be, I felt it right to make a stand, for 
 the sake of my own conscience. It has not been an easy 
 matter. I mean' no offence to you, or Mrs. Bramwell, or 
 others when I say that the rectory people are the only people 
 in Roding who are — I don't quite know how to put it — ^who 
 are " 
 
 " Oh, you mean they are the only people of your own 
 class in Roding. There's no offence in that. I don't pro- 
 fess to be of their class, or yours, either." 
 
 " Very well, then. It makes no difference in the case of 
 friends. I have certainly felt more warmly towards you, 
 for instance, than towards Lady Ruth. But to cut myself 
 off, as I have done, from the sort of society one has met 
 at the rectory — ^well, if you can see anything at' all, you 
 can see that it must have been something of a sacrifice." 
 
 " Yes, I can see that," said Mrs. Stenning. " But it 
 seems such a needless one. Lady Ruth hasn't done any- 
 thing wrong. If she is in trouble about this, I should have 
 thought it was just the time to be kinder than ever. Poor 
 thing! I do feel that you have been more down on her even 
 than you have on the Rector." 
 
 Miss Budd pulled herself together again. " As I have 
 told you already," she said in a tone of finality, " there is 
 a good deal in this unhappy affair that you don't know of. 
 I have defended myself from your aspersions as far as I can, 
 and you have acknowledged that I have acted on principle; 
 where' I can't defend myself — because I can't tell you 
 everything — ^you must be content to trust me — that is to 
 say, if we are to remain friends. I have an extremely diffi- 
 cult course to pursue, but I am following my conscience, 
 and that is all I can say about it." 
 
 Whether Mrs. Stenning would have allowed herself to 
 be satisfied with this statement cannot be known, for at 
 
342 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 that moment the door opened and Lady Ruth French was 
 announced. 
 
 She came ino the room quickly. Her eyes, fixed upon Miss 
 Budd, looked very big. She gave no greeting, seemed to 
 ignore Mrs. Stenning's presence, and did not wait for the 
 maid to close the door before she spoke. 
 
 "Oh, why do you do these wicked things?" she cried. 
 " Your letter came j;ist now, and I have come straight to 
 you. Haven't you done enough harm to us? When will 
 these dreadful letters cease?" 
 
 Miss Budd was white to the lips. She stared as if fasci- 
 nated at the sheet of paper that Lady Ruth held in her 
 hand. She controlled herself with a strong effort, but her 
 voice shook as she said: "What on earth are you talking 
 about. Lady Ruth ? Have you gone out of your senses ? " 
 
 Lady Ruth turned impulsively to Mrs. Stenning. " I 
 suppose everybody in Roding knows what has happened 
 now," she said. " The story has been put about by Miss 
 Budd. If she wants to harm us, cannot she be content 
 with that? Oh, it is wicked to write this to me. But 
 it isn't that I am thinking of. What will she do next? 
 I am afraid for my children because of her. It can't be 
 right that they should know." 
 
 Miss Budd did not give Mrs. Stenning time to speak. 
 Her eyes were still frightened, but some of the colour had 
 come back to her face and she spoke with resolution. 
 
 " Please sit down. Lady Ruth," she said. " Ytfu are mak- 
 ing a great mistake. We must talk over this. It is not 
 true that I have put anything about." 
 
 Lady Ruth sank into a chair and burst into tears, but 
 controlled herself quickly. When she spoke again it was 
 in a quieter voice. She looked steadily at Miss Budd, who 
 tried to meet her eyes, but could not. 
 
 " I have come to tell you," she said, " that this writing 
 
MISS BUDD CONFRONTED 343 
 
 of anonymous letters must stop. It is a most cruel and 
 cowardly thing to do." 
 
 Miss Budd would not let her go on. " If you received 
 an anonymous letter," she said, " it is not from me. It 
 is true that I have known the story to which I suppose 
 it refers for some time, but I have kept it to myself. I 
 have just been telling Mrs. Stenning so. If the story has 
 got about, it is not through me, and I will not have it said 
 that it is. Now you have come here, we had better have 
 it out, once for all." 
 
 "May I see the letter. Lady Ruth?" jerked out Mrs. 
 Stenning. " It's none of my business, I know, but I do 
 feel so sorry for all the trouble you are going through, and 
 I should like to help you to get at the truth, if I can." 
 
 Lady Ruth handed it to her, without removing her eyes 
 from Miss Budd's face. Miss Budd frowned at Mrs. 
 Stenning's interference, but hastened to say: " I have known 
 nothing about anonymous letters having been sent to any- 
 body, but Mrs. Stenning has just told me of the story having 
 got about, and she said something that I didn't know about 
 it, but which shows me quite plainly how it has got about. 
 I am very glad she did say so, because it is extremely awk- 
 ward for me to be suspected in this way, and if it hadn't 
 been for a name she let drop it might be difScult for me 
 to defend myself against a most unwarranted charge." 
 
 Mrs. Stenning had read the letter, which was very short, 
 and now looked up from it with her cheeks flushed and her 
 eyes bright with indignation. " Miss Budd says that the 
 information has come from Dr. Merrow," she said. " I let 
 her think that I believed it, but I didn't for a moment. 
 And as for his writing a vile letter like this — it's a wicked 
 thing to say of a good man, and anybody could see that he 
 didn't. Whoever wrote it, it wasn't a man at all. That's 
 plain enough, though the writing is disguised." 
 
344 ' THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 Miss Budd looked at her angrily. " I never said that 
 Dr. Merrow had written any letter," she said. " I knew 
 nothing about letters being written. And I think it is 
 most extraordinary that you should behave in this way, Mrs. 
 Stenning. You say I told you that the information came 
 from Dr. Merrow. I did nothing of the sort. I said 
 you could draw your own conclusions. And what do you 
 mean by saying that you let me think you believed so and 
 so, when you didn't? Why should you, of all people, 
 act in this way towards me?" 
 
 " I want to get at the truth," said Mrs. Stenning, leaning 
 forward, " for dear Lady Ruth's sake; and you haven't told 
 me the truth. Miss Budd. That's what I meant. And now 
 I'll tell you how I know. Mrs. Bramwell told me the 
 story, and her servant Emma told her; and Emma got 
 it from your Jane, So it did come from you, and I knew 
 it." 
 
 Miss Budd did not allow herself to appear disconcerted, 
 though she showed annoyance. " And why on earth couldn't 
 you have said that at the time ? " she asked. " I told 
 you that I had told one person in the strictest confidence, 
 and that person was Jane, who is a very old servant of mine, 
 and to whom I talk freely about many things. I had ray 
 reasons for telling her, and if it is true that she has gone 
 and repeated what I said it was a gross breach of confi- 
 dence, and I shall speak to her very strongly about it. And 
 now you both know everything, and as far as you are con- 
 cerned, Mrs. Stenning, you could have known everything 
 before, if you had acted frankly towards me, as you ought 
 to have done. I have known the story — yes, for some time. 
 But I am not to be blamed for that, and I accept no blame 
 for it. I have told one person of what I know, and I don't 
 accept blame for that, under the circumstances. I don't 
 believe for a moment that it is through Jane that it has 
 
MISS BUDD CONFRONTED 345 
 
 now come out, even if she did tell Mrs. Bramwell's servant, 
 which I shall have to hear from her own lips before L 
 believe it. You told me yourself that your husband knew. 
 Did he hear it from Jane ? " 
 
 She had talked herself into a state of some self-confidence, 
 and leant back in her chair as if controlling the situation.. 
 Lady Ruth had made no effort to take part in the inter- 
 change of words, but had sat with her eyes fixed upon Miss^ 
 Budd's face all the time. 
 
 Now she spoke. " You say you have known of the story 
 for some time," she said. " For how long have you knowni 
 of it, and how did your information come?" 
 
 "The very question I asked myself," said Mrs. Stenning.. 
 
 " And which I answered," replied Miss Budd. " I heard 
 of it from outside — how, I am not at liberty to say." 
 
 " How long ago ? " asked Lady Ruth. 
 
 " I cannot give you any more information," said Miss: 
 Budd stiffly, " and I do not admit your right, Lady Ruth, 
 to come here and ask me questions. What does it matter 
 how or when ? The story is not denied. Your only ground 
 of complaint against me is that I have made use of it to- 
 damage you, and that I say I have not done. I have kept 
 it entirely to myself until a very short time ago, and even 
 if. I hadn't " 
 
 " Not entirely to yourself," interrupted Mrs. Stenning,. 
 " You have made people wonder what there was that set 
 you against Lady Ruth and her family." 
 
 " As far as that goes," said Miss Budd, " I do not choose 
 to be brought to book, as I told you. I say nothing ta 
 Lady Ruth about what has come out, but I am entitled to- 
 my own opinion on it, and to act on that opinion." 
 
 She was now quite herself again, taking up a very supe- 
 rior line, and prepared to carry it through. 
 
 " Then do you say that it was because of this that you 
 
346 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 have stood aloof from us for some months past?" asked 
 Lady Ruth. 
 
 " I say nothing," replied Miss Budd, " I deny your right 
 to question me upon the subject at all." 
 
 " I can answer the question," said Mrs. Stenning. " She 
 heard whatever she did hear when she was in London in 
 the early Spring, and she didn't think it right after that 
 to be friends with the Rector any more — or with you, Lady 
 Ruth, though goodness knows why, and I told her so." 
 
 " I did not tell you that," said Miss Budd with lofty 
 forbearance. " I said you could draw your own conclu- 
 sions." 
 
 " It comes to the same thing," snapped Mrs. Stenning. 
 
 Lady Ruth threw out her hands. " Oh, how horrible it 
 all is! " she said. " If there had been any possibility of 
 doubt this would have destroyed it. The story was known 
 to nobody until my husband's son came here a few weeks 
 ago. There was no one in London you could have heard 
 it from. We know how you heard it. He told Dr. Merrow 
 in his room behind the chapel, and you listened from the 
 lane. You were seen there at the time. Why, it was Mrs. 
 Stenning who saw you, and told Sir Richard. There was 
 no other way in which you could possibly have heard it." 
 
 Miss Budd had gone white again. She cast a look of 
 malevolence at Mrs. Stenning, upon whom enlightenment 
 suddenly seemed to dawn. 
 
 " Of course that was it ! " she cried. " I see it all now. 
 Oh, what wickedness, and what lies! And to write that 
 letter! And to try and put it on to Dr. Merrow! Well, 
 you may pray to God to forgive you, Miss Budd, but now 
 you've been found out I don't think anybody else wilL" 
 
 Miss Budd moistened her dry lips. " I deny it all," 
 she said, in a voice that carried no conviction. " I admit 
 now that circumstances make it look as if it had happened 
 
MISS BUDD CONFRONTED 347 
 
 as you think it did. They were most unfortunate for me; 
 but I'll just ask you one question, Mrs. Stenning. If I had 
 learnt what I knew in the way you say, and wanted people 
 to think I had learnt it in some other way, should I have 
 been so foolish as to have mentioned Dr. Merrow's name? 
 I did not mention his name. I heard it first from you this 
 afternoon. If you don't believe me, ask Jane. I will have 
 her up now, and make her tell you exactly what I told 
 her." 
 
 She made as if to rise from her chair, but Lady Ruth 
 rose at the same time. " No," she said. " I will not have a 
 servant brought into it. I have said what I have to say. 
 You have done your mischief. The sad story, which con- 
 cerns my dear husband's life of more than thirty years ago, 
 is in everybody's mouth now. I would not lift a finger to 
 try and hide it — except from our children. That letter 
 shows that you were willing to wound me with it, if you 
 thought I didn't know; and if you could write that to me, 
 you could write to my daughter, or to anybody. I don't 
 think you will do so now, so I need say nothing more to 
 you." 
 
 She went out of the room. Mrs. Stenning and Miss 
 Budd were left confronted. 
 
 Miss Budd gulped in her throat. " When she has come 
 to herself," she said. " I shall go to her. She is com- 
 pletely mistaken, and so are you. But at present I own 
 that it looks as if I had done what she thinks I have. It 
 is very " 
 
 A burst of hysterical tears cut short her utterance. She 
 sank back into her chair and hid her face in her hands. 
 Mrs. Stenning stood over her like an avenging angel. 
 
 " Ah, you may well cry," she said. " I've done with you. 
 You've done me many a kindness, and I shan't forget it; 
 but there are some things nothing can make up for. It's 
 
348 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 only because you can be kind that there's some hope you 
 may come to see how wicked you've been over this. I know 
 you wrote that letter. It isn't the paper you generally use, 
 but you used it once, writing to me, and I should know 
 the tails of your y's anywhere. As for not mentioning Dr. 
 Merrow, perhaps you didn't ; but it won't save you, because 
 several people saw him talking to the young man in the 
 street, and, of course, what's happened is that they've put 
 two and two together." 
 
 She looked down upon her one-time friend, still sobbing 
 uncontrollably, and her face softened a little. " Come now. 
 Miss Budd," she said. " Make a clean breast of it. I'll 
 stick to you, if you tell the truth, for all you've behaved so 
 badly. You'll want a friend when this becomes known." 
 
 Miss Budd held back her sobs and looked up at her 
 with anger. " It's you who have brought this upon me," 
 she said. " Go out of my house. I never want to see 
 your face again." 
 
CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 THE STORY SPREADS 
 
 Whether it was true that Miss Budd had told the secret 
 only to her elderly maid, and to nobody else, was never 
 made quite plain. It seemed almost impossible that it 
 should have spread so quickly through this single channel, 
 but Jane was an inveterate gossip, and no other prime source 
 was ever traced. She seemed to have gone straight out 
 from her mistress' presence and told as many people as 
 she could get hold of. She indignantly denied that she 
 had given any promise of secrecy whatever. Miss Budd 
 had not asked for it, according to her. She had said: 
 " Don't say that the story comes from me, whatever you do. 
 I don't want to be mixed up in it. I think you had better 
 keep it to yourself, but I tell you the truth about it, be- 
 cause it is bound to be known sooner or later." 
 
 Jane had taken this speech to mean that she was invited 
 to be the mouthpiece of the revelation, but that her mis- 
 tress wished to have a loop-hole through which she could 
 disclaim responsibility for spreading it, and the advice not 
 to repeat it need not be taken seriously. It was too big 
 a plum for such a confirmed gossip to resist, and she would 
 not have taken it amiss that she should have been to some 
 extent thrown over, if it had not been for the indignation 
 that was aroused when Miss Budd's part in the affair be- 
 came known. 
 
 Sir Richard was responsible for the spreading of the 
 truth about her. He took a leaf out of her own book, hav- 
 ing in his service a gossip as keen as hers. " Now you 
 
 349 
 
350 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 needn't say I told you to keep this to yourself," he said to 
 his servant, William. " I don't want you to keep it to 
 yourself. Go and spread it everywhere, and let people 
 know what sort of a creature this is who's so careful to 
 look after their morals. Tell them about her lies; tell 
 them about her spite; tell them about the way she carried 
 out her dirty tricks so that they might look as if they had 
 been done by somebody else. By God, the woman ought 
 to be hounded out of the place. She'll go, I should think. 
 There won't be a door open to her when this gets known." 
 
 But Miss Budd had already gone. It was her custom 
 to spend the month of August at the seaside. She had put 
 off her holiday this year, having affairs on hand in Roding, 
 but the day after her exposure, complete and convincing 
 enough, in spite of her persistent denials, she had left Roding 
 for Whitby, where she was probably considering whether 
 it was possible for her ever to come back again, or if she 
 had not better remove herself t(f some other place in which 
 there was opportunity for looking after the moral and mate- 
 rial welfare of the inhabitants, and a ch"urch after the pat- 
 tern that she affected. 
 
 It was just as well for her that she had run away. 
 While Roding, on the whole, was inclined to welcome a 
 story that added spice to existence, it was in arms against 
 Miss Budd in all quarters. The church people, and many 
 others besides, were scandalised at her attack upon Lady 
 Ruth, who, at least, was innocent, and to be pitied. The 
 chapel people were furious at the mean attempt to saddle 
 Dr. Merrow with the odium of her spite. It came out that 
 she had walked over to Farncombe to post letters. Indeed, 
 the postmistress of that village, being possessed of her fair 
 share of curiosity, had informed herself of the destination 
 of the last letter that Miss Budd had dropped'into her box. 
 It was the one to Lady Ruth, and completed the proof of 
 
THE STORY SPREADS 351 
 
 her guilt, if further proof were needed. The only thing 
 that puzzled the quidnuncs was the reason for her enmity 
 towards the Rector's family. The little episode of the lost 
 invitation card was not known, and opinion was divided 
 between the possibility of her really having heard some- 
 thing of the story before the occasion of her eavesdropping, 
 or of the Rector having found her " a bit too much " and 
 having given her a piece of his mind. She was, at any rate, 
 a bit too much for the inhabitants of Roding, and even 
 those who had received benefits from her turned against 
 her, and looked forward to giving her a piece of their minds 
 whenever she should reappear amongst them. 
 
 It may be said here that she did not reappear. Mrs. 
 Stenning, relenting towards her so far as to wish to preserve 
 her from a hostile demonstration, wrote to her when the 
 indignation against her was at its height. She told her of 
 the evidence of the Farncombe postmistress, and gave her 
 a selection of the speeches she had heard directed against 
 her in Roding, which in some cases amounted to threats of 
 violence. She also told her of speeches reported by her 
 husband from the houses around Roding, which made it 
 quite plain that the circle of acquaintance that she had 
 built up with such anxious and long-continued effort was 
 now destroyed beyond repair. 
 
 It must have been very unpleasant reading, and it is 
 doubtful whether Mrs. Stenning's concluding paragraph, in 
 which she' expressed a hope that her one-time friend would 
 repent of her evil work, sweetened the dose. And yet, if 
 there was any sincerity in Miss Budd at all — and who can 
 say that any single human being who professes and practises 
 a religion which includes some self-examination and some 
 self-denial, is entirely without sincerity? — she must have 
 come to see that the exposure of her malice was not the 
 worst thing about it. But whether she did or not, she ap- 
 
352 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 peared no more in Roding, not even to pack up. The lease 
 of her house would expire in the following summer. The 
 house was emptied of her effects, and stood for a time with 
 the bills in its windows as a visible sign of the retribution 
 that occasionally treads sharp on the heels of wrongdoing. 
 
 But while popular indignation against Miss Budd miti- 
 gated to some extent the effect of the revelation as it applied 
 to the Rector, he was not to be envied at this time. 
 
 It was not to be supposed that a story, told at second, 
 third or fourth hand, and impossible to be checked by any 
 statement from those principally concerned, would run its 
 course without misrepresentation. It was more generally 
 supposed than not that the Rector had all along been in 
 communication with his natural son, and had paid regularly 
 for the support of his' mother. Those who preferred to 
 believe the worst — they were divided about equally between 
 regular church-goers and regular chapel-goers, the outside 
 world taking an easier and more tolerant attitude — hinted 
 at the running of " two establishments." It was generally 
 agreed that the appearance of the son at Roding had the 
 air of blackmail, and opinion was divided between approval 
 of its being refused and condemnation of a father for cast- 
 ing off his son. " There's plenty of money. The young 
 folk at the rectory have all they want, and nobody grudges 
 it to 'em. Should have thought he might have found some- 
 thing fo;- his own son who came into the world before all 
 of them, anyhow. It wasn't his fault, poor beggar, that the 
 banns wasn't asked over his mother. fVe have to pay up, 
 if we make a mistake of that sort. Illegitimates has pretty 
 much the same chance with us as legitimates. It seems a 
 bit 'ard, but o' course, the gentry 'as the best of it all 
 round." 
 
 That was about the worst that was said by the non- 
 religiotis world of Roding, as apart from the anti-religious 
 
THE STORY SPREADS 353 
 
 world, which was almost a negligible quantity. The head 
 of it was Morton, who slapped his muscular thighs with 
 satisfaction and roared with laughter when he first heard 
 the story. 
 
 "Well, there now! That's a rich bit, that is! If that 
 doesn't beat all! But there, they're all alike! ' Spends 
 their lives in interfering with other folks, and bringing up 
 all they can against them if they don't see things just in 
 the same light as they do, but when it comes down to human 
 nature, they're no better than anybody else. In my opinion 
 
 they're a sight worse, 'cos they're pretending all 
 
 the time, and keeping things hid that other folks owns up 
 about." 
 
 On further consideration, however, Morton modified his 
 attitude of criticism against the Rector. He could see a 
 little farther into the truth of things than most men of his 
 sort, and the result of his cogitations was that he appeared' 
 one evening at the rectory in his best clothes, and asked to 
 see the Rector. 
 
 Dinner was not yet over, and he was kept waiting for 
 some little time in a room which the Rector used chiefly for 
 interviews with his poorer parishioners. The delay did not 
 displease him at all. There were some copies of the 
 Guardian on the table, and he found food for his sar- 
 donic humour in the pages of that periodical. 
 
 The Rector came into the room with his usual air of 
 dignity, but there was a hint of defence in it, and his face 
 showed other signs of the trouble he was going through. 
 Morton saw them. He put his paper aside, rose from his 
 chair, and stood with his hat in his hand. 
 
 " I've come to say a word to you, sir," he said, " what 
 I've been thinking over for some days. If you're inclined 
 to think it's a bit o' cheek on my part, well, you can kick 
 me out, and no 'arm done; but you and your good lady — 
 
354 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 especially 'er — done well by me and mine, when we 'ad to 
 face somethink disagreeable, and I thought it wouldn't come 
 amiss if I was to say to you now, as man to man, that I'm 
 sorry for the trouble as 'as overtook you, and it ain't so 
 out of the question as it looks that I might be able to lend 
 a 'and to see you through it." 
 
 The Rector looked rather at a loss to know what to 
 make of this speech. He took a chair and said, " Sit down, 
 Morton," and waited for him to speak again. 
 
 " First place," continued Morton, " there may 'ave been 
 one or two things said when we 'ad that little talk in Mr. 
 Gosset's back parlour, back in the winter-time, that I should 
 wish forgot. I'm a man what reads a bit and thinks a bit, 
 and I've a way of expressing m^elf against them in posi- 
 tions like yours as can't always be agreeable for them to 
 listen to. But what I prides myself on is fairness — fair- 
 ness; and when I finds a man acting fair all round, why, 
 I don't mind 'im 'olding a few what I think of as super- 
 stitions, when it don't blind 'im to what's right and what's 
 wrong." 
 
 The Rector was about to speak, but Morton, now fairly 
 launched, held up his hand. " Let me just finish what I 
 got to say, sir," he said. " I put a few posers to you at 
 the time I'm speaking of, and you didn't try to blink 'em 
 like what Gosset did, 'oo's a very different pair of shoes. 
 I've always remembered that about you, and then, o' course, 
 her ladyship be'aving as she did, and everything being put 
 right afterwards in a way as no one couldn't 'a:ve thought 
 it could be put right — well, as man to man, it's made me 
 think of you in a difEerent way to what I done at first, 
 before I knowed you for what you was, reely, and there's 
 a kind of fellow-feeling, if you understand me. You're 
 what you are, and I'm what I am, and if I'm presoomin', 
 well, I 'aven't come as such. In what I believe in, a man's 
 
THE STORY SPREADS 35S 
 
 a man whether he works with his 'ead or 'is 'ands, and 
 there's occasions when it ain't out of place for a workman 
 to show himself friendly to a gentleman, though, as a gen- 
 eral rule, it comes about the other way." 
 
 The Rector's face, which had not been encouraging dur- 
 ing the greater part of this speech, had cleared before its 
 end. The man was what he was, rough, ignorant, and cock- 
 sure, but his good nature was as apparent as any of his 
 qualities, and seemed to have directed him to an action that 
 showed something deeper than mere good nature. Prob- 
 ably, a few weeks before, the Rector would have shown 
 that such a visit as this was unwelcome to him, but he felt 
 now that this man was actuated by a feeling of respect and 
 something almost like afEection for him, and was acting well, 
 if somewhat awkwardly, in coming to him to show it. 
 
 " Well, Morton," he said, " the good-will of one man 
 towards another is never out of place. It so happens that 
 what touched you at the time you speak of has touched me. 
 I never forgot it then, and it made me very careful how I 
 spoke and acted. I can't talk to you about what happened 
 years ago in my own life, or what is happening now; but 
 as you have come to me in this way, I do feel inclined to 
 say this to you: that I did better when I married your 
 daughter to Gosset's son than when I stood out against the 
 marriage at the time you speak of." 
 
 " Well, I don't know about that, sir," said Morton. " I 
 think you acted very fair all through. Looking at it im- 
 partial, if your good lady hadn't made my girl a very dif- 
 ferent sort of girl to what she was before she come to her, 
 it wouldn't have been no suitable marriage for young Percy. 
 I saw that all the time, though I didn't let on to Gosset." 
 
 The Rector did not appear to have heard him; his eyes 
 had been fixed on the ground. The thought was passing 
 through his mind that here was an opportunity of showing 
 
356 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 where he stood. The change in his point of view was 
 definite and genuine, but his manner, his appearance, his 
 habit of speech — all that he could not change, all that he 
 was known by amongst the greater part of his parishioners — 
 stood in his way. And his words stood — the words he had 
 used at the time of the trouble with young Gosset and Moi-- 
 ton's daughter, which had aroused criticism then, and would 
 arouse much more, when remembered, now. 
 
 He looked up at Morton, and the colour on his cheeks 
 was slightly heightened. " You spoke of helping me just 
 now," he said. " You have helped me by coming here, as 
 you say, as man to man." He smiled rather ruefully. " I 
 am going through a difKcult time, and sympathy from my 
 neighbours is welcome to me. But sympathy is not of 
 much use unless it is based on understanding. It wouldn't 
 help me much now for a man to come and say to me: 
 ' You did what you did thirty years ago, and thought it 
 was hidden up for ever, and now it has come out, I'm very 
 sorry for you. You didn't do anything very dreadful, after 
 all, and what you are going through now is what might 
 happen to any of us.' I know that that would be the view 
 of the world, and it wasn't so very different from my own 
 view a little time ago. It isn't my view now. If it were, 
 then the only thing that would matter would be that I 
 had been found out, and that can't be the right way of 
 looking at things, Morton. If I hadn't come to see that 
 what I did, and what the world looks lightly upon in a 
 young man — ^what I looked upon too lightly myself before 
 it came home to me — if I didn't think now that it was a 
 deep sin, to be sorrowed over and repented of, and not to 
 be excused, I couldn't go on here, as I mean to do. It 
 would put me all wrong with the people I am trying to 
 help to take the right way. Can you see that, I wonder? " 
 
 Morton saw something of it. His moon face was more 
 
THE STORY SPREADS 357 
 
 serious thah its wont. " I think it's natural, sir," he said, 
 " that you should think more seriously of it than others 
 might — or ought to, as far as I can see. Part of the reason 
 why I came here was this, that a lot of different stories are 
 going about, as you might expect, and it's come home to me 
 that ydu're at the mercy of the worst of them, not being 
 able to defend yourself. I thought at first it might look 
 like prying, but then I said to myself : ' No, if you can 
 get at the rights of things and make use of 'em when lies 
 is told, you'll be doing something as ought to be done. 
 Whether you're the man to do it or not's another matter.' " 
 
 "Yes, I see," said the Rector thoughtfully. "Well, as 
 I've told you, I'm not in the mood — and never shall be 
 again — ^to make excuses. Still, what happened need not 
 be made worse. I don't know what stories are going about, 
 and I don't want to know. If you like to contradict them 
 where' they are untrue — I suppose that is what you mean — 
 it was a kind thought — I'll tell you the facts of the case; 
 you can do so on my authority." 
 
 He paused a moment. " You can say," he said slowly, 
 " well, you can say exactly what has happened, to explain 
 my telling you anything. I've no reason to be ashamed of 
 it. You knew that stories were going about, and having a 
 kindly feeling towards me, you came to me for the truth." 
 
 He told him, in bald words, the truth. Morton asked 
 him a few questions. 
 
 " Well, it's about what I expected, sir," he said. " How- 
 ever you likes to look at it, I can't see that it was so very 
 bad. It was a young man's mistake, and everything was 
 done that could be done to put it right. It is hard lines 
 that it come out after all these years, and has brought 
 trouble on them as never need have'knowed about it at all." 
 
 The Rector had nerved himself up to say something 
 further. " And now you can do me another service," he 
 
358 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 said, looking steadily at Morton. " Let my people know 
 what I told you just now. I am going on living here, 
 preaching to them, doing my work amongst them, because, 
 looking at it as I do now, nothing has happened to unfit 
 me for it. No man is free from sin, and no man has a 
 right to minister to others in the Church on the grounds 
 that he is better than they. If I have ever seemed to take 
 that ground I have been wrong. It is out of my power to 
 take it now, even if I wished to, because of what is known 
 about me. I shall go in and out amongst them as one 
 who has sinned as deeply as the worst among them; and, 
 acknowledging it, I shall be fitter to serve them than I 
 have ever been. Tell them, Morton, that I don't excuse 
 myself for anything and don't ask them to excuse me. 
 You'll do me better service in that way even than by con- 
 tradicting what may be said about me that is false." 
 
 He stood up and held out his hand. Morton wrung it 
 warmly. " I'll tell them you're a good man, sir," he said, 
 " and we're all lucky to have you here." 
 
 Morton's advocacy did something to change the current 
 of talk amongst those with whom he came in contact, and 
 was carried so far as to cause him to attend one or two 
 services at the church; but his pre-formed opinions, which 
 he saw no reason for altering, deducted somewhat from the 
 value of what was felt to be merely a complimentary ap- 
 pearance, and he came to the conclusion that he could 
 better serve the man for whom he now entertained a warm 
 respect, outside. What he did and said was perhaps of 
 small value at the time. The talk had to run its course, 
 he was not the best exponent of the attitude the Rector 
 had taken up, which would come to be felt, not by explana- 
 tion, but by a long course of action; and his circle was 
 limited, although he was influential in it. Amongst the 
 working people of Roding, opinion soon crystallised into the 
 
THE STORY SPREADS 359 
 
 feeling that a good deal of fuss was being made about a 
 very ordinary matter. It provided food for talk, inasmuch 
 as a common enough occurrence gained spice and interest 
 through its connection with a state of society in which its 
 bearings were different from the ordinary, and with the 
 members of that society with whom the inhabitants of Roding 
 were best acquainted, thus giving it a vivid human interest 
 in addition. But as for inclination to censure — that was 
 satisfied at a very early stage. The Rector was well enough 
 liked by his humbler parishioners. He had always treated 
 them " as a gentleman should," and the discovery that 
 he had an unexpected experience that brought him nearer 
 to their level disposed them to like him rather better if 
 anything. His family was more than liked, and the best 
 feeling amongst these on the whole kindly uncensorious 
 people was that they at any rate ought not to be made 
 to suffer. Mrs. Stenning's account of how Lady Ruth had 
 confronted Miss Budd, pushed to terror at the idea of her 
 children being harmed by her malice, made way. It ap- 
 pealed to every one. It was the touching human element 
 in the tale. " Poor thing! Well, we shouldn't like it, 
 should we, if a spiteful cat like that was to let out tales 
 about us to our children. Miss Sylvia didn't ought to 
 know nothing about it, nor Master Ronald neither, and 
 anybody who lets it out to 'em '11 be as bad as that there 
 spiteful Miss Budd." 
 
 This feeling was universally held. Sylvia and Ronald 
 were given a more effusive welcome than ever when they 
 paid their friendly visits, and not even the most mischievous 
 of those who might otherwise have made experiments upon 
 them, but held their tongues for fear of their neighbours. 
 
 You may always trust the poor, bound together by a 
 thousand ties, moulded to kindness, courage, patience, loy- 
 alty, by common struggles in the battle of life, common 
 
36o THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 hopes and fears, common faults and common punishments, 
 to take a sane view of any problem of morals, and to act 
 upon it. You cannot so trust those who are a little way 
 above them, or those of their own number in whom acquired 
 opinions have taken the place of the broad instinct of right 
 and wrong, who have a position to defend or a position to 
 attack. 
 
 Thus Gosset, still bearing grudges, still, in spite of recent 
 modification of such views, inclined to look upon an injury 
 to the Church as an advantage to the chapel, professed 
 pious horror at the iniquity that had come to light, but saw 
 in it a blessing in disguise, inasmuch as the hearts of many 
 might be expected to turn to a purer form of religion 
 from one which could be marked by such scandal. 
 
 It was only to be expected that he should view 1;he actual 
 facts in the light of those in which he himself had been 
 concerned, and the Rector, too. He thought he could see 
 it all now. No wonder the Rector had taken up that line, 
 at the first, of going against the idea of marriage! It 
 would have been a bit too much, when he had committed 
 exactly the same sin himself, and had given the girl the 
 go-by, to say that in another case marriage ought to follow, 
 though, no doubt, if it hadn't been for what he had done, 
 that was the line he would have taken up ; and he had pressed 
 it afterwards. 
 
 Gosset was not remarkable for his powers of logic, but 
 he was able to see that not much would be gained by 
 attacking the Rector for taking up the same position as he 
 had taken himself. It was true — to him — that his own 
 objections had been founded on religious grounds, and the 
 Rector's on worldly, and as it now turned out, personal 
 grounds. But it was also true that the unsanctified outer 
 world was too blind to see the difference. He was on 
 firmer ground in having eventually consented to the mar- 
 
THE STORY SPREADS 361 
 
 riage, which the Rector had pressed upon him. Really, 
 which ever way you looked at it, wasn't it a dreadful thing 
 to think of, that a man who posed as a religious man — ^who 
 set himself up on a pinnacle above his neighbours, who even 
 took it upon himself to advise and rebuke those who had 
 more religion in their little fingers than he had in the 
 whole of his body — that such a man should be found out 
 to be living a double life, to the great scandal of those who 
 looked up to him for an example? Gosset shook his head 
 solemnly, and imagined himself deeply distressed at the 
 revelations that had come about. It behoved all men who 
 cared for righteousness to take up a strong line when such, 
 iniquity as this was exposed. 
 
 But he was not quite clear as to the line which it be- 
 hoved him, as one of those men, to take. Perhaps it would 
 be best to consult Dr, Merrow about it before he took any. 
 
CHAPTER XXX 
 
 FRIENDS 
 
 When Sir Richard heard that the secret was everybody's, 
 although he had expected it, he was profoundly disturbed; 
 it seemed to him that life would be impossible for his 
 brother in Roding. He would be driven out of it by ^ the 
 crooked Puritanism that winks at everything until it is 
 found out, and then acts with malignity, which it mistakes 
 for righteousness. It was in his mind to recommend flight. 
 Let them go away until the storm had blown over. People 
 would soon come to recognise what they had lost in them; 
 their essential virtues would stand out, and this accidental 
 revelation of something that had no essential bearing on 
 those virtues would be taken at its true value. In six 
 months or a year the most bigoted would be glad enough 
 to have them back again, the trouble would be forgotten, 
 and life could go on as before. 
 
 With these ideas, and added to them an uneasy feeling 
 as to how Ruth would have taken the affair, and whether 
 it might not make a permanent difference to his brother's 
 married happiness, he came to the rectory to find them 
 both in a state of mind that appeared almost untroubled. 
 Deep trouble there was, but there was no fear in it, and 
 no soreness. Nothing could happen that would be worse 
 than what had already happened, and the feeling on the 
 Rector's part that he had been hardly dealt with had de- 
 parted, its place taken by a new humility of mind that 
 gave him courage and serenity in face of the criticism and 
 censure that would be directed on him. 
 
 362 
 
FRIENDS 363 
 
 " My dear girl," Sir Richard said, taking Lady Ruth's 
 hand in his, when they had talked together for some time, 
 " I might have known that you would put us all right. 
 You have made me feel that there is nothing to worry about 
 at aU now. I knew it would have to be lived down, but 
 I never thought it could be lived down without a long 
 struggle, which I was preparing to face, while you kept out 
 of it for a time. But if you're both going to stay here, as 
 I see now you're right to do, I can go away with a clear 
 conscience. It is time I had a little holiday, and I shall go to 
 Finland next week, which I had meant to do a month ago." 
 
 They laughed at him. " We shall miss you dreadfully," 
 said Lady Ruth. " You won't stay away for years this 
 time?" 
 
 She knew that his deep-seated instinct for wandering 
 must be satisfied, that it must have irked him to be tied, 
 and that a determination to stay for long months in Roding, 
 if they should have taken his first-proffered advice to leave 
 it, would have been a difficult sacrifice of freedom on his 
 part. She would not say a word to hold him, though the 
 loss of hfs support and affection would be heavy at this time. 
 
 " I shall come back in the autumn," he said. " I simply 
 must get away for a bit. I'm beginning to feel stifled. And 
 I don't think I can do any good to you here. You're quite 
 right to keep away from people for a time, but you couldn't 
 keep away from my house, and if I don't ask people there 
 it'll look odd. No use in my shutting myself up. No, I 
 shall only be in your way here. I think I'll get off to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Lady Ruth did not exactly shut herself up, and the Rector 
 went about amongst his parishioners as usual. She went 
 amongst them too, more often than before. She took up 
 none of the work for which she had seemed to herself un- 
 fitted. What it came to was that she visited her poorer 
 
364 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 neighbours instead of the richer. During the long years in 
 which she had lived in Roding she had come to know many 
 of them, and she had a way so sweet and simple of making 
 friends that her rare visits had always been greatly thought 
 of. Now, dropping into the little houses here and there for 
 a chat, never refusing a cup of tea if it was offered to her, 
 showing the most natural interest in the doings of these 
 mostly hard-driven mothers of families, and taking them for 
 a time out of their pre-occupations, she gained even more 
 solace than she gave. They were so good to her, showed 
 much delicacy in the way they ignored what they knew she 
 must often be thinking of, treating her as an honoured guest, 
 and at the same time as a woman with like sorrows and joys 
 as themselves. There was not one of them, even the roughest, 
 who did not treat her with tenderness, and hardly one of 
 them showed that she looked to her for the sort of relief that 
 a visit from such a one as she might be expected to bring. 
 
 This closing up of the ranks of womanhood around her, 
 this loyal defence against injury threatened by the actions 
 of men, from the daily menace of which few of these poor 
 women were altogether free, was a revelation to her. She 
 seemed to herself to have been living for years surrounded 
 by a compact mass of women who unaccountably loved her, 
 and to have foolishly passed them by for the sake of a few 
 here and there who merely liked her. She reproached lier- 
 self for her blindness, and felt that she deserved punishment 
 for it, as well as for the sin of her husband, the weight of 
 which she bore with him. But the punishment had turned 
 to a new discovery of joy. It was as if she had broken open 
 a great reservoir of goodness, the existence of which she had 
 never imagined. Her heart expanded to it. These poor 
 women often brought her near to tears, but they gave her 
 a serenity and a happiness that she had thougjit she might 
 never feel again. 
 
FRIENDS 365 
 
 There were not many sick in Roding at this time, but she 
 went several times to see an old widow who lay bed-ridden 
 in a two-roomed cottage in one of the courts that lay behind 
 the High Street. One afternoon she was sitting by her bed- 
 side in the narrow upstairs room, so devoid of all the com- 
 forts that a woman ought to have had, who after a long 
 and brave fight against adversity was waiting helpless for 
 the end of it all. A bulging discoloured wall to look at, 
 hung with a few Scripture texts, a strip of frayed carpet on 
 a narrow uneven floor, the poorest necessities in the way of 
 furniture, a patch of blue sky above a high wall through the 
 bit of window — that was all that remained to her for an 
 outlook on the world. Yet she was intensely thankful that 
 her circumstances made it possible for her to keep it for as 
 long as she lived. A niece, also a widow, lived with her, 
 and there was enough to subsist on. She had company, and 
 a mind free from that terror of the poor — no home to die 
 in. Hardship was nothing; she had had that all her life. 
 Her present state of quiescence was luxury compared with 
 what she had gone through. 
 
 It was difficult to get her to accept anything. Lady Ruth 
 before going upstairs had conspired with the niece to in- 
 troduce some delicacies into her food, and had sent her up 
 to the rectory on the plea, to the old woman, of taking an 
 airing. They were alone together in the cottage. 
 
 A step was heard in the Court and a knock on the door 
 below. Lady Ruth looked out of the window and saw Dr. 
 Merrow standing by it. The old woman said she would 
 like to see him, and she went down to let him in. 
 
 They had met, but had had hardly any words together. 
 vHis face brightened when he saw her. " I know you come 
 here often," he said. " She talks about hardly anybody else ; 
 you bring her great comfort, the dear soul." 
 
 Lady Ruth felt a little embarrassed. He carried a Bible 
 
366 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 in his hand. If this was to be a pastoral visit, she would 
 be in the way; but she had promised the old lady's niece 
 to wait until she returned. 
 
 But Dr. Merrow said : " If you are talking to her she 
 will not want me now. I can come to her later." 
 
 Lady Ruth told him that she wanted to see him, and he 
 went up the narrow stairs after her, and into the little room, 
 where there was hardly more than room for the two of them 
 between the bed and the rest of the furniture. 
 
 The old woman wanted Dr. Merrow to read to her, and 
 Lady Ruth to sit by her side and listen with her. She asked 
 for the passage in which mention is made of the many 
 mansions prepared in heaven for the faithful. Probably she 
 connected Lady Ruth in her mind with those fair promises; 
 one knows not what pictures presented themselves to her of 
 dwelling-places, not dissimilar from those in which the gentry 
 lived below, prepared above even for those like herself. She 
 put out her old wrinkled hand and took Lady Ruth's in it. 
 There was no envy in her mind of all that one more fortunate 
 than herself had enjoyed; her own reward had only a little 
 been delayed, and was soon coming; in the wisdom born of 
 her long experience of life she knew that the equalities be- 
 tween them were greater than the differences; but it was 
 nice to think that they would be closer together there. 
 
 When Dr. Merrow had finished reading he knelt down 
 by the bed to pray. He did it quite naturally, and the 
 simple words he used seemed to bring a fourth presence into 
 the little room — one that was as well known to the poor 
 woman lying there as either of her visitors— one that cared 
 for her in the same way as they did, and would still be 
 with her when she was out of their reach. He did not 
 ignore the fact that she was dying. She was going home; 
 it was not a fact to avoid, or in any way to deplore. He 
 spoke to the Friend who would take her by the hand when 
 
FRIENDS 367 
 
 she crossed the threshold, and introduce her to the endless 
 joys of her new home. And he prayed for those whom she 
 would leave behind her, for a time, to whom the same hand 
 was stretched out, if they were in any trouble. Lady Ruth 
 knew that she was in his mind, and was drawn by his simple 
 sincerity. He knew, and he sympathized, but in the light 
 of his calm faith the trials of the world were no more to 
 be feared than the passage from it, if a firm hold was kept 
 upon the guiding Hand. Her emotional nature was brought 
 near to tears, but she was consoled and inspirited. 
 
 The niece was heard to come in, and Lady Ruth went 
 down to her. She did not say good-bye to Dr. Merrow, who 
 came down in a few minutes when the niece went upstairs. 
 * " You know what trouble I and my dear husband are 
 going through," she said to him, without any preamble. " I 
 know you are sorry for it. But there is nothing really to 
 fear. Misunderstandings will be put right in time, and 
 we must just go on until we come through it." 
 
 He had not seen the Rector since the truth had come 
 out. He had thought of him with pity that had been all 
 the deeper because of what he had seen of his character. It 
 would go hard with him. He would be chafing sorely 
 under the hurt to his pride; he would be downcast, and 
 perhaps rebellious, at the blow dealt to his influence; he 
 would be constantly angered at the false charges that were 
 being brought against him, which he could not meet without 
 further damage to pride and dignity. 
 
 But at these words of this gentle sweet-natured woman, 
 whose truth and candour looked out of her eyes and made 
 a profound impression upon him, a hope dawned that it was ■ 
 better than he had thought with the man who was being 
 punished. With her beside him, the soreness would at least 
 be lessened ; courage would be directed into its right channel ; 
 a saving humility might take the place of hurt pride. 
 
368 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 His eyes shone as he looked at her. " It is all so simple," 
 he said, " if we keep firm hold of our faith. Nothing coming 
 from outside can hurt us; it can only make us cling closer. 
 There can be a deep calm of spirit under the roughest 
 waves." 
 
 Her eyes dropped. " I think we are both coming to feel 
 that," she said. " We have learnt many things together. 
 We could not even say now that it would have been better 
 if everything had been kept hidden." 
 
 As Dr. Merrow walked homewards his heart sang with 
 joy. He was thrilled through and through with a sense 
 of Divine power and love. What could they not do in the 
 hearts of men, if they had worked such a miracle as this? 
 His own faith had faltered before the thought of a com- 
 plete surrender such as these dear people had made. Taken 
 as they took it, the capricious stroke of vengeance was trans- 
 formed into an act of Divine healing and acceptance. It 
 set everything right. The sin itself, rankling under con- 
 cealment, was plucked away at last. The years of work 
 that had seemed at first to be destroyed by the brand of 
 shame were purged of their imperfections; the good in them 
 had been accepted, and had even led to this revelation, be- 
 cause the work had been such that nothing must be allowed 
 to hinder it any longer, and it had strengthened the spirit 
 to take hold of the difficult truth. 
 
 And the channel through which it was plain that the 
 beneficent change had come! Dr. Merrow had thought of 
 Lady Ruth indulgently, as a woman in whom natural good- 
 ness was stronger than the temptations of the world, with 
 which she was rather too much mixed up. Now he saw her 
 as an instrument chosen of God, because of her innate truth 
 and purity, to work his loving will. She was one of those 
 rare souls who had never resisted grace — one through whom 
 grace could flow, without let or hindrance. It was an in- 
 
FRIENDS 369 
 
 spiration to come In contact with so pure a soul. It was 
 a rebuke to all denials of the universality of Divine grace. 
 
 With these thoughts in his mind, Dr. Merrow reached 
 his house and found Gosset awaiting him. 
 
 Gosset had been received by Mrs. Merrow, who liked 
 him now better than she had thought possible at first. He 
 was one of those who had succumbed markedly to her 
 husband's influence — a sure path to her favour. He had 
 behaved well about keeping Dr. Merrow unbothered by 
 the business afEairs of the chapel, when he had once under- 
 stood what was required of him ; and his appreciation of the 
 services, which he looked forward to so eagerly, twice on 
 Sundays and once on a week day, was as great as any of 
 Dr. Merrow's numerous admirers had ever shown. And 
 he had seemed to show himself much influenced by them. 
 Mrs. Merrow had seen little of the ugly side of his char- 
 acter, but what she had seen seemed to have disappeared 
 under the influence of her husband. He was a man whose 
 mind was set on righteousness. If he had difficulties to con- 
 tend with in himself, it made it all the more satisfactory, 
 and him the more likeable, that he had been led to over- 
 come them. 
 
 She wanted to hear what light he could throw on this 
 disagreeable affair that had caused her such annoyance and 
 her husband such distress. She had no direct means of 
 hearing what was going on from day to day, but knew of 
 Miss Budd's base attempt to fix the responsibility of her 
 own offence upon them. 
 
 She delivered herself upon this subject to Gosset, who 
 was as angry as she was about it. " It just shows," he said, 
 " how little worth all that formal churchgoing is. It seems 
 to me, Mrs. Merrow, that one's plain duty is to fight the 
 Church and all that goes on in it. Whenever you feel in- 
 clined to think that some good comes out of it and leave 
 
370 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 it to work, something happens to show that you've been 
 napping. If there's one thing they do pride themselves 
 on it is these weekly Communion services, and sometimes 
 when I've seen people going to the church early in the 
 morning I've thought there might be something in it — it 
 wasn't all formality and superstition. But here's this woman, 
 who I suppose never missed an early service for years, and 
 she turns out really wicked, in a way you could hardly 
 believe of anybody. No, I've done with it. I forget who 
 it was said that the. Church of England had damned more 
 souls than it had saved, but I believe it's true. You can't 
 pander to it; you haven't got a right to. You've got to 
 do all you can to destroy it." 
 
 " Well, you can't say that because one person is found 
 out behaving badly the religion she pretended to practise 
 must be bad too," said Mrs. Merrow. " I don't believe in 
 fighting the Church, except politically. What we have to 
 do is to show a better way. People will come into it if 
 we can show that it is better. They have come in here. 
 The Doctor wouldn't want to arouse enmity. It wouldn't 
 appear to him the right way." 
 
 " I know how charitable the Doctor is," said Gosset. 
 " He sees good in everybody, and it's a great weapon of 
 righteousness in his hands. Nothing's wanted but for him 
 to go on preaching the truth in the beautiful way he does, 
 and people will be drawn to listen to him. But it does seem 
 to me, Mrs. Merrow, that the time has come for the rest 
 of us to use other weapons, and to come out boldly and 
 make a stand for the right — show where we stand, even 
 when it means going against those in high places, which is 
 a difficult thing to do in a town like this, and you're often 
 tempted to shirk it. You said just now that because one 
 person in a denomination is bad it doesn't follow that all 
 the rest may be bad. But when you have the minister of 
 
FRIENDS 371 
 
 that denomination shown up, as Mr. French has been, living 
 for years — for as long as he's been here, lording it over 
 people, for as long as he's been in the ministry at all — the 
 life we know now he has been living, I say that it's a great 
 scandal and hindrance to religion, and it's our duty to show 
 that we abhor such sins as he has committed, and won't 
 have part or lot in them." 
 
 " But Mr. French has done nothing since he has been 
 here that — I mean, you say the ' life he has been living.' 
 He certainly committed a grave fault many years ago, but 
 there has been nothing since that you could take hold of." 
 
 " I'm not so sure about that, Mrs. Merrow. A great 
 many stories are going about which I don't know the truth 
 of, and don't want to know, but it seems to be generally 
 accepted anyhow that he went on paying money to this 
 woman right up to the time of her death ; and if you don't 
 believe anything worse, it's difficult to believe that he didn't 
 at least sometimes see her." 
 
 " / can tell you the truth about that," said Mrs. Merrow. 
 " Money was paid, as I suppose it had to be; but it was all 
 arranged at the time the son was born, and from that time 
 to now Mr. French had no communications whatever with 
 either him or his mother." 
 
 "Oh!" saidGosset. 
 
 Mrs. Merrow threw a sharp look at him. " There is no 
 need to make things out worse than they are," she said. 
 " Dr. Merrow heard part of the story, as you know, from 
 the son himself, whom he had met before, and part from 
 Sir Richard French. I am quite sure that he would say 
 that anybody who heard things said that were not true ought 
 to contradict them." 
 
 " Oh, I shall do that, now I know," said Gosset. " I am 
 very glad to hear that the worst of what is being said is not 
 true." 
 
372 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 He did not look it, and Mrs. Merrow said : " The Doctor 
 feels, and I feel too, that it is hard on Mr. French, and 
 particularly on Lady Ruth, that they are not in a position 
 to contradict — ^well, lies — for themselves. It comes home 
 to me, because, if that woman's lies about us had not been 
 found out, quite by chance, we should have found it difficult 
 to defend ourselves. It was Sir Richard French and Lady 
 Ruth who set us right, and we must do what we can in re- 
 turn. But it would be wrong not to do it, in any case. 
 I hope, Mr. Gosset, that you will do more than merely 
 contradict false statements when you hear them — that you 
 will make the truth known as far as you can." 
 
 " Oh, I will, Mrs. Merrow. After all, it's bad enough 
 without that. In this instance, the Rector is proved to have 
 been misunderstood, but are you quite sure now that there's 
 been nothing else in his life but this one fault? " 
 
 " No, I'm not," said Mrs. Merrow shortly. " But as 
 for any fault of the same sort, I am as sure as I can be under 
 the circumstances that there has been nothing like it, and 
 it would be a very wrong thing to encourage the belief, if 
 that is what you mean." 
 
 " Well, I'll say no more about that, then," said Gosset, 
 somewhat taken aback by her directness of speech. " There's 
 talk, but I'll admit there's no proof, and until proof is forth- 
 coming it would be wrong, as you say, to give credit to it. 
 But when all that is said, what a scandal it is that a man — 
 a man who holds the position that Mr. French does, a man 
 who has held his head high, and professed to preach religion 
 and rebuke wrong-doers, should have been found guilty of 
 these years of deception, and to be no better than the worst 
 of sinners! It's the hypocrisy that seems so hateful to me. 
 If you'd heard him, Mrs. Merrow, when that poor boy of 
 mine got into trouble! How shocked he was, and yet how 
 he wouldn't hear at first of a marriage! Ah, there was 
 
FRIENDS 373 
 
 a lot behind that. People couldn't understand it at the time, 
 but it comes home to them now. And afterwards, when he 
 saw reason to come round, how he pressed for the marriage! 
 No thought of how it might afEect me in the position I 
 hold in Roding! Yet there'd been no thought of marriage 
 when he'd sinned in the same way! Quite different in his 
 case, of course." 
 
 " Well, he seems to have acted according to his lights 
 over that," said Mrs. Merrow. " I never quite understood 
 why he should have been so much mixed up in it, but it has 
 turned out happily, has it not? We ought not to let our- 
 selves be prejudiced by " 
 
 " Mixed up in it ! " interrupted Gosset, delighted to have 
 such support for his jealousies. " That's just the whole 
 point, ''Mrs. Merrow. Nothing can happen here but what 
 the Rector mixes himself up in it. It had nothing to do 
 with him whatever. They'd been trying to get hold of my 
 boy, and in the end they did get hold of him. Before Dr. 
 Merrow came I was the chief man, if I may say so, in our 
 denomination here, and as a tradesman I felt myself all the 
 time having an unequal fight with the Rector, and thwarted 
 time and again. I was always ready to stand up to him over 
 any particular piece of aggression, but it was the whole 
 ■weight of his position brought to bear day after day that 
 made it so difficult for us to pursue our own way in peace. 
 Now I feel that with a man like Dr. Merrow here at the 
 head of us, we ought not to be satisfied to fill the second 
 place. If you come to thinic of it, it's — ^well, it's grotesque 
 that a man like Mr. French should be looked up to as the 
 chief representative of religion in Roding." 
 
 Mrs. Merrow thought it was, too. She had fallen in with 
 her husband's views, and had been content, with him, to 
 see his congregation slowly increasing and consolidating, and 
 the effect that he had worked upon it. She had been con- 
 
374 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 tent, at least, not to hasten things, but it had none the less 
 surprised her that after three or four months the Rector was 
 still undoubtedly looked upon, as Gosset had said, as the 
 " chief representative of religion in Roding." Gosset him- 
 self represented the high-water mark of social importance 
 amongst his regular congregation, and not a single person 
 from the larger houses in the neighbourhood had ever come 
 to hear him preach, although some of them had called upon 
 them. It made her hot with indignation that he should be 
 ignored in this way, when she remembered the people of real 
 eminence who had thought so much of him before, and the 
 urgent calls he had had to minister to great churches, in 
 America and elsewhere. He seemed to be dropping out. 
 The daily mass of correspondence that had flowed in upon 
 him, much of it from entire strangers, had dwindled to a 
 narrow stream ; his name was never mentioned in the papers. 
 She was glad that he should have a rest for a time. She 
 knew that he was not really forgotten. If he published a 
 book, or wrote a letter, it would be received with as much 
 attention as before. And she had enough of his mantle 
 upon her to be satisfied in the meantime with a small work 
 in a small place, believing that no work of his could really 
 be small, and finding him developing new powers of sym- 
 pathy and understanding by the more intimate relations he 
 had established with the congregation to which he ministered. 
 But at the same time Gosset had used the right word when 
 he had talked of it as grotesque that he should carry little 
 more weight than the average pastor of a small chapel in a 
 country town, not to be considered in any way the equal 
 of a man of no more than second or third rate ability who 
 happened to be rector of the parish. She was almost as 
 much up in arms against the overwhelming prestige of the 
 Church of England as Gosset himself. The proof of it had 
 never come home to her before; she had never thought it 
 
FRIENDS 375 
 
 worth fighting. Now she thought that it would be cowardly 
 not to make some definite stand against it. 
 
 As for the Rector, personally, the patronising air with 
 which he had proclaimed his tolerance had always rankled. 
 "You leave me alone and I'll leave you alone." She had 
 not seen at the time what a very one-sided bargain that 
 was. He had known perfectly well that he had nothing to 
 fear from the advent into his parish of a nonconformist, 
 however spiritually eminent, so long as he should refrain 
 from definite attack. If the lists were to be set up he would 
 sufEer; he probably knew that too. Socially, of course, he 
 would always be invulnerable to attack, which was another 
 grievance, since social considerations seemed to carry such 
 overwhelming weight in rural England. But, surely, it 
 was time to prove that gentility and Christianity did not go 
 hand in hand, however much they might appear to in such 
 places as Roding. 
 
 She did think that he took a great deal too much upon 
 himself, as Gosset had said. It was not an offence to allow 
 one's self to be bitter about, but it was not unnatural that 
 Gosset, with the instance he had mentioned of it fresh in 
 his mind, should feel bitterly. She did not know, and Gosset 
 had omitted to mention, the unanswerable reason for the 
 Rector's having " mixed himself up " with the afEair. She 
 knew the end of it, which had been the drawing away of 
 young Gosset from the religion in which he had been brought 
 up, if not directly by the Rector, by the curate, acting under 
 the full approval of the Rector. 4nd it was true, to some 
 extent, as Gosset had said, that with his record, he would 
 have done much better to keep out of such an afEair as much 
 is possible. 
 
 " ^f it is a question," she said, " of making a more de- 
 ■dded effort to attract people to the chapel, I think we must 
 leave that for Dr. Merrow to decide. He is so much wiser 
 
376 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 about these things than you or I, and he might not think 
 that this was the time." 
 
 Gosset saw that she was partly with him, and felt a sensa- 
 tion of triumph. He had not time to reply to her before 
 Dr. Merrow came into the room. 
 
CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 GOSSET AGAIN 
 
 Mrs. Merrow saw by her husband's face that something 
 had happened. He had often come to her with his face 
 shining as it did now, but of late it had been more frequendy 
 shadowed. For the moment she regretted that Gosset was 
 there to bring him back to what had been troubling him. 
 
 He greeted Gosset warmly. All the world was good to 
 him now, and all its inhabitants. 
 
 " What good deed are you two conspiring together? " 
 he asked, with a smile. " There is blessing to be poured 
 down upon our dear people in Roding. God is with us 
 here; we must open our hearts to his love." 
 
 It was the opening that Gosset wanted. It gave the 
 spiritual touch to the campaign he had in his mind, and 
 justified it. Mrs. Merrow would have given a good deal to 
 have had him away, and made an attempt to get rid of him, 
 but without much hope that it would be successful. 
 
 She rose from her chair. " Mr. Gosset and I have been 
 considering something which we are not quite ready to tell 
 you of yet," she said; " When we have talked it over again 
 we will come to you." 
 
 Gosset looked bewildered for the moment at the invita- 
 tion to departure, but did not accept it. " I think it ought 
 to be settled now," he said. " It is the time to strike, and 
 as Dr. Merrow says, the way seems to be shown to us." 
 
 Mrs. Merrow sat down again. The light was still on 
 Dr. Merrow's face, but faded a little as he looked at her. 
 
 " I think we ought to have a mission," said Gosset. " It 
 377 
 
378 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 would do a great deal of good at the present time, and in- 
 crease our numbers, I hope, permanently. That's what I 
 had in my mind to say to you, Mrs. Merrow, when the 
 Doctor came in. We haven't had time to discuss details 
 yet." 
 
 " I was saying that anything you thought of would have 
 to be put before Dr. Merrow, who might not think this was 
 the proper time," said Mrs. Merrow, concealing her annoy- 
 ance as much as possible. 
 
 " Quite so," said Gosset. " But if Dr. Merrow thinks 
 it over I believe he'll see with me that this is the opportunity.. 
 Religion has had a great blow dealt to it in Roding, Doctor. 
 Things have happened which have caused a great deal of 
 scandal to the more serious-minded amongst the church- 
 people. They are like sheep wandering about without a 
 shepherd. It seems to me a God-sent opportunity to put 
 before them the Way of Life. Their hearts will be turned 
 towards it, and it may result in such a revival of true re- 
 ligion in Roding as will turn this scandal to us into a real 
 blessing." 
 
 He had put it better than Mrs. Merrow could have 
 hoped for. But for the repetition of the word scandal she 
 thought there was nothing in what he had said that would 
 strike her husband unpleasantly, and if he took to the idea 
 he would lift it out of the region in which Gosset's jealousies 
 would have play. 
 
 But the light had now died out of Dr. Merrow's face. 
 " I have sometimes thought," he said slowly, " that when 
 I had felt my way here a little, a mission to those who do 
 not use any means of grace provided for them might bring 
 some of them in, and stimulate the spiritual life of those 
 who do go to church and chapel. But I should not have 
 done anything without first consulting the Rector, and this 
 would not to be the time to do that. I think my wife would 
 
GOSSET AGAIN 379 
 
 have said so if you had told her exactly what was in your 
 mind." 
 
 He lifted his eyes to Mrs. Merrow's face, as if asking 
 rather anxiously whether she was or was not with him in 
 this. She made haste to say: " No, it would be out of the 
 question at this particular time. We must think about it 
 later." 
 
 Gosset felt himself unfairly deserted by her, and his feel- 
 ing spurred him to press his suggestion. " I know how kind 
 you are towards people, Doctor," he said. " You wouldn't 
 want to do anything that would look like rubbing in what's^ 
 happened, if I may use the expression. But I'm not think- 
 ing of anything of that sort. It seems to me that we've 
 got a duty laid on us that over-rides all that. If it's possi- 
 ble for church and chapel to work together, I say by all 
 means do it. But you've been here now for nearly four 
 months, and what invitation has been held out to you to 
 join hands? None whatever. The most you can say is 
 they've let us alone: Well, they haven't even done that 
 when it suited them. If Mr. French didn't get my son 
 away from us, Mr. Barton did. It seems to me that there's 
 a point where giving into them becomes weakness. If Mr. 
 French wanted to do anything in connection with the Church, 
 he wouldn't think of consulting you first, though you are 
 a preacher known all over the world, and he's just an 
 ordinary country clergyman." 
 
 " When I spoke of consulting Mr. French," said Dr. 
 Merrow, "I did not mean at all in the way of asking his 
 permission to do anything that I thought it right to do. 
 I meant that I should have liked his co-operation. But if 
 he did not see fit to give it, or even if he were likely to 
 object for any reason, it would not deter me." 
 
 " Four months is not a very long time to feel one's way 
 in," said Mrs.' Merrow. " The conditions here are different 
 
38o THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 from anything that Dr. Merrow has worked under before, 
 and I think he feels that he does best for the present to get 
 to know his own people intimately, and not to take the lead 
 in any new departure." 
 
 The phrase set Gosset off. " To take the lead," he said, 
 with some excitement, " is just what I think it's plainly 
 pointed out now that Dr. Merrow should do, and do at 
 once, with a strong hand. I shan't be saying too much if I 
 say that it seems to me that you have been guided here, sir,' 
 for that very purpose. Let alone that we believe that we 
 preach the pure Gospel truth, and the Church has overlaid 
 it with a lot of superstition; religion has been betrayed here 
 in the Church. Mr. French has proved himself unfit to' lead. 
 His own people are turning from him, and quite rightly, 
 for they can stand a lot, but they won't stand the sort of 
 thing he's been guilty of. They will listen to you, when 
 perhaps they wouldn't listen to anybody else in the same posi- 
 tion. If you make a bold bid for souls now, Dr. Merrow, 
 you will get them in Roding, which will be a very different 
 place to what it's ever been before." 
 
 Dr. Merrow's face was now overcast, but he did not yet 
 seem to grasp exactly what Gosset was inviting him to. 
 Mrs. Merrow did, but she could do nothing now to stop 
 him. 
 
 " I think you speak too harshly of Mr. French," he said. 
 " But putting that aside for the moment, what is it exactly 
 that you want me to do? If I thought that the time had 
 come to hold a mission, it would not be for the purpose of 
 drawing people away from the Church. I have never tried 
 to do that. It would be proselytising pure and simple, and 
 we have enough enlightenment in these days to be sure that 
 we lose more than we gain by doing that. What is it you 
 want me to do, Mr. Gosset ? " 
 
 Gosset leaned forward, and spoke eagerly. " Look here. 
 
GOSSET AGAIN 381 
 
 sir," he said. "What chance have the people of Roding 
 had of hearing the truth preached to them ? What guidance 
 have they had ? Here's a man — ^been here over twenty years 
 — and at the end of it found out to be a man who's led 
 such a life that he ought not to be where he is at all. I 
 don't say that he's led a bad life since he's been in the 
 Church, though many people do. I don't know ; it's enough 
 for me that he did what we know he did. And if you look 
 back on his life here, it's all of a piece with that. Pure 
 worldliness from beginning to end. He's lived here as a fine 
 gentleman, and his wife as a fine lady — very nice to people 
 and all that, but in the way of a fine lady, and no more 
 sense of religion or what it means than if she hadn't been a 
 clergyman's wife at all. We ought not to leave the place 
 to the guidance of people like that. They're not fit for it, 
 neither of them. They're seen for what they are now, and 
 it's time their authority was taken away from them, and put 
 into the hands of others." 
 
 Probably Gosset's dragging in of Lady Ruth was in- 
 tended as a sop to Mrs. Merrow, who might be expected to 
 welcome the idea of taking her place; though how that was 
 to be brought about was not made plain. He had not thought 
 of her in connection with his proposals hitherto, and it was 
 unfortunate for him that he had done so now. 
 
 Dr. Merrow's face was set/ in a deep frown. It cleared 
 as he looked away from Gosset and said to his wife in a 
 quiet voice : " I went to see a dying woman this afternoon. 
 I found Lady Ruth with her, as she has been with her many 
 times lately. We read the Word together and prayed to- 
 gether. I prayed for guidance and comfort for all those 
 who were in trouble, and my prayer was answered. It had 
 been answered before I made it. Trouble — and shame that 
 must have been very hard for her to bear — had overtaken 
 this dear lady, and they had brought her so close to God 
 
382 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 in his iiifihite love and compassion, that I was confounded 
 for my own lack of faith as I talked to her. She had brought 
 strength and healing to her husband, who has sinned, as 
 David sinned, and has repented before God, as David did. 
 God has cast him down and lifted him up again. Where 
 he walked in pride, he now walks in deep humility, but in 
 strong faith. They tread their path together." He turned 
 so sharply to Gosset as to cause him to start. "Are these 
 the people that I am to seek to dispossess?" he asked, in 
 a louder voice. " At the very time that it is made plain to 
 me that God has taken the burden of this man's sin from 
 off him and given him new strength and new light, am I, 
 who have never been tempted as he has,v and never been 
 forgiven as he has, tp bind the burden on him again? Am 
 I to set myself up as better than he, with God's favour so 
 abundantly shown to him, and set myself to draw away 
 from him the people who can learn from him now as they 
 have never learnt before? It is a base thought. It offends 
 me deeply." 
 
 Dr. Merrow had not hitherto made personal acquaintance 
 with the truculent side of Gossei's character. He had a taste 
 of it now. Gosset had begun by feeling rather ashamed of 
 himself. It was foolish to have brought in Lady Ruth; 
 she had never been in his way, and if he had had time lately 
 to think of her in connection With the scandal at all, he 
 would have felt sorry for her. He was ev6n touched by 
 Dr. Merrow's reference to her. But to talk about the Rector 
 in the same way !— ^it was a caricature of charity. He felt 
 annoyed that Dr. Merrow should have allowed himself to 
 be hoodwinked. And he felt the ground slipping from be- 
 neath him, and was the more annoyed. But when Dr. 
 Merrow turned to address him, and did so with increasing 
 indignation, he began to set his back up; and when the ad- 
 dress ended on a note of censure, he became much the same 
 
GOSSET AGAIN 383 
 
 Gosset as the Rector had had experience of, and had sketched 
 out for Dr. Merrow's benefit. 
 
 " I don't think it's fair to speak to me in that way, Dr. 
 Merrow," he said, angrily. " What I said about Lady Ruth 
 I don't hold to. It was a slip, and I've nothing against 
 her. But if you think that Mr. French has turned into 
 anything like what you say, then you've been imposed upon. 
 A leopard can't change his spots. I've known Mr. French 
 all my life and I say the picture you draw of him is simply 
 ludicrous." 
 
 Dr. Merrow's eyes flashed. " Do you mean to say that 
 God cannot change a man's heart?" he asked. 
 
 " I mean," said Gosset, " that a man like Mr. French 
 wouldn't think his heart needed changing. He's simply 
 eaten up with pride and self-importance. Repent, yes; I 
 dare say he has repented. He's been found out, and wishes 
 he hadn't been. That's as far as his repentance will ever 
 carry him. I tell you, Dr. Merrow, that you're making 
 a great mistake in treating this business in the way you do, 
 and you'll find it out by-and-by, when it will be too late. 
 You'll find that Mr. French is exactly the same as he's 
 always been, when once this scandal is allowed to blow 
 over; and then the chance will be gone." 
 
 " The chance for what, Mr. Gosset ? " 
 
 " Why, the chance for taking the position in Roding that 
 it's your duty to take, for the sake of the cause. Think 
 what you like about Mr. French. Whether he's a changed 
 man or not, he'll have to keep quiet for some time to come. 
 You can have your own way now as you can never expect 
 to have it again." 
 
 It was Mrs, Merrow who spoke, rising from her chair. 
 " I think you had better go away, Mr. Gosset," she said. 
 " You are forgetting yourself altogether. It is not becom- 
 ing in you to speak to Dr. Merrow in that way, or to me." 
 
384 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 It was the; voice of the " good customer," which always 
 had power to dissipate the fumes in Gosset's brain. But 
 before it could have its effect Dr. Merrow had begun to 
 speak. 
 
 " I think if I were to hold a mission in Roding," he said 
 quietly, " the first person I should hope to bring to sub- 
 mission and repentance would be you. You need it, my 
 friend. The devil is very busyi in your heart just now." 
 
 Mrs. Merrow went out of the room. Gosset looked 
 simply bewildered. 
 
 " You think you are actuated by zeal for God's service," 
 Dr. Merrow went on, speaking slowly, almost reflectively. 
 "The devil often dresses up hatred and malice to look like 
 zeal. But he generally dresses them up rather more cleverly. 
 Why, man ! a child would not be taken in by such a disguise. 
 A child, I say! A child would shrink from you, possessed 
 as you are." 
 
 Gosset stared at him, held by his eyes, which had no anger 
 in them now, nor even rebuke, but seemed to pierce right 
 down to the welter of ugly thoughts surging through his 
 mind. 
 
 " I have seen God's grace working this afternoon, as 
 plainly as if he had drawn aside the curtain of my flesh and 
 shown me some of his unimaginable glory. I have talked 
 with a woman who is going through the shadow of death 
 and is not afraid. I have talked with another woman who 
 has passed through a snadow that must have been as deep, 
 and she is not afraid. Do you think I do not know what 
 upholds them? Do you think I have made a mistake about 
 them?" 
 
 Gosset's eyes dropped, and he found his voice. The 
 truculence had gone out of it as he said : " I know I was 
 wrong to say what I did about Lady Ruth. I said I was 
 wrong." 
 
GOSSET AGAIN 383 
 
 r^. Merrow went on in the same low voice. " She has 
 come through her shadow; it has turned into light. She 
 has brought her husband with her; they are walking in the 
 light together. Nothing that wicked tongues can say against 
 them can harm them. What do you think she said to me 
 — that good woman whom God has used — about her 
 husband ? ' We have learnt many things together. We 
 could not even say now that it would be better if every- 
 thing had been kept hidden.' That is how they have been 
 brought to see it. Or do you think she has made a mistake? " 
 
 " I'm sure if he thinks about it like that he is changed." 
 
 " Yes, he thinks about it .like that. It is not possible 
 that she could have made a mistake. Her words gave me 
 the purest joy. I came home singing praises to God in my 
 heart for revealing to me these sighs of his love. It seemed 
 to change all the world around me. I thought that Satan 
 and all his powers of evil had been routed for a time, and 
 that was why all the beautiful country smiled as it had 
 never smiled on me before. And I come into my own house 
 and find him waiting here for me, strongly entrenched in 
 the heart of one of my friends." 
 
 " What is it you complain of, Doctor? Why do you say 
 such things to me ? " Gosset's tone was expostulatory, al- 
 most tearful. 
 
 The quiet voice went on. " The longer I live, and the 
 more I believe that the Church to which I belong gives mc 
 the most freedom and opportunity to preach the truth as I 
 have learnt it, the more I believe that God's grace ranges 
 everywhere, and is confined to no one Church, nor even to 
 the whole body of them. For once that a pure impulse 
 leads a man of one Church to attack another, the devil uses 
 the weapon a thousand times. Don't let him use you. You 
 have learnt so much better. You love the truth of Christ's 
 gospel ; keep it shining in your heart. Show yourself tender 
 
386 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 and compassionate; don't set yourself up as an obstacle to 
 the working of God's Holy Spirit. It can only plunge you 
 in darkness and strife." 
 
 " Oh, but I wouldn't do that. You must know I wouldn't. 
 I have been mistaken. I never thought it possible that a 
 man like Mr. French could change his whole nature, as 
 he must have done, if what you say is true." 
 
 " Then rejoice with me that what you have thought im- 
 possible God has brought about; and go home and set 
 yourself to make his path more easy to tread. It must be 
 a hard one. A lesson learnt by a sudden illumination needs 
 daily' effort to be acted upon. The light seems to fade, the 
 pull of old desires comes back, the world remains suspicious 
 and critical." 
 
 " But what can I do to help ? I can't go to Mr. French 
 and talk to him." 
 
 "Why should you? You can go to others and talk to 
 them. You say plainly that there is a feeling against him, 
 and you have shown as plainly that you have been glad of 
 it and hoped to use it for your own ends." 
 
 " Oh, I'm sorry for that. You have shown me how 
 wrong it is, and where it comes from. But the feeling is 
 against the sin he committed." 
 
 " Is it? I don't think so. And if it were, should it be 
 directed against the sinner? Would you welcome such a 
 feeling against your own son, who sinned in the same way? " 
 
 " He put it right as far as he could, humanly speaking." 
 
 " Humanly speaking — if you mean that marriage followed 
 his fall, there is no possibility of that in this case. Let 
 people say, if they will, that because that was not done, the 
 sin was the worse; but don't let them say that it has put 
 that sin, or could put any sin, beyond the reach of God's 
 forgiveness. And don't let them dwell on the sin, or befoul 
 their minds by searching for other causes of offence, which 
 
GOSSET AGAIN 387 
 
 many — you amongst them — have wished to find. There is 
 great wickedness in that — to spread a net to entangle the 
 feet of one who is striving to rise above himself. It is 
 hindering God's work as surely as if you were tempting 
 him yourself. You are tempting him. He can hardly avoid 
 bitterness of feeling when spiteful tongues are accusing him 
 wrongfully; and bitterness is a great hindrance. Your duty 
 is very plain, my friend, and it ought to be your joy. Messed 
 are the peacemakers. That was never more true than it is 
 here." 
 
 Gosset was conquered. Half an hour later he left the 
 house determined to use what influence he had to stop the 
 talk, and to give the Rector a chance of reinstating him- 
 self. Mixed up with the spiritual comfort he had found 
 once agairi in following Dr. Merrow's lead, was the thought 
 that the nonconformists" of Roding could attract great credit 
 to themselves by refusing to take advantage of the scandal 
 to the Church, and could set a beautiful example of Christian 
 behaviour to an enemy who had laid himself open to attack. 
 
CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 AT THE RECTORY 
 
 Ralph French and Charles Merrow had become friends. 
 There is as much instinct in a mutual attraction of two 
 men as in that of a man and woman, although the sexual 
 factor is absent. Manner and appearance have as much to 
 do with it in the first stages in the one case as in the other, 
 but the roads then diverge. If the first liking of two men 
 for one another is to ripen into friendship, there must be 
 community of tastes, and probably some dissimilarity of 
 character, so that the one may admire and depend upon 
 something in the other in which he is lacking himself. 
 
 These conditions were fulfilled in the case of these young 
 men. Their tastes were very similar, and their immediate 
 aims in life were the same. It made no difference to their 
 friendship that they were in opposite political camps, because 
 neither of them took his politics with bitterness, and they 
 were at that age when it does not seem so unreasonable 
 that men on either side should work for a common end. 
 They were interested in the same social subjects, and the 
 differences between them were only such as made their dis- 
 cussions the more interesting. 
 
 Ralph admired Charles's imperturbable optimism, and the 
 light play of his mind, which carried with it so much wisdom, 
 and stimulated his own more slowly moving ideas. 
 
 Charles's feeling for Ralph was of a more mixed quality. 
 Probably he was drawn to him at the first by his relation- 
 ship to Sylvia, and the part he played in the family life of 
 the rectory, which Charles found so attractive that there 
 
 388 
 
AT THE RECTORY 389 
 
 was a glamour over everything and everybody connected 
 with it. But the liking soon broadened into something 
 more solid. What he admired in Ralph were his rigid 
 honesty of mind, and the tenacity with which he clung to 
 his ideas. This tenacity applied also to his opinions, but 
 it fascinated Charles to see these two qualities occasionally 
 at issue, and the finer of them always winning. Ralph 
 would fight hard against a new idea that did not happen to 
 suit with the rest of his ideas, but if it carried any weight 
 he would work it out for himself, and, if he came to accept 
 it, it became part of his mental equipment for all time. 
 Rigidity, thus tempered by reason, seemed to Charles, with 
 his more supple mind^ a very fine quality indeed. It was 
 something to depend upon, and made their frequent argu- 
 ments more equal than they would otherwise have been. 
 Each could afiect the other, Charles by gradually solving 
 Ralph's prejudices with his nimble attack, Ralph by oppos- 
 ing a firm belief to conclusions too easily arrived at. In 
 the matter of brains there was not much to choose between 
 them. Charles was quicker, Ralph more solid. Their 
 similarities and dissimilarities brought them together equally. 
 They bid fair to be friends for life. 
 
 When the tongue of rumour first began to wag in Roding 
 they had arrived at that degree of intimacy that there was 
 no difficulty in mention of it between them. Of what had 
 brought it on they did not speak. Ralph had been cast 
 down by what his father had told him, and knew that he 
 had his friend's sjrmpathy. 
 
 They were walking up and down the broad path by the 
 river. Ralph said : " You know what everybody in Roding 
 is talking about. It makes things very difficult." 
 
 " It's a nine days' wonder," said Charles. " The talk will 
 die down." 
 
 " There are people who won't let it die down if they can 
 
390 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 help it. Of course it's the religious people who are the 
 worst, beginning with that beast of a woman who brought 
 it all on." 
 
 " Was she a religious woman ? I suppose she called 
 herself one. My father is a religious man; he's not like 
 that." 
 
 Ralph threw a quick look at him. "Your father must 
 have a great influence here," he said. " If this had hap- 
 pened six months ago, do you know who would have been 
 the sharpest thorn in our sides? Mr. Gosset. There's no 
 doubt of it; and after what happened with him, and the 
 line my father took over it, he would have spread himself 
 for all he was worth, and aroused a great deal of feeling. 
 But he met my father in the street yesterday, and said he 
 wanted to shake hands with him. He said : ' You're going 
 through a bad time, Mr. French ; but you've got more friends 
 in Roding than you know of. This will show what some 
 of them are made of.' I call that quite extraordinary, 
 for Gosset. I always thought him a most detestable crea- 
 ture, and sure to take the wrong line if he possibly could. 
 But he seems to have turned into quite a different person 
 altogether." 
 
 Charles had no love for Gosset, who had tactlessly and 
 rather patronisingly treated him as an " earnest young man " 
 of a pattern which he particularly disliked, because he loyally 
 attended his father's services. He saw no reason why Dr. 
 Merrow's direct responsibility for Gosset's change of front 
 should be hidden. 
 
 " My father talked to him," he said. " My mother told 
 me about it. Gosset came to him a day or two ago full of 
 high-minded malice. He was told quietly and affectionately 
 that he was possessed of a devil, at which point my mother 
 left the room, knowing that the affair would march. When 
 Mr. Gosset departed the devil seemed to have left him, and 
 
AT THE RECTORY 391 
 
 I should think he would go on behaving himself quite re- 
 spectably." 
 
 He laughed suddenly. " Really, there's nobody like my 
 father," he said. " I would have given anything to hear 
 what he said to that gentleman. 1 bet he didn't spare his 
 blushes. Fancy beginning like that, and sending him away 
 ashamed of himself! If you or I had said it there'd have 
 been a free fight." 
 
 " Especially with Gosset," said Ralph. " Well, I think 
 we ought to be very grateful to your father; and we are. 
 If he can keep his people in hand like that, ours will settle 
 down by-and-by. The only real danger is of Sylvia and 
 Ronald hearing something." 
 
 Charles flushed. " I can't think that anybody would have 
 the indecency to say anything to them," he said. 
 
 " Ronald goes about everywhere and noses into everything. 
 He knows already that there's something." 
 
 " Has he said anything? " 
 
 " My~ mother told him that she and my father were 
 troubled about something that she didn't want to tell him 
 and Sylvia of. She wants us to give him a lot to think 
 about and plenty to do, so that he wx)n't feel there's a 
 shadow over us, so to speak." 
 
 " Well, then let's make it our business to do that. Let's 
 give young Ronald the time of his life, and incidentally 
 keep him from going about too much. There is some 
 danger, with an enquiring mind such as that young gentle- 
 man has." 
 
 The result of this conversation was that activities in the 
 way of games, and pleasure generally, were pursued by the 
 younger members of the rectory family with great ardour 
 through the remainder of the summer holidays, Charles 
 helping to the limit of his ability, and gaining at least as 
 much satisfaction as anybody else. Myra Curtis was an- 
 
392 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 other lieutenant. She knew; and Lady Ruth had talked to 
 her. George Barton was away during this time. He was 
 to sail in October, and had arrangements to make and re- 
 lations to visit. 
 
 Ralph felt rather sad about George. He had been his 
 chief friend, and was passing out of his life, and he did not 
 feel it as much as he had thought he would. 
 
 George had changed during the last year. Ralph knew 
 that the change was towards a much more complete sur- 
 render to the vows he had taken upon himself. It had come 
 about without the least disturbing jar; he talked about him- 
 self as little as ever, and no atom of spiritual pride was 
 apparent in him ; he was the same simple-minded, affectionate 
 fellow that he had always been. Ralph's own affection for 
 him was deeper than before; he felt a pang whenever he 
 thought of losing him. But it was not because he would 
 greatly miss his companionship. He had moved away; he 
 stood upon a plane where Ralph could not follow him. Their 
 basic interests in life, which had been the same for many 
 years, had diverged. There is a tacit reproach in one whose 
 life is ordered naturally on a deeply spiritual basis. The 
 world may come to reverence a saint, but it does not live 
 at ease with him. 
 
 There was a good deal going on in the houses around 
 Roding at this time of the year, and the rectory had always 
 played its part with the rest. But this year there was no 
 entertaining of neighbours, and neither Lady Ruth nor the 
 Rector went anywhere. People came sometimes to see them, 
 some of them at first out of curiosity, later on more intimate 
 friends out of sympathy. 
 
 Lady Ruth would have been right in her instinct to 
 keep aloof for a time, if it had rested on nothing more than 
 expediency. She had always been very much liked by her 
 neighbours, and when she consistently refused invitations, 
 
AT THE RECTORY 393 
 
 and gave none where she had given so many, they began 
 to ask themselves why she should want to shut herself up. 
 She had done nothing to be ashamed of; surely she could 
 not think that this rather absurd affair would make any 
 difference! Perhaps she was sensitive about the talk that 
 she must know would be going about, but — well, her 
 husband's name had certainly been made pretty free with. 
 If she, or he, could have heard all that had been said about 
 him! Still, everybody was in the same box. One talked 
 about one's dearest friends, if they gave occasion for it, in a 
 way one wouldn't want them to hear. One meant no un- 
 kindness by it, and one didn't go on talking for ever. 
 
 Some compunction began to be felt. The story had had 
 Its run; what was there in it, after all? Surely nothing 
 to make any one behave differently to such nice people as 
 the Frenches! Henry French was a parson, and fair game 
 for a little amusement; but it would be absurd to carry it 
 too far. He wasn't only a parson; he was one of them- 
 selves, and if he was having a bad .time with his ungrate- 
 ful parishioners, of which there were rumours, they ought 
 to show him that he was still as welcome as ever amongst 
 those to whom he belonged. It was really too bad of the 
 old bishop to behave as he had done about the archdeaconry. 
 The man was to be pitied, not condemned ; and as for dear 
 Ruth French, it was hard on her that she should be mixed 
 up with all these narrow-minded church notions at all. 
 
 So invitations came in more copiously than • ever, but 
 were refused for some time longer. Interest in the tale 
 died down, and its place was taken by something like dismay 
 at the idea of Roding Rectory continuing to hold aloof, for 
 no reason whatever. 
 
 But the young people from the rectory were to be seen 
 about — not so much as before, because Sylvia did not care 
 about going out without her mother, and Ralph and Ronald 
 
394 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 eschewed such entertainments as garden-parties and flower- 
 shows. But there was cricket sometimes, and lawn-tennis 
 frequently, and whenever any of the three of them put in an 
 appearance they were received with more than usual warmth 
 of welcome. Ronald expanded voluminously under this 
 treatment. No schoolboy in the whole of England enjoyed 
 those summer holidays more than he did. 
 
 The weather was persistently fine. They were out of 
 doors all day long. They went for long excursions on the 
 river, picnicking in places which they had never reached be- 
 fore, bathing in shady backwaters so mysterious and so un- 
 disturbed that they seemed to be the haunts of the great god 
 Pan himself. They came back singing, trailing their fingers 
 in the cool water, which the setting sun turned into a lane 
 of polished gold. The bonds of the dinner-hour were re- 
 laxed for them. There was supper at whatever hour they 
 liked to return, and after it they would go out into the 
 garden, and walk up and down under the moon, or play 
 the thrilling game of " ghosts " in the darkness. 
 
 Ronald had a school friend Staying with him. The party 
 , for excursions was generally made up of the six of them, 
 who paired off, when pairing was done. Ralph with Myra, 
 Ronald with his friend, Charles with Sylvia. 
 
 Charles soon gave up all pretence with himself. He 
 never asked himself whether he might have resisted, and 
 how he could not have resisted if he had wished to. He 
 would walk home to "The Limes," under the stars, his 
 whole being flooded with happiness. He never asked him- 
 self how it would all end, nor took account of difficulties in 
 the way. He lived wholly in the present. He would lie 
 awake in the night and go over in his mind the things that 
 she had said to him, and the way she had looked, seeking 
 for those infinitesimal signs on which a lover builds such 
 towering structures, that might show that she knew, that 
 
AT THE RECTORY 395 
 
 she cared. He would fall asleep again full of joy at the 
 thought of another day soon to dawn in which he would be 
 with her. 
 
 He was with her nearly every day. His assistance in 
 keeping Ronald busy and happy was given ungrudgingly. 
 Ralph treated him as the most intimate of friends, and had 
 no idea that he was in love with Sylvia. If Lady Ruth 
 had any such idea she kept silence. 
 
 Dr. and Mrs. Merrow dined one evening at the rectory. 
 It was the first time Dr. Merrow and the Rector had met 
 since the disclosures. The Rector had come in late and 
 while he was dressing they went upstairs to see Joyce and 
 Eddie. Lady Ruth was a little nervous over the occasion, 
 and wanted to oil the wheels of intercourse. Only intipiate 
 friends were taken to see the children in this way. 
 
 Dr. Merrow loved little children, almost to adoration. 
 He sat on Joyce's bed and told her a story, while the rest 
 were entertained by Eddie. It was a good story, and Joyce 
 listened to it with breathless interest, keeping her dark eyes 
 fixed upon his face all the time. 
 
 When he had finished she said : " Thank you very niuch. 
 I hope you will often come and tell me stories. I think 
 you are rather like George. I suppose you know that 
 George is going away. I cried about it when he first told 
 me." 
 
 " Who is George ? " asked Dr. Merrow. " I am sorry 
 he is going away." 
 
 " George is our cousin. I love him very much and shall 
 miss him awfully." 
 
 The others came in, and they went downstairs, without 
 Dr. Merrow learning who George was. 
 
 The experiences he had gone and was going through had 
 made their mark on the Rector. His healthy rubicund 
 face was lined, and his manner had lost something of its 
 
396 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 self-assurance. He played his part, but it was an effort to 
 him. The party at the dinner-table was large enough to 
 make it necessary that he should talk for a time to Mrs. 
 Merrow, who sat on his right, and although he did his 
 best, and she did her best, there was no ease in their con- 
 versation. 
 
 But the high spirits of the younger people, who had by 
 this time banded themselves together by innumerable ties 
 of understanding and humour, soon made way, and the 
 elders were relieved of the lead. Dr. Merrow found them 
 fascinating, severally and generally, especially Ronald, with 
 whom he , interchanged railleries, and Sylvia, who sat next 
 to him, and whom he thought worthy to be the daughter 
 of such a mother. She and Myra agreed afterwards that 
 he was a " genuine lamb," which was their highest form 
 of praise. 
 
 Charles was a little anxious lest the men should be car- 
 ried into the Rector's study after dinner. He liked talking 
 to the Rector, but liked better still joining the rest in the 
 drawing-room or on the terrace. But after they had smoked 
 a cigarette over the dinner-table, the Rector took Dr. 
 Merrow into his study and Ralph took Charles's arm and 
 led him off in the direction in which he wished to go. " Let 
 our respective parents have a talk together," he said. Charles 
 desired nothing better. 
 
 Lady Ruth and Mrs. Merrow had established relations. 
 The older woman was touched by the courage and sweet- 
 ness of the younger. She knew that this occasion must be 
 something of an ordeal for her. It was the first time guests 
 — except the young people — had been asked to the rectory 
 since the disturbance had come about, and she and her 
 husband, who had been mixed up in it, would not be the 
 easiest of guests to entertain and keep up conversation with. 
 At least, she herself would not. 
 
AT THE RECTORY 397 
 
 But there had been no effort to simulate an unnatural 
 liveliness. Lady Ruth had seemed glad that the lead in 
 the talk and laughter should have been taken by the young 
 people, and had been quiet herself, though she had smiled 
 constantly, and laughed sometimes. Mrs. Merrow had 
 been touched by the way her sons and daughter treated 
 her, constantly turning to her in their confidential pleasan- 
 tries, as if she were one with them, but to be treated with 
 peculiar tenderness and affection. Evidently they adored 
 her; and the youthfulness in her, which Mrs. Merrow had 
 found uncongenial on a first acquaintance, had been a great 
 tie between them. That air of youthfulness had disappeared. 
 She was as pretty and graceful as ever, but she was more 
 like the mother who loves to see her children enjoying them- 
 selves than the young mother who enjoys herself with them. 
 They felt the change and were wooing her back to her light- 
 heartedness. 
 
 Mrs. Merrow had found it difficult to believe in every- 
 thing that her husband had seen in Lady Ruth. She had 
 not struck her as having such possibilities in her. But now 
 she accepted it all, and felt compunction at having mis- 
 judged her. She was a generous woman, and felt maternally 
 inclined towards one whom she had seen so gay, who had 
 suffered — ^who had it in her to suffer so much — from the 
 blow that had changed her gaiety to this gentle serenity. 
 She saw the side of it that few would be thinking about 
 at this time — the woman's side, which had nothing to do 
 with the hazard of publicity. She would have suffered 
 as much if none but she had known. When this came to 
 Mrs. Merrow's mind, sympathetically observing her hostess 
 across the dinner-table with the sharp eyes that never seemed 
 to rest on her, she cast a look at the Rector, trying to gauge 
 how these two now stood towards one another, who on the 
 surface were the wealthy fortunate parents of a happy united 
 
398 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 family. She surprised a look across the table which made 
 her understand a little more of what lay beneath it all. This 
 man, who had seemed so encased in self-approbation that 
 even disgrace could hardly be expected to pierce through 
 the shell, had suffered too, and not only because of the 
 disgrace. Her husband had judged him aright, as well 
 as his wife. Whatever he might appear to the world — 
 and it was not to be supposed that he would go about 
 displaying his white sheet — he was changed. The two of 
 them, as Dr. Merrow had said, were treading their path 
 together. 
 
 The two women talked together in the drawing-room be- 
 fore Ralph and Charles came in. Sylvia and Myra, and 
 Ronald and his friend, were outside on the terrace. No 
 mention was made of what was chiefly in the minds of both 
 of them, but Lady Ruth felt as if those uncomfortable 
 prickles with which Mrs. Merrow's social skin had seemed 
 to bristle were withdrawn for ever. They could always 
 meet as friends henceforward, with an unexpressed bond of 
 sympathy between them. 
 
 The two young men came in, and after a few words went 
 outside. The two women talked about their sons. By-and- 
 by they all came in and grouped themselves round the piano, 
 and after that there was no more quiet talk. 
 
 Mrs. Merrow's eyes were opened, not only towards her 
 host and hostess, that evening. Charles had said nothing 
 to her; but she saw. 
 
 She saw him, Jjer own son, with new eyes. She had to 
 take them, so as to judge how these people, who were of a 
 different environment from hers, would be likely to see him. 
 The dislike she had felt towards any sort of complication 
 that would make apparent a difference of social grade, which 
 she had no wish to overstep, was still at the back of her 
 mind, but it could not but be lessened by the new feelings 
 
AT THE RECTORY 399 
 
 that she experienced towards them. It resolved itself into 
 enquiry how far the difference was apparent in him. 
 
 The enquiry was a little anxious, because with her sharply 
 critical attention fixed upon Sylvia, as much as upon Lady 
 Ruth, she had seen in her a rare prize that any mother might 
 covet for her son. Her beauty and charm attracted her 
 strongly, and she saw them to be based upon the same 
 qualities as those of her mother. She was a girl who had 
 been much in the world and had been untouched by it. Her 
 very gaiety was based upon innocence and purity. 
 
 But in externals — in her clothes, in the turn of her speech, 
 and in other little things — she was marked as of her class, 
 the class that looks to mating within itself. Its ideas might 
 not have affected her yet — the sharp eyes looked for signs, 
 and could not find them — but they would be those of her 
 parents. Indeed Mrs. Merrow had heard, indirectly, that 
 there was a match in the making — a very desirable match, 
 judged by those standards, and one that would be every- 
 where considered suitable for such a girl as this. How 
 would her own son be regarded, if it came to a question 
 of rivalry? 
 
 She thought that he was a prize, too, in everything that 
 really mattered. He had a man's strength and cleanness 
 to match with the girl's purity, and a tenderness that would 
 reverence and cherish her dependence upon him. He would 
 have the power to make the woman he loved very happy. 
 If there were none of these tiresome distinctions of caste 
 to be taken into account, if the girl had been, as to her place 
 in the world, just what that other nice girl, her chosen friend, 
 was, it would have been like to like ; and indeed here, where 
 caste was sunk, in an altogether admirable acceptance of 
 other standards, there was no sense of inequality. He had 
 been received into the most friendly intimacy by the whole 
 charming family. Lady Ruth had spoken of him in a way 
 
400 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 to warm his mother's heart towards her still further. They 
 not only liked him, but admired him. 
 
 But how far would that liking and admiration carry 
 them? What had he besides, that they would expect in a 
 husband for their daughter? 
 
 His mother thought that he would certainly distinguish 
 himself in the world. His father had done so, but as it 
 happened just in the one way in which distinction would 
 not count with these people. If they could look a few years 
 ahead they ought to be able to see Charles filling a place 
 in the world which would make him a son-in-law to be 
 proud of. 
 
 As for his manners and appearance! She had never 
 given the matter much thought. That he had acquired a 
 more attractive and assured address than the young men 
 amongst whom she had been brought up she had taken for 
 granted, as coming partly from the qualities he had in- 
 herited from his father, partly from the education he had 
 been given. She now wanted to see whether they were such 
 as would satisfy those who set up a code in such matters. 
 
 She compared him with Ralph. He was not nearly so 
 good-looking, but otherwise she thought nobody could have 
 told which of them had sprung from the middle classes, 
 which from the upper; and that, to -put it crudely, was 
 what it came to. He had the same clear spare look of 
 muscular youth, the same unconscious ease of manner. She 
 thought he was a very proper man, from every point of 
 view. 
 
 At the same time, she wished very much that Lady Ruth 
 had not been Lady Ruth, and that the Rector of Roding 
 had been nothing more than the Rector of Roding. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 MRS. MERROW AND CHARLES 
 
 Mrs. Merrow and Charles talked together that night. 
 Dr. Merrow had gone up to his study. His health had so 
 much improved that he had taken with delight to an old 
 habit that he had had to relinquish for some time, of read- 
 ing sometimes far into the night. 
 
 Charles had been silent as they had walked home together, 
 but it must have done his heart good to hear his father's 
 warm praises of the rectory family in general, and of Sylvia 
 in particular. 
 
 They were sitting at a corner of the dining-room table, 
 on which refreshments were laid. Charles, who had been 
 in a reverie, looked up to see his mother's eyes fixed upon 
 him, with a look which he could not mistake. His own eyes 
 dropped for a momenj, and then he smiled at her and said : 
 " Well, mother, I see you know my secret." 
 
 " My dear boy," she said, " she is one of the sweetest 
 girls I have ever seen. But you mustn't set your heart 
 too much on her, till you know. I can't tell what 
 difficulties may be in the way, but I am sure there will 
 be some." 
 
 " Till I know! " he repeated. " How can I know? And 
 how can I help setting my heart on her." 
 
 " I have heard — something " 
 
 " You mean about Pangbourne. Ralph told me he 
 wanted to marry her. I don't believe she cares for him a 
 bit. She has never even mentioned him." 
 
 She smiled inwardly at this, but took up another point. 
 401 
 
402 THE GREATEST OF THESE ' 
 
 " If he told you that," she said, " in what way did he tell 
 you? It might have been as a warning." 
 
 " Oh, no ! I have been very careful. I've no right to 
 be anything else. He has no idea that I love her. Ah, I do, 
 mother. You can't wonder at it, can you ? " 
 
 She felt as if he were a little boy again, coming to her 
 with his secrets. 
 
 " How do you mean," she asked, " that you have no right 
 to be anything but careful?" 
 
 " Well, what am I ? I've done nothing yet — nothing 
 that counts. And I don't know how they'd look at it. 
 They treat me as one of themselves. I've no right to make 
 love to her — in the way they've taken me in. I don't. 
 But I suppose I can't keep it from showing. Sometimes 
 I think she cares, sometimes I think she doesn't. If I knew 
 she did, I should go ahead. I don't think I can keep it 
 to myself much longer." 
 
 The contradictions made him seem to her very young 
 again — ^her Charles, who in some ways was so much older 
 than his years. 
 
 " I think we ought to talk it over," she said. " These 
 things don't stand still. Under all the circumstances, you 
 ought to consider whether it wouldn't be right to speak to 
 her parents before you speak to her. I mean, not to let 
 yourself be driven entirely by your feelings, which may over- 
 come you any moment, you know, dear boy." 
 
 She smiled at him, and he smiled back. He had over- 
 come his momentary weakness of will, and was ready to 
 face the situation with her on its less agreeable side. 
 
 " No, I ought not to do that," he said. " But it's pre- 
 cious hard. The question is. What chance have I with 
 them? It's only quite lately I've thought of it at all. 
 They're all so kind, Lady Ruth and the Rector, as well as 
 the young ones, that it's rather terrible to run the chance 
 
MRS. MERROW AND CHARLES 403 
 
 of throwing a bomb at their heads. It would be beastly 
 if I were to find out that they thought I shouldn't do at 
 all. I really don't know in the least how they'd take it. 
 And then, supposing I hadn't any chance with her, after 
 all — and I know that as little as I know the other — I should 
 be spoiling everything, and nothing gained." 
 
 " I don't think that ought to deter you. You wouldn't 
 want to go on as you are with them if they were like that. 
 I don't see that we're justified in supposing that they are. 
 There could only be one reason for it, and that would not 
 show them in a very attractive light. They're so much 
 better than I thought they were that I hesitate to believe 
 that they'd behave like — ^well, like snobs." 
 
 She was arguing to convince herself. She knew they 
 would not behave like snobs; and yet she didn't know in 
 the least how they would behave. 
 
 Charles had been thinking. " Am I bound to go to 
 Mr. French first ? " he asked. " What on earth am I to 
 say to him ? ' May I ask your daughter to marry me ? ' Sup- 
 posing he says no! I should ask her all the same, sooner 
 or later?" 
 
 "Would you?" 
 
 " Of course I should, mother. That's settled, anyhow. 
 Sooner or later." 
 
 " It's very difficult," she said. " I can't advise you ; you 
 wouldn't take my advice. But I can tell you, anyhow, 
 what you may offer, besides yourself and your future. It 
 wouldn't be much, I suppose, to people like that, who 
 would have a right to expect something very splendid, if 
 money weighed with them; but it would be enough. We 
 settled some time ago, didn't we? that there was no reason 
 for you to take up a profession for the sake of making 
 money at it, if you preferred to work at something else. I 
 always meant that to apply to your marrying, of course." 
 
404 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 " Thank you, dear mother. You have always Ijeen very 
 generous. It has worried me a little, lately. If I had 
 worked at the Bar, I might have been on a road that pointed 
 somewhere by now. As it is, I've nothing much to show. 
 Fortunately, Ralph knows that I am aiming at something, 
 and have worked' pretty hard at it." 
 
 " You're doing exactly the same as he is. If he were 
 to want to marry now, it would be a matter of an in- 
 creased allowance. But I don't want it to be an allowance 
 between us,. Charles. The money that was left to me will 
 all come to you some day. I want you to have half of it, 
 at least, now. It is rather a burden to me. I have used 
 it as well as I could, but I have never felt that I have been 
 able to do anything with it for your dear father. Perhaps 
 it has relieved him of all necessity of ever thinking about 
 money, but as a matter of fact it has never made the slight- 
 est difference to us, except in what we have had to give 
 away. With his writing, and his stipend, we have always 
 had more than enough for the way in which it has suited 
 us to live — even for your education and allowance since 
 you left Cambridge. Do you know that at one time I 
 actually hoped that you might have been a little extravagant, 
 so that I might have the pleasure of paying debts for you ? " 
 
 This entirely new light on his mother's ideals made 
 Charles first stare at her, then laugh at her, then get up 
 and embrace her. " I wish I'd known," he said. " I should 
 have kept a horse. I think you would have been rather 
 surprised, though, if I had run into debt." 
 
 " Well, perhaps I should. It wouldn't have been like 
 you to do it. Still, it will be a very great pleasure to do 
 something for you, and we'll set about it at once." 
 
 She told him what the sum was that she wanted to hand 
 over to him. It was much more than he had thought of. 
 
 " Why, I shall be quite rich," he said. " Are you sure 
 
MRS. MERROW AND CHARLES 405 
 
 ft will be all right, mother? It is a very generous way of 
 doing' things, but a little unusual, isn't it? I don't see why 
 I should be ashamed of taking an allowance from you, even 
 a big one, if you can spare it, but " 
 
 " I don't want it to be thought to come from me at all," 
 she interrupted him. " If you are to obtain the happiness 
 I want for you, if they behave in every way as they ought 
 to, and no difficulties are put in the way, still questions 
 about means must be asked. You are to say you have so 
 much. That is all they will want to know, and all they 
 need know. I don't suppose they have any idea that I 
 have money of my own, apart from your father, and I don't 
 want them to know." 
 
 She had not taken into account the persistence with 
 which the rumour of money sticks, nor the active tongue of 
 such as Gosset. She spoke with some vehemence. 
 
 " Why don't you want them to know, mother ? " 
 
 " Well, you can see, can't you ? That sweet girl being 
 what she is, overrides everything. But I still wish that 
 she were of our own people. They might not understand 
 that. They might think that I wanted her for you partly 
 because of their rank and what not. They would very likely 
 think that I shouldn't have done so much for you if it 
 had not been for that." 
 
 " Yes, I see," he said. " But I think you make too much 
 of all that, mother. If there are people with great-grand- 
 fathers who turn up their noses at us because we haven't 
 got any, they're not worth troubling about. Most people 
 take you for what you are nowadays, and nobody could 
 think of you on the climb." 
 
 " Oh, my dear boy, you don't know how these pin-pricks 
 can irritate. It's not because one wants to think about - 
 it; it's because one never would, if it weren't forced upon 
 one at every turn. Should we be talking about it at all, 
 
4o6 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 if your father had happened to be bom of parents who went 
 to church. He wouldn't have had to be different in any 
 way. Mrs. Curtis told me the other day that the Bishop 
 of Medchester was the son of a stationer in a small coun- 
 try town. Or even if he had ' gone over,' as they call it, 
 as he very nearly did when he was at Oxford. I believe 
 that both the Archbishops of the Church of England are 
 of nonconformist stock; and one of them is the son of a 
 Presbyterian minister. Nobody could doubt that your father 
 would have been as well known in the Church as he is 
 in our ministry. We should all have been exactly what we 
 are, but we should have been looked up to instead of being 
 considered as a sort of social pariahs. It ought not to 
 be like that. It isn't, anywhere else in the world. But 
 you can't get away from it, however much you may want 
 to." 
 
 " Well, if It is so," said Charles, " it's the price you pay 
 for taking an unpopular side. It isn't a bad thing for your 
 health of mind." 
 
 " That is the way to look at it, of course," she said, 
 more quietly. " And it never worried me much before, 
 I don't know that I even realised it. But coming to a 
 place like this has brought it home to me. Why, even 
 that miserable creature. Miss Budd, used to turn up her 
 nose at us when she met us in the street. I feel that we 
 are out of place when such things can happen for such 
 reasons." 
 
 "Father doesn't feel that," said Charles. 
 
 " No, not yet. I'm not sure that he won't. He is get- 
 ting so much stronger and better. He may come to a 
 point when he will feel that he wants a larger field. After 
 all, preaching is the chief thing in our ministry. It is the 
 fashion, at least in the Church, to decry it now; but with 
 such a preacher as your father, there can't be much doubt 
 
MRS. MERROW AND CHARLES 407 
 
 where his work lies, if he is strong enough to do it — ^where 
 it has always lain, in influencing as large a number of 
 people as possible." . 
 
 " Do you think he will want to go away ? " 
 
 " I don't know. He doesn't now. He is quite happy 
 with his people, and with his writing. He said the other 
 day that every minister ought to take a small country 
 chai-ge at some time or other, because it would teach him 
 so much. But then he is not like other men. He has such 
 humility with all his greatness." 
 
 " I think that if more men of his reputation did do what 
 he is doing, you wouldn't have to complain so much of the 
 incongruities you have discovered, mother. They would 
 all say that the men who work in the country places are 
 doing a noble work, but I've never heard of a single one 
 of them doing it himself, except father. You won't even 
 find them in the slums of a big city, as you'll find some of 
 the well-known Churchmen. I think there's something 
 wrong about it all, you know. Too many cushions and 
 too much respectability." ^ 
 
 " I don't know about the slums. I think that's chang- 
 ing, or likely to change. But in the country there isn't 
 enough scope for reaching a large number of people." 
 
 " Well, then, you ought not to be surprised that so 
 many people pass it over altogether, as not amounting to 
 anything, for them. I don't know how it is in other towns 
 in England, but in London all the best-known men are in 
 the respectable suburbs, or in places such as father was, 
 which the same sort of people can get at easily. They don't 
 aim at the very poor, whom they could get in large num- 
 bers if they went where they lived, and they don't aim 
 at people of any high degree of intelligence, though some 
 of them may attract them. They plump themselves into 
 pure middle-class respectability, as such; and it isn't very 
 
408 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 surprising that that's the. mark put upon them all through 
 the country." 
 
 " I suppose it is the mark put upon us. I don't know 
 why we should be ashamed of it. We are amongst our 
 own people — the people we sprung from; and I can't feel 
 that if we wanted to rise higher, it really would be rising 
 higher. The people all around us here — in the country 
 houses, I mean — aren't any more intelligent than quite 
 ordinary middle-class people; they are much less intelligent 
 than the circle of friends we had in London." 
 
 " No, but they're different, and there are a great many 
 of them all over the country; they exercise more influence 
 than other people. A Church that doesn't send its best 
 men among the poor, and has no leverage over the rich, 
 must be satisfied to be set down as the Church of a class, 
 and its preachers must make the best of it. Of course, it's 
 absurd to judge father like that. He's a prophet. He 
 ought not to be identified with all the smugness. He never 
 is, when people know him. Look how they all loved him 
 to-night. Did you see the Rector's face when they came in 
 together? They'd made friends. I was very glad of that." 
 
 He laughed. " If it were nothing but that I'm the son 
 of my father, mother! Eh? I don't think there would be 
 much to be afraid of." 
 
 The settlement that Mrs. Merrow had decided upon 
 was made. Charles became a man of property, and was 
 somewhat surprised to find that it made a difference in his 
 outlook on life. He had to withdraw himself for a time 
 from Roding to fulfil engagements in his constituency, and 
 studied the phenomenon as he travelled up to London and 
 down into the country again. 
 
 He did not quite like to acknowledge that it seemed to 
 bring him closer to Sylvia. What had money got to do 
 with it? 
 
MRS. MERROW AND CHARLES 409 
 
 He came to the conclusion that it had nothing whatever 
 to do with it, in respect of the way he had to make with 
 her. He still hoped and feared alternately. There were 
 a thousand sweet things to remember about her, which in- 
 terfered seriously with the preparation necessary for the 
 work that lay immediately in front of him; but there Was 
 nothing to give him any clear confidence. It was only that 
 from being a young man very much in love he had become 
 a young man, rather more in love than before, since a week 
 had gone by, who was in a position to marry. 
 
 There is a great difference. Love may be satisfied to 
 feed on itself, if it can get no other sustenance, ,but only 
 for a time. Charles had already reached the point at which 
 his anxieties were concerned not only with the question of 
 whether he could win Sylvia. What was to happen if he 
 did win her? The anxiety had not been acute, because 
 he had never had to take questions of money into con- 
 sideration, and it had seemed to him that it would be quite 
 easy to earn it, if enough were not forthcoming. But there 
 would be some sort of fence to surmount, and in prospect 
 it had been big enough to prevent his looking forward to 
 the future with a mind free from care. 
 
 But now, with all doubts on that score removed by his 
 mother's generosity, his mind leapt eagerly forward, and a 
 whole range of new delights came into vision. His income 
 would be enough for a way of living out of which a young- 
 married couple could extract infinite pleasures. It would 
 be enough for the most desirable little house in the country, 
 with nothing lacking for either of them that would make 
 country life attractive; or for a flat or a little house in 
 London, whichever should be decided on. How delightful 
 to talk it over! What fun to be got out of furnishing! 
 How thrilling to settle down in the midst of accumu- 
 lated treasures to a blissful domesticity, that would heighten 
 
410 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 the pleasure and interest of every single thing that life 
 contained! The glorious ideal of the home sprang up in 
 his mind, never before realised; and it had been made pos- 
 sible for him because of his new possession of money, which 
 he had hitherto been inclined to hold in small estimation. 
 
 A home, with Sylvia in it! Oh, if it could only be! 
 Had the time come when the great risk could be run? 
 Looking out at the country flying past, he longed to be with 
 her that he might put it to the test. 
 
 He became very serious as he put it to himself now what 
 his duty was with regard to her parents, and after a long 
 time he came to the conclusion that he ought to approach 
 them first. Otherwise, what would happen? He would 
 go back to Roding, and be received once more with all 
 kindness and confidence into the rectory family, and while 
 they were thinking of him as the friend of all of them, he 
 would be thinking of no one but Sylvia — ^much more of 
 her alone than before, because he had moved on a stage 
 and woidd now be in ardent pursuit of her. Either he must 
 hide this from them, which was not a part he could play, 
 or they would come to see it; and then they would either 
 give him tacit permission to go on, or would act so as to 
 prevent him doing so. Much better to give them his confi- 
 dence frankly. Sooner or later, they must come in. If 
 they should show themselves hostile, they would certainly 
 not be less so if he ignored them. 
 
 . When he reached his destination, he wrote a letter to the 
 Rector, and another to Ralph. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 HOW THEY LOOKED AT IT 
 
 It happened that Charles's departure coincided with a day 
 of rain and wind, which was the first that had spoilt the 
 perfection of the now dying summer. The holidays were 
 drawing to a close; it was well on into September, and the 
 days had drawn in perceptibly. But except for the shorter 
 evenings, and the free growth of the autumn flowers in the 
 borders, there had been nothing to show that summer was 
 on the wane. But now the first fall of leaves strewed the 
 lawns, which were wet and sodden, the flowers all looked 
 draggled, the river was grey and swollen. It was as if the 
 long happy summer had suddenly come to an end, and 
 would never have the strength to rally from this fierce 
 assau^J^ and finish its milder course for the few weeks it 
 still had to live. 
 
 There was gloom inside the rectory. Ronald, never at 
 his happiest confined within walls, was loud in his lamenta- 
 tions. Even Ralph, who had arrears of correspondence to 
 make up, which should have kept him busily employed all 
 day, woke up to the fact that the last few weeks had been 
 spent as pleasurably as any he had ever known, and felt 
 depressed at the thought that they were over. Sylvia had 
 gone to Farncombe to spend a few days with Myra, who 
 had been staying at the rectory for nearly a month. He 
 thought he would walk over to see them in the afternoon, 
 in spite of the storm, and see if he could recapture a little 
 of that sense of happy comradeship that had made the past 
 weeks so delightful. 
 
 411 
 
412 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 The talk over the depleted luncheon-table was of little 
 but the days that were over. If Charles could have heard 
 it, It would have gratified him to hear how much he was 
 missed; but he might have felt a trifle nervous if he had 
 observed the expression on the face of the Rector, who 
 seemed gradually to be awakening to an idea not alto- 
 gether agreeable to him. 
 
 Ralph went into his study with him after luncheon, to 
 smoke a pipe. The Rector seemed to be as much depressed 
 over the state of the weather as anybody, and to have less 
 hope than Ralph that it would permanently dear again. 
 
 " I'm afraid you've had the last of your expeditions," he 
 said. " You've rather forsaken the partridges this year, 
 Ralph. " You've only been out once, haven't you ? " 
 
 " I thought they could wait a bit," said Ralph, " as there 
 are so few of them this year. It has been so jolly on the 
 river. I've never enjoyed it so much before. I hope we 
 shall have a few more days when Sylvia comes back, and 
 Merrow." 
 
 The Rector's face darkened a little. " I like Merrow," 
 he said, " and have been glad to see him here. But it 
 has just occurred to me that for him to be so much with 
 Sylvia as he has been lately may be a little unwise. I'm 
 not altogether sorry that your pleasant little party has 
 broken up." 
 
 " Oh, but there's nothing of that sort," said Ralph. 
 "We have all been very jolly together, and that's all." 
 
 "Are you quite sure of that? These things often come 
 as a surprise, you know, to people who have had every 
 opportunity of seeing what's going on." 
 
 " It has never occurred to me," said Ralph, after a pause. 
 
 " But now it's suggested ? " 
 
 " Merrow is absolutely straight. He has been coming 
 here chiefly as my friend, and we made a sort of compact 
 
HOW THEY LOOKED AT IT 413 
 
 that we would keep things going so that Ronald, especially, 
 shouldn't, go about in the town so much as he generally 
 does. I don't think Merrow would think he had a right to 
 make love to Sylvia, if that is what you mean." 
 
 " No, I don't mean anything nearly so definite as that. 
 But being with her so much, he might become attracted by 
 her. Sylvia is a very attractive girl, Ralph. I know that 
 brothers don't see these things as plainly as outsiders, but 
 you can probably tell whether he has shown himself at all 
 attracted in that way." 
 
 " Well, I'm not sure that he isn't. But, if he is, I don't 
 believe she knows anything about it." 
 
 "H'm! It wouldn't do, you know, Ralph." 
 
 Ralph was silent. 
 
 The Rector threw a glance at him. " I know you've 
 made great friends with him," he said, " and I've nothing 
 but liking for him myself, personally. But Sylvia's 
 different." 
 
 " I don't think she wants to marry Pangbourne." 
 
 "Why don't you think so?" 
 
 " She said she had never enjoyed herself more than dur- 
 ing the last month, and hated the idea of going away later 
 on. She wouldn't feel like that if she wanted to meet him, 
 as she will." 
 
 " I think it's quite likely she won't want to marry Pang- 
 bourne. But I hope to goodness she won't want to marry 
 Charles Merrow. I'm not sure that it has been wise to 
 throw them so much together." 
 
 " Supposing she did ! I've no reason to say she thinks 
 of him in that way; I don't believe she does. But if she 
 did, shouldn't you allow it ? " 
 
 " I haven't got nearly as far as that yet. I've only 
 just got my eyes open to the possibility of such a thing. 
 But don't you think the same as I do about it? We don't 
 
414 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 want a big match for Sylvia; one wouldn't put the very 
 smallest pressure on her to marry Pangbourne, for instance. 
 But she ought to marry among the people to whom she 
 belongs." 
 
 Ralph seemed as if he could not make up his mind on 
 the question. It was his face now that was set in a frown. 
 " I suppose a girl ought to," he said. " I've never thought 
 about it. And yet, I'm not so sure. If a man marries a 
 girl who is all right in every other way, you don't mind 
 much if her people aren't quite the same as his. I don't 
 quite see why it shouldn't be the same for the girl, speak- 
 ing generally. I'm not thinking about Sylvia. I really 
 don't know what to think about that." 
 
 "You must know whether you like the idea of such a 
 thing for her." 
 
 " Then perhaps what I feel about it is that I wish Mer- 
 row did come from the same sort of stock as we do. I 
 like him as much as any fellow I've ever known. Perhaps 
 I like him all the better because his surroundings have 
 been a bit different. But as for any real differences, which 
 could make you say he was beneath us in any way, I can't 
 see them. Can you ? " 
 
 " No. Except that he's a Radical and a Dissenter," 
 
 " I shouldn't call him a Dissenter. He goes to the chapel 
 here because of his father. He told me that they had a 
 definite act of membership amongst them, and he had never 
 made it." 
 
 " That probably means that he is a free-thinker. One 
 wouldn't want one's daughter to marry a free-thinker." 
 
 "Well, what about Pangbourne? He has written a 
 book. I'm quite sure Merrow believes every bit as much 
 as he does. I suppose you'd call Pangbourne a philosopher; 
 but you might just as easily call him a free-thinker." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose you might. One must be fair, and I 
 
HOW THEY LOOKED AT IT 415 
 
 admit that it woiild be more distasteful to me to have my 
 daughter marry an ardent Dissenter than a philosopher — as 
 long as the philosopher wasn't definitely at enmity with 
 Christianity. One would try to prevent that, whatever po- 
 sition he held in the world." 
 
 " Yes, of course. But Merrow isn't like that. He's a 
 Christian. He isn't a Churchman, but so many fellows who 
 think about things wouldn't be, if they hadn't happened to 
 have been brought up to it. It wouldn't make any prac- 
 tical difference ; none at all to whom ever he married. And 
 he'll get up pretty high, too, I should think. There are 
 men who are in office in this Government who weren't much 
 before us at Oxford and Cambridge. In a few years' time 
 he'll be in a position in which he might marry anybody. If 
 it does come, father, I don't think you'd be sorry, later 
 on. Of course, it wouldn't be exactly what you'd look for 
 for Sylvia now." 
 
 " It wouldn't be in the least what I should look for for 
 Sylvia," said the Rector, ending the conversation. 
 
 He was rather disturbed by the way Ralph had taken 
 the idea, and thought about it a good deal that afternoon 
 as he went about his parish. It seemed to him that Ralph 
 was on the way to arguing himself into the conviction that 
 such a marriage was desirable. He was not disposed to 
 blame him. He was loyal to his friend, and would probably 
 even welcome him as a brother-in-law. That he saw noth- 
 ing incongruous in such a marriage, or at least nothing 
 that would override other considerations, only showed that 
 he put a low value on mere social distinction, which was 
 a virtue in a young man. Whether it would be a virtue 
 in a middle-aged one, the father of a beautiful girl, who 
 could claim of right everything that might come from a 
 brilliant marriage, was another question. He knew what 
 the world would think of such a marriage, and dreaded what 
 
41 6 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 the world would say. It might even connect it with the 
 shadow that had been cast upon himself, and that was a 
 painful thought. He hoped very much that there was noth- 
 ing in it. They had been talking as if it was a question 
 that had to be decided; but it certainly could not have 
 moved very far, if it had moved at all, and with young Mer- 
 row away now, and Sylvia going away in a week or two 
 for some time to places where she would not be subjected 
 to such dangers, it was to be hoped that this one would 
 disappear. 
 
 Ralph went over to Farncombe, and managed to get a 
 minute or two alone with Myra, to whom, as a very inti- 
 mate friend both of Sylvia's and his, he put the question — 
 had she noticed anything? 
 
 She laughed at him. " You must have been blind," she 
 said, " if you couldn't see that he is head over ears." 
 
 This gave him rather a shock. " But what about 
 Sylvia?" he asked, when he had digested it. 
 
 " Oh, I can't tell you anything about that," said Myra, 
 closing her petals. 
 
 " You mean you won't." 
 
 " No, I don't. Of course she likes him. So do I. So 
 do you." 
 
 He did not know how much she had told him, and went 
 away unsatisfied, as far as knowledge of Sylvia's feelings 
 was concerned. But it seemed to him more than ever un- 
 reasonable that questions of birth should weigh so much in 
 questions of marriage, with girls, when they weighed so 
 little with men. Supposing he took it into his head, for 
 instance, to marry Myra Curtis, nobody would think it un- 
 suitable. Yet her birth was no more exalted than Charles 
 Merrow's. 
 
 The Rector unbosomed himself to his wife. Had she 
 noticed anything? Wasn't it rather dangerous to have 
 
HOW -THEY LOOKED AT IT 417 
 
 young Merrow so constantly in the house? He had almost 
 lived there during the last few weeks. 
 
 " I think he is in love with Sylvia," she said seriously, 
 " but I don't think she has any idea of it yet." 
 
 He stared at her. " My dear girl," he said, " why didn't 
 you tell me? Why did you let him go on coming here? 
 Surely you don't want such a thing to happen ! " 
 
 " I don't want her to marry Lord Pangbourne," she said, 
 •with decision. 
 
 He had an access of depression. " We talked over that," 
 he said. " Nothing has happened since, has it ? " 
 
 " Nothing except that I have come to see so plainly that 
 there is only one reason why we should want her to marry 
 '(im, and it doesn't seem to me a good reason." 
 
 " You mean because he is what he is. But that wouldn't 
 iave weighed with us if we didn't know what a good fellow 
 he was, and that she would have had every chance of being 
 happy with him." 
 
 " She doesn't feel that. I know her so well, Henry. 
 She has never mentioned his name to me since she came 
 home, but I can see that it is weighing on her that she will 
 be going where she will meet him and will have to decide. 
 He is old to her ; she is such a child still. It would be the 
 end of her youth to marry him. She has enjoyed herself 
 immensely going about everywhere, but she isn't really. cut 
 out for such a life. I think she is even getting a little 
 tired of it. She has enjoyed the quiet life we have been 
 living here lately more than anything. And she doesn't 
 love him. When you have said that, perhaps you have 
 said everything." 
 
 The Rector sighed. " Well, my dear," he said. " We'll 
 give up the idea of her marrying Pangbourne. If you think 
 it weighs on her, I will write to him." 
 
4i8 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 "Oh, do, Henry! It will be such a relief to the poor 
 child to have it ended." 
 
 " Very well. But now about young Merrow. That's 
 a very different thing. You wouldn't do anything to en- 
 courage that idea, would you ? " 
 
 " No, not to encourage it. But, Henry dear, don't you 
 think that with a girl so good and sweet as Sylvia, one 
 ought to leave things to take their course? She would 
 never marry any one who was not worthy of her. She 
 would shrink instinctively from any man who was not good. 
 I think that girls so simple and natural, so absolutely un- 
 spoilt as she is, have something in them that we who are 
 older have lost — something that guides them, and keeps 
 them from making mistakes about men." 
 
 " I've nothing against young Merrow personally," said 
 the Rector, rather weakly. 
 
 " I have watched him constantly," she said. " At first 
 I suppose I thought much as you do. We had had other 
 ideas for Sylvia. If Lord Pangbourne had been younger, 
 not married before, if she had loved him, it was the sort of 
 marriage we should have expected for her. And Mr. 
 Merrow could not give her what he could, or others like 
 him. But does she want that? Do we want it for her, 
 very much? Is it necessary for her happiness, which is the 
 chief thing with us? " 
 
 " Wealth and position wouldn't be necessary for her hap- 
 piness, although I'm not going to say that we should be 
 wrong in taking them into account. They are good things 
 if they are used rightly, and benefit the world. The wife 
 of a man who had them would have opportunities — not only 
 of enjoying herself. I should not be afraid of Sylvia being 
 spoilt if she made a good match." 
 
 " No, but you wouldn't think they were of the chief im- 
 portance. If the younger son of a well-known family, for 
 
HOW THEY LOOKED AT IT 419 
 
 instance, wanted to marry Sylvia, and she loved him, you 
 would think that a suitable match." 
 
 " It is the match you made, my dear. You might have 
 been a great lady." 
 
 " I'm sure I shouldn't have been so happy, dearest- I 
 have enjoyed going about, and being in London sometimes, 
 but only because I haven't had too much of it. I like living 
 at home here quietly much better, and since we have been 
 very quiet I have loved my life all the more. I have learnt 
 so much of what makes for true happiness." 
 
 He took her hand, and was silent for some time. " We 
 have both learnt a good deal, haven't we?" he said. "I 
 don't want to forget it, Ruth, in this new complication. It 
 has some bearing on it. The things in the world that 
 make for pride — you have never been touched by them, 
 my dear, and I have come to value them much less than I 
 did. It is difficult to get rid of one's prejudices all at once. 
 It has always seemed natural that one should hope for a 
 good marriage for one's daughter, situated as we are, and I 
 don't know that there's anything to be ashamed of in it, as 
 long as one doesn't desire it over-much. What you say 
 about Sylvia making the same sort of marriage as you did 
 is quite true. One would look only at the character of 
 the man, and let the rest slide easily enough. But young 
 Mertow isn't in that position. We know nothing at all 
 about his relations, if he has any, but in marrying him 
 Sylvia would be going quite outside the people she belongs 
 to. Would that be what we should want for her? I'm 
 sure Alice wouldn't want it. She would be horrified at the 
 idea of such a match." 
 
 Alice was Lady Hampshire, who was devoted to Sylvia. 
 
 " I have thought a good deal about that," said Lady Ruth. 
 " I think that if Mr. Merrow had been quite obviously of 
 a class much below our own it would have mattered. But 
 
420 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 In that case I think he would have had no chance with 
 Sylvia. She would not be likely to care for a man whose 
 ways were not those of the men she has known. But he 
 is not different from other young men whom one knows 
 and likes. Ralph couldn't make such a friend of him if 
 he were. If she were to marry him she would riot be cut 
 off from her own friends, who would like him as much as 
 we do. I am sure Alice would like him." 
 
 " Don't you feel at all disturbed at the idea? Are you 
 ready to welcome it ? It would bring us very closely into 
 touch with the Merrows. Dr. Merrow is a man no one 
 could help liking and admiring when once they knew him, 
 but you don't care much for her, do you?" 
 
 " I like her much better than I did. As for him, I think 
 he IS a dear man, whom everybody must love. I don't know 
 anything about his birth, but he is the truest kind of gentle- 
 man. See^what he has done with the people here in the 
 short time he has been at Roding." 
 
 " Yes, that's extraordinary. If it hadn't been for him, 
 Gosset and his followers would probably have done their 
 best to drive us out of the place. We owe him a great 
 deal, I know. Do we owe him our daughter, Ruth? Is it 
 because of what has happened at all that you think this 
 marriage is possible? Would you have thought of it in 
 quite the same way six months ago ? " 
 
 She smiled at him. " It is not gratitude to Dr. Merrow 
 that has influenced me," she said. 
 
 " Is it anything else that has to do with what has 
 happened ? " 
 
 " Dear Henry, what happened has cleared up my thoughts 
 about a great many things. Love is such a great thing 
 between a man and a woman. It can bring more happi- 
 ness than anything else if it is the right sort of love, and 
 it can bring so much unhappiness if it isn't. It is difficult 
 
HOW THEY LOOKED AT IT 421 
 
 to judge sometimes, but I have become more and more sure 
 that with dear Sylvia the safest thing is to leave it entirely 
 to her. With her goodness and innocence I'm sure she 
 can't go wrong. So I say let her choice be our choice for 
 her. It may not be Mr. Merrow at all; but if it is, I 
 should like her to find us just as happy about it as she would 
 be herself." 
 
 He rose and kissed her. " You are a conjurer," he said. 
 " But I must hear first what Richard has to say about it." 
 
 Sir Richard was returning home that day. For a wonder, 
 he had written to announce his intention. The Rector went 
 over to the Court to see him the next morning. Summer 
 had come back again, and they walked together in the 
 garden. 
 
 " Well, that's rather a startler, Henry," he said, when 
 the Rector had disclosed possibilities to him. " There's no 
 man I have a greater liking for than Dr. Merrow, and I 
 like his son, what little I've seen of him, though I don't 
 think he's the equal of his father. But as a husband for 
 Sylvia — ^well, that is rather a startler." 
 
 " Yes, it startled me," said the Rector. " But it doesn't 
 seem to have startled Ruth." 
 
 "Ah! what does she say about it?" 
 
 The Rector told him. 
 
 " Then I think that settles it," he said. " If Ruth thinks 
 of him in that way, he's the right sort of fellow in himself. 
 She knows. And, as for all the rest, if it doesn't disturb 
 her, we should be a couple of snobs if we let it disturb 
 us. 
 
 Charles's letters came by the afternoon post. He had 
 thought of them as throwing a bombshell into a peaceful 
 family. But the work of the bomb had already been 
 effected. 
 
CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 THE LAST 
 
 The dusk of a fine October evening was beginning to fall. 
 Dr. Merrow was coming home from a long walk along the 
 muddy country roads. He had gone round by Farncombe 
 and across to Roding Court, and was returning by the 
 other road. It was a round of nearly seven miles, and it 
 rejoiced him to find he could take it without more fatigue 
 than it was good to feel after exercise. 
 
 What Mrs. Merrow had prophesied for him had come 
 about, but much sooner than she had expected. In Sep- 
 tember he had had an invitation to preach in a great town 
 in the north of England, and had felt well enough to accept 
 it. He had returned to Roding with the thought that, now 
 that his health was so much restored, the opportunity for 
 a wider sphere of service must be considered, if it should 
 come. A call had come shortly afterwards from the con- 
 gregation to which he had preached, but his doctor had 
 warned him against Settling in the north. He had not 
 forbidden him, however, to look forward to undertaking 
 more work, if he could do it in a climate that would suit 
 him. He had found him wonderfully restored, but advised 
 him not to make any change for the present. Let them see 
 how he could stand the winter. 
 
 In any case he would not have left Roding without com- 
 pleting his year's ministry there, but he could not any longer 
 regard it as giving him scope for the full work he once 
 more felt fitted to do. 
 
 His preaching in the northern town had been an event. 
 422 
 
THE LAST 423 
 
 He had, as it were, come to life again. Invitations poured 
 in on him to preach here and there, but he refused them all. 
 He would give himself up to the dear people in Roding as 
 long as he remained with them. 
 
 Then he had been offered a church in a big town in the 
 west. His doctor said he might go there, if he should get 
 through the winter without losing ground. He and Mrs. 
 Merrow had just come back from visiting the place, and 
 he had written his conditional acceptance that morning. 
 
 He was not a man to attach himself overmuch to places. 
 Wherever sinning, suffering, struggling humanity was gath- 
 ered together he would be happy in ministering to it, and 
 would cast no regrets towards other scenes. But as he 
 walked along the country roads and lanes his heart went 
 out to this quiet place, so far removed from the visible tur- 
 moil of the world, and he was glad that the time had not 
 yet come when he must leave it. 
 
 He had learnt so much in Roding. He had come closer 
 to the heart of his people than he had ever come before, 
 and he looked forward to his coming ministry not only 
 as an opportunity for influencing the large number of peo- 
 ple who would come to hear him preach, but for going 
 about amongst those who would be glad to see him — the 
 poor, who would want him still more in a big city than 
 they wanted him in Roding. He would, make his church a 
 church of the poor, and he would bring them in by making 
 friends with them outside it. It was so easy to make friends 
 with them, and they made such good friends. How much 
 he had learnt from them here in Roding during the few 
 months he had been with them ! His work was to be largely 
 pastoral work — not serving of tables; he would leave that 
 to others, — but the message was to be taken to those who 
 most wanted it; he had made that plain in talk with the 
 officers of the church. There were to be no cushions; no 
 
424 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 pew-rents. Those who wanted to worship God and keep 
 their exclusive respectability at the same time, might go else- 
 where. The deacons had laughed at him because of the 
 way he had put it, and agreed to everything he wished. 
 Some of them were doubtful of the wisdom of such innova- 
 tions, but they were so glad of the chance of having him 
 that they would have agreed to anything. 
 
 His thoughts came back to Roding. They were very dif- 
 ferent from those he had had about it when he had first 
 come. He had gone through deep experiences in Roding. 
 He had seen his labours flower amongst his little flock as 
 he had never been permitted to see them flower before. He 
 thought of the people whom he had seen in front of him 
 Sunday by Sunday, not as a body of hearers, but as men 
 and women and children whom he knew individually, the 
 lives of many of whom he knew, with their joys and 
 troubles, their temptations and their strivings. He had felt 
 great power given him to deal with people whom he knew 
 in this way. It had flowed from him and illumined his 
 preaching as he thought it had never been illumined. And 
 the fruits had fallen to him. 
 
 He thought of Gosset, with his keen sense of the beauty 
 of holiness, and the deep-seated perversions of nature which 
 might make him a very rock of ofEence against all that he 
 held in reverence. Deep-seated, yes; but not so deep but 
 that the grace of God could plumb them. Gosset had 
 changed under his eyes. His own eyes had been opened; 
 he had seen the vision the most difficult of all to capture — 
 the truth about himself; not fully, perhaps, as yet, but 
 enough to turn him from an engine of strife and bitterness 
 into a minister of peace. 
 
 His thoughts turned to the rectory people, and bright- 
 ened. The human in him found them more agreeable in 
 contemplation than Gosset, even than Gosset transformed. 
 
THE LAST 425 
 
 But the sense of divine power working there came to him 
 strongly. How God had stretched out his hand, — to 
 scourge, to heal, to subdue, — to bring out the good that 
 was there in such overflowing measure, but had needed this 
 shaking up to free it from the dross with which it was 
 alloyed. 
 
 His feeling towards the Rector was of the warmest. He 
 had known that he had not taken to him at first, and the 
 way in which he treated him now was all the more grati- 
 fying. He knew that he had been able to help him — that 
 the difficulties he had gone through would have been greater 
 if it had not been for his help ; and he knew that the Rector 
 knew it. They could never, perhaps, be very intimate 
 friends, but friends they were, and the proof of it was 
 the way in which the Rector had talked to him about his 
 son. 
 
 Dr. Merrow had never been more surprised in his life 
 than when he had heard that Charles was in love with 
 Sylvia French, that he had told her parents so, and that 
 they would put no difficulties in the Way of his winning 
 her, if he could. It was the Rector who had told him. 
 Charles was to have his chance. It was unlikely that she 
 was ready for a declaration from him yet, and nothing would 
 be said to her by her parents. He must make his own way 
 with her; but he would have opportunities of doing so, and 
 might take them under no sense of disapproval. 
 
 Dr. Merrow had gone home from the interview full of 
 joy at this surprising new development. His well-beloved 
 son, who deserved all the good in life that could come to 
 him, and that sweet girl, whom he loved like a father 
 already! He did not doubt but that Charles would win 
 her. He thought very highly of his son. 
 
 He was as little concerned with social differences as 
 any man could be; but he knew that in the ordinary way 
 
426 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 of things a marriage proposal of this sort would not be 
 welcomed by people who stood where the Frenches did. 
 He had had a little word with Lady Ruth about it, and 
 she had gone further than the Rector, and had said that she' 
 hoped it might come about; she believed that it woul4 be 
 for her daughter's happiness. He thought he saw very 
 plainly that they had not been without tKe doubts that they 
 might have been expected to feel, and had put them aside 
 as unworthy of them. From what he knew of Lady Ruth, 
 that might have been expected. The world with which 
 she had mingled so freely was little to her; her mind was 
 set on higher things. But for her husband it must have been 
 a struggle, although no signs of it had shown in the gener- 
 ous way in which he had given Dr. Merrow the news. 
 Could there be a plainer token than this of the change in 
 him? It was so much more difficult to subdue the sort of 
 pride that could hardly be looked upon as a fault, than the 
 pride that showed itself plainly as a sin. It was the very 
 spirit of pride that had been conquered. 
 
 Lady Ruth had asked him to tell Mrs. Merrow. They 
 had heard from Charles the day before, and had written to 
 him that day. 
 
 Mrs. Merrow was moved by his news. " I never ex- 
 pected anything so good as that," she said. " I hoped they 
 might come to accept the idea in time; I never thought 
 that they would hold out no objections at all. I'm ashamed 
 of having ever said or thought anything against either of 
 them. They ring true at every turn." 
 
 This had been a month ago. Charles had come back, and 
 for one blissful week of relenting summer had had his 
 opportunities. To his father, eagerly impatient now for 
 the crown to be put upon his hopes, his slowness had been 
 disappointing. But his mother knew better. Such a girl 
 was not to be won without wooing. 
 
THE LAST 427 
 
 Sylvia had gone away, with nothing said. Charles had 
 left them, not visibly downcast. He would meet her at 
 at least one of the houses to which she was going; they 
 would both be at Reding at Christmas-time. It was a 
 long time to wait, but perhaps something would happen 
 then to brighten the New Year. Dr. Merrow smiled as he 
 looked forward to that time. His faith was quite capable 
 of embracing such a matter as this. 
 
 He came to George Barton's cottage. There was a litter 
 of straw in the usually tidy little front garden. It re- 
 minded him of the coming departure of this young man, 
 whom he had actually never met; but his sympathetic mind 
 drooped at the thought of one who was going to leave 
 Roding, where there was so much happiness just at present. 
 
 He had never quite understood about George. He had 
 seen him sometimes in the street, and had thought he did 
 not wish to know him. His impression of him, drawn 
 entirely from what had happened just after his own arrival, 
 with Percy Gosset, was that he cherished some such dislike 
 towards the chapel as Gosset had cherished towards the 
 church. It was an attitude that was not uncommon amongst 
 young curates, and Dr. Merrow would never have been 
 the first to make overtures to one. If this young man had 
 wanted to know him he could easily have done so. Now 
 he was going away to Australia, and the general impres- 
 sion seemed to be that he was going there because he wanted 
 to spend more of his time on, horseback. 
 
 But he was liked in Roding; people were sorry he was 
 going, even the people of Dr. Merrow's own flock, who all 
 spoke well of him, and none of them as if he were quit^ 
 like what Dr. Merrow had pictured him.. And at the 
 rectory they had talked about him with great affection, and 
 little Joyce, when he had seen her, had talked about nobody 
 else. Dr. Merrow wished that he had known him. What- 
 
428 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 ever his reasons for going abroad, there was work to be 
 done for God there, and he would have liked to talk to him 
 about it. Perhaps, with his sporting tastes, he had mis- 
 taken his vocation; but he was committed to it now, and a 
 word of encouragement might help him. 
 
 As he passed the cottage he remembered that he had 
 also passed the field path that made a short-cut to his house, 
 and turned back. He was always thankful afterwards that 
 he had done so, and not gone by the road. 
 
 It was now nearly dusk, and he heard before he saw a 
 horse trotting along the road by which he had come. The 
 rider was George, and as he pulled up at the entrance to 
 his stable-yard he saw Dr. Merrow. He seemed to hesitate 
 for a moment and then got off his horse, and said : " Dr. 
 Merrow, we have never spoken to one another, but I am 
 going away from Roding to-morrow, and sailing from Eng- 
 land on Friday, and I don't want to go without telling 
 you that I owe a lot to you ; and thanking you." 
 
 Dr. Merrow's surprise was greater than he had felt when 
 the Rector had told him the news about Charles. This 
 young man, standing before him in his riding-clothes, his 
 boots splashed, his coat flecked with the foam that the impa- 
 tient animal he was holding threw from his champing bit — 
 the type of all that he, perhaps, least understood amongst 
 the youthful clergy — whom he had never spoken to — ^what 
 could he owe to him? He could only show his surprise, 
 while at the same time showing his pleasure at being thus 
 accosted. 
 
 " I was just thinking of you, and feeling sorry you were 
 going away, and wishing I knew you," he said. " I am 
 very glad that I may know you, even at the last moment." 
 
 George's face showed relief. " I always hoped there 
 had been some mistake," he said. " I have wanted to know 
 you ever since you came here." 
 
THE LAST 425 
 
 George's groom came out and took the horse. "Will 
 you come in and have some tea?" George Said. " I am 
 staying at the rectory, but I have some packing to do here. 
 Everything is in an awful mess, I'm afraid." 
 
 They went into the once cosy sitting-room, now a scene 
 of desolation, with carpets up, walls denuded of pictures, 
 shelves empty. But there was a bright fire, and chairs and 
 a tea-table in front of it. 
 
 " I did come and call on you, you know," said George, 
 " when you first came. You weren't well then ; but after- 
 wards, when you didn't return my call, I thought, perhaps, 
 you might have misunderstood something that had happened 
 — with Percy Gosset, you know." 
 
 Dr. Merrow Was full of distress at the thought of having 
 acted discourteously, and still more at the thought that any 
 failure to do what had been required had kept him from 
 knowing George all this time. He showed his distress 
 plainly. " But I didn't understand," he said. " Yes, you 
 did call on me, didn't you? My wife — she must have 
 made some mistake — she didn't — I must ask her when 
 I get home. But it's dreadful that you should have thought 
 I wanted to keep aloof from you. I'm afraid I thought the 
 same of you." 
 
 George cut short his expressions of regret. He saw that 
 he had to thank Mrs. Merrow for the misunderstanding, 
 which still he did not quite understand. " Well, it doesn't 
 matter now," he said. "We needn't waste time in won- 
 dering how it happened. I'm so glad to see you to speak 
 to before I go away. It is a good deal owing to you that I 
 am going." 
 
 Dr. Merrow smiled at him. " That is as puzzling to 
 me as the other. You must tell me how it came about." 
 
 George told him — of his thoughts before he had taken 
 Orders, of his thoughts afterwards; how his ideas of the 
 
430 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 'life he was called upon to lead had gradually changed, and 
 liow the impulse to leave his comfortable surroundings and 
 go out into the world, wherever he should be led, had come 
 from the sermon he had heard Dr. Merrow preach in Lon- 
 don. 
 
 " I don't think it was anything in particular that you 
 said — nothing that had any direct bearing on what was in 
 my mind. But it made the difference; it cleared up my 
 doubts. I knew when I came back here that I shouldn't 
 stay very long. I was content to wait till I saw plainly 
 what I ought to do. I knew, somehow, that the way would 
 be shown me. I had given myself up, and all I had to do 
 was to be ready to take it."' 
 
 Dr. Merrow was profoundly moved; the tears were very 
 near his eyes. The simplicity with which the story had been 
 told, the self-surrender, the ungrudging readiness to give 
 up what it was plain was very dear, the sparks applied to 
 the tinder that had so honestly been kept dry for it, and 
 the patient waiting for guidance — and all this going on under 
 his own eyes, which had been shut to it — drew him strangely. 
 Here was a spirit, which he recognised as the highest, work- 
 ing in a medium unlike any that he had ever known. 
 
 " Oh, it is so good to hear it all," he said, " and it gives 
 me great pain to think that I might have heard it before, 
 when you were waiting for the light to come, and we might 
 have waited for it in faith together, and through some fault 
 of mine we were kept apart. But tell me, dear friend, how 
 the light came, how you were shown that it was right that 
 you should go where you are going." 
 
 " I don't think that it was through any fault of yours 
 that we were kept apart," said George with a smile. " Per- 
 haps, in a way, it was best. I had to decide for myself. I am 
 not sure that you would have advised me to do what I 
 am going to do." ^ 
 
THE LAST 431 
 
 Dr. Merrow thought of what he ha3 heard and smiled in 
 his turn, at the idea of this young man, who had every- 
 thing that best pleased him in life — apart from his great 
 purpose— where he was, leaving it all to go to the ends of 
 the world for the sake of more horse-exercise. He knew 
 now something of what it cost him to make the change; he 
 had not dwelt on it, but it had ^een inherent in everything 
 he had said. 
 
 George told him of the reasons that had led him, much 
 in the same way as he had told them to Ronald. Dr. Mer- 
 row saw into him inore and more plainly as the ingenuous 
 explanation came out. His was one of those natures, simple 
 with the beautiful simplicity of children, which Christ had 
 prescribed to his followers as the highest state to which 
 they could attain. Christ had called him to his service, and 
 he had given himself gladly, with all that he had. He " got 
 on " with men and boys. That gift was to be dedicated. 
 He was " a good man on a horse." He had not thought 
 that natural acquirement unworthy of being used in God's 
 service. He had " more money than he knew what to do 
 with." He was ready to do with it whatever should be 
 shown him. 
 
 Dr. Merrow never forgot the talk that followed. As he 
 walked home an hour later, he felt as if he had come from 
 the presence of one in whom the wonderful workings of 
 God's spirit were plainly manifest. There was purpose as 
 firm as a rock, the purest faith, the most absolute self-sur- 
 render. He could have wept for the thought of how he had 
 misjudged, but for the joy that filled him at what he had 
 been permitted to see. 
 
 What miracles of Grace he had seen during the few 
 months he had been in this place! Where there had been 
 sorrow there was hope, where there had been strife there 
 
432 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 was peace; faith had taken the place of doubt, humility of 
 pride. Everywhere material to be transformed by the Holy 
 Spirit of God; nothing common or unclean, that he had 
 made in his likeness. He felt, as he walked along the damp 
 meadow path, that he was treading on holy ground. 
 
 THE END