CHAPTER XII

SMALL BEER CHRONICLES

"The emphasis of the soul is always right!" says Emerson, meaning thereby that the immediate feeling which individuals have for one another at first sight is a hint from the divine within them as to whether they should be friends or foes. This subtle impulse is never felt again, as self-interest and custom gradually blunt the spiritual perceptions, and those who cross each other's path behave as worldly circumstances bid them. And naturally so, for whenever the desires of the animal-self come into operation, the more latent powers of the Higher-Self are obscured. Therefore, he is the wise man who accepts the emphasis of the soul as guidance in the choice of friends and in the doing of deeds. Because men, influenced by selfishness, do not follow such a lead, their path in life becomes much more complicated than it need be. They hear the blatant trumpeting of desire: not the still small voice of conscience.

Not being particularly metaphysical, Montrose was ignorant of this safeguard, and did not heed the warning of danger given at his first meeting with Enistor. That schemer, better informed, accepted the knowledge that here was a foe to be wary of. It would have been surprising had he not done so, as apart from the hatred which sprang into lively being at the first touch of hands, Narvaez had spoken plainly, and moreover Montrose was the detestable person who had secured Lady Staunton's fortune. To regain it and allow the Spaniard to execute his dark designs, Enistor masked his hatred under a fine show of courtesy, behaving with such apparent sincerity that Douglas was entirely deceived. As the days slipped by and there was no change in the gracious attitude of his host, he grew to like him, to admire him and to enjoy his companionship. This was little to be wondered at, as Enistor, being well-read and well-bred, could make himself extremely agreeable when he chose to do so. For obvious reasons he did so choose, and so did away with the mysterious repulsion of the first meeting that it became only a dim memory to Montrose. At the end of seven days the visitor persuaded himself without any great difficulty that Enistor was a most excellent man, an agreeable friend, and one likely to prove an ideal father-in-law. Alice was relieved to see that the two men got on so well together, and more than ever decided that she had deceived herself with regard to her father's true character.

"You have, I think, bridged the gulf between us," she explained one Sunday morning, when with Montrose she was descending the hill to Polwellin church. "Father and I never got on well until you came."

"Dearest, your father's character takes time to realise," was the prompt reply. "He looks stern and is of a reserved nature. But when one comes to know him he has a sweet kernel for all his rugged rind. At first I did not think we should get on well together, but that was a mistake. He's a ripping fine chap, and as good as they make 'em."

"Do you like my father for his own sake or for mine?" asked Alice doubtfully.

"For both sakes," rejoined the young man positively. "And seeing that I am here to rob him of his dearest treasure, I think he is behaving wonderfully."

"H'm!" murmured Alice, not wholly agreeing with this valuation. "Are you so sure? Father looks at me in a different way from what you do."

"Naturally. It is a different kind of love. From what you said, I quite expected to find your father a bear and a tyrant. Instead of being either he is delightful in every way. I don't think you are quite fair to him."

"Perhaps," the girl was still undecided. "He has altered much since you came, Douglas. You have brought the best out of him. He is more human. All the same——" she stopped abruptly.

"Well then—all the same?"

"Nothing," said Alice abruptly, and passed swiftly into the church, where further speaking was out of the question, much to her relief.

What she had meant to say and did not say was concerned with an uncomfortable under-current of thought regarding her father's surprising attitude. Owing to the relationship between them it was difficult to judge him impartially; yet Alice wished to do so, if only to satisfy her own conscience. Remembering the man's lifelong indifference and coldness and utter want of consideration, the girl left that this aggressive amiability was assumed for some purpose. What that purpose might be she could not conjecture, unless it had to do with the recovery of the fortune which she now knew he had not lost with equanimity. But even if the marriage with Douglas took place, it was hard to see how her father hoped to benefit, and she knew from experience that he did not hold with altruism. Filial sentiment made her strive to please him on the forced assumption that in spite of appearance he really did love her. But somehow she could not convince herself that such was the case. He was acting the affectionate father as she was acting the affectionate daughter, yet she did not think that he believed in her any more than she believed in him. It was all very difficult and very disagreeable.

It was useless to discuss the matter with Montrose, and for this reason she had ended their conversation by entering the church. The young man and her father had become excellent friends, and he would never believe that Enistor was anything but what he presented himself to be. In fact, Douglas had told her very plainly that she had misjudged her father, and her own surface-thoughts implying that such was the case inflicted a pang. But intuition scouted the idea of misjudgment. As one human being adjusting herself to another human being she knew how to act, but as a child striving to understand her parent she was quite bewildered. Finally, she decided that the only thing to be done was to accept the situation as her father wished it to be accepted, if only for the sake of peace and quietness. The Squire was willing to permit the marriage, and was doing his best to be agreeable to his future son-in-law. Nothing else mattered for the moment. Having arrived at this sensible conclusion, Alice compelled herself to attend to the service.

It was by no means an interesting one, as there was a want of warmth and colour about it which reduced the whole to a monotonous repetition of fine phrases. The vicar was a thoroughly good man, earnest and self-sacrificing, but with so moral a temperament that he entirely failed to understand sinners. And not understanding them he was unable to give them that sympathetic help which a practical experience of temptation teaches. He would scold a wrong-doer with great anger—box his ears so to speak—not because he was a bad-tempered man, but for the simple reason that he could not see the sin from the wrong-doer's point of view. As Mr. Sparrow said again and again, he did not want to run away with his neighbour's wife; he did not desire to drink too much, or to cheat, or to swear, so why—he asked plaintively—should his parishioners desire to do such uninviting things? By this inborn obtuseness he missed his aim, as he invariably attempted to bully ignorant wrong into becoming enlightened right without necessary explanations. Naturally those he genuinely tried to help resented a process which robbed them of their self-respect, and which gave them no logical reason for doing other than their crude desires bade them. Therefore while some remained members of the church, and accepted ecclesiastical scoldings stolidly as part of the burdens of life which they were called upon to bear because they could not help the bearing, others took refuge in the beer-shops and rejected all authority. Also, there were a few who joined Nonconformist sects of the democratic type, where the congregation controlled the preacher, and turned him out if his views were unsatisfactory to their narrow understandings. The result of these things was chaos, and Mr. Sparrow lamented that he had to deal with such stiff-necked people. Yet had he been able to explain reasonably what he taught, and had he possessed the tact to coax instead of bullying, he would soon have reduced the whole parish to order.

As a matter of fact in one way the vicar was better than his religion: not that his religion was not true and helpful, but because he knew it only externally, and taught by the letter rather than by the spirit. In the first lesson he read about the angry and jealous God of the Jews, and in the second declared the everlasting Love of the Father, Who sent His beloved Son to suffer for His children. Naturally the congregation could not understand such a contradiction, and Mr. Sparrow did not explain, because he did not understand himself. Therefore on Sundays he was rather a failure, while on week-days he was highly successful. The fishermen and their wives could comprehend a parson who helped them in their small needs and talked kindly to them, and shared their joys as well as their sorrows. But what they could not comprehend was the priest who tried to bully them into seeking a vague state of existence, which to them appeared to be vapour and moonshine. They wanted proofs, or at least reason, and they got neither.

In his sermons Mr. Sparrow told those who listened drowsily that if they were black with sin, they would go to hell: if they kept innocently white, they would arrive in a dreamland heaven: but he made no provision for the grey people. And as the majority of the congregation, if not the whole, belonged to the third category, being neither particularly good nor particularly sinful, the alternatives did not interest them much. Those in church adopted various attitudes, said certain words, sang certain tunes, and went through a set ceremony, with a vague idea that it was all necessary somehow to arrange matters for a vague future. When Montrose came out he commented on their orderly behaviour, and utter ignorance of what it all meant.

"Though of course," he added truthfully, "there were some who understood more than the rest. Still, what a clockwork ceremony!"

"Oh, but, Douglas, the liturgy of the Church of England is very beautiful."

"The most beautiful the mind of man can conceive," he admitted readily. "What can be more glorious than the Litany, which includes all possible petitions that mortals can offer. Said understandingly nothing can be more helpful."

"Mr. Sparrow read it beautifully, and the responses were made correctly."

"Oh yes! But I missed the living spirit. It was all words, repeated parrot-fashion by the majority—I don't say all—of those present."

"But what can the vicar do, Douglas? You know how dull the people are?"

"They are children, more or less stupid," said Montrose with conviction, "and can grasp very little. Since Mr. Sparrow teaches them to love God and love their neighbour, he is doing all that he can do. But he could colour the greyness of his sermon: he could speak in parables as the Master did. Then he would arrest their attention, and some ideas, if put picturesquely, would stick in their minds. A man will forget a series of admonitions if stated baldly: he will certainly remember some if connected with a story."

"Perhaps," said Alice doubtfully. "But Mr. Sparrow is a really good man."

"Isn't that rather irrelevant?" observed the young man dryly. "I quite admit that he is a good man. It is not his fault that the Church has lost her esoteric knowledge, which was reserved for the intellectual, who wished to believe with the head as well as with the heart. But he is only a sample of many parsons. His intentions are of the best, but he does not speak with conviction to my mind."

"He is a true believer," urged the girl, rather distressed.

"I am sure he is everything that is genuine and kind," replied her lover, a trifle impatiently. "But he lacks that wisdom which comes from logical reasoning on the things he discourses about."

"But can religion be proved logically?"

"Certainly; but only when one knows the esoteric teaching which the Church had, but which the Church has lost. Eberstein has taught much of it to me during the last three years, and there are few questions connected with religion and the Bible which I cannot answer in at least a reasonable way. Go to Mr. Sparrow and he will assure you that half the questions you ask are a mystery into which you must not pry. What is the result, Alice?"

"I'm sure I can't say," she answered good-humouredly.

"The result is," continued Montrose, growing more vehement, "that whenever a man begins to think, he leaves the Church from sheer inability to gain the information which is needed to reconcile what is taught with common sense. Only the people who don't think, who are Christians because they happen to have been brought up Christians, remain in the Church, and accept emotionally and blindly whatever is told them on ecclesiastical authority. That, when examined, is no authority at all to the thinking man."

"And the inner teaching?"

"It gives a perfectly reasonable and logical explanation which proves that the exoteric teaching is true. I believe all that the Church sets forth save the one word 'eternal' before the one word 'hell.' But then I know why I believe and can defend my belief in a most positive manner, so that any man with common sense must admit the logic of my arguments. Think if the parsons knew of this teaching, and gave it out, how the churches would be thronged. People are not irreligious nowadays. There never was a time when men and women wished to know about the truth more anxiously than they do to-day. But they go to those in authority and are given a stone in place of bread."

"Why will not the parsons take this teaching?"

"I cannot say. It changes nothing they teach outwardly, save the horrible doctrine of eternal punishment, and gives back to all in a rational and convincing way the faith they are gradually losing. Yet the Church goes on blindly repeating the same things Sunday after Sunday, until they have lost their force. The inner teaching would revive that force, if accepted, and the Church would be able to fulfil her true mission, which is to lead civilisation. As it is, her children will not stay with her. Pain is forcing the most advanced souls to try and understand the problems of existence, and this understanding the esoteric teaching gives, as I have proved myself. But the Church should be the teacher: not pain, which comes from ignorance."

"But these fishermen and women would only be bewildered if they sought to understand the problems of life in the way you do."

"Of course: because I am at a higher point of evolution. But what they are I was, and only pain drove me to acquire further knowledge, as pain will drive them in future lives. What Mr. Sparrow teaches them is all right: they are satisfied with bread and do not desire cake. But what I maintain is that the vicar should know more, and then he could do more good with his simple instruction by luring them on to think D E F as well as A B C. However, he is a good man and does his best according to his lights, and that is well. I daresay he is an interesting man when he talks archæology, because that is his hobby and he is sincere."

"Oh, Douglas, I am sure Mr. Sparrow's religion is sincere."

"I am sure it is," assented Montrose quickly. "But his understanding is so limited that he is unable to make religion interesting. And believe me, Alice, that since I met Eberstein and learned what religion really is, I find it the most interesting thing in the world. I know little as yet, as I learn but slowly. Still I am beginning to grasp the great scheme of the present creation, and it is so glorious and beautiful that I shall never rest until I understand it sufficiently to take a conscious part in it, and do the work appointed to me as Douglas Montrose."

Alice was silent. What her lover said was beyond her understanding, as, save some discussions with the limited Mr. Sparrow, she had never talked about such great subjects. Her father never spoke of religion and never went to church, so she really only knew what the vicar could teach her. So far as that went all was well, but she sometimes yearned for a fuller comprehension of creation and for reasonable explanations of life's riddles. From what Montrose had said it seemed likely that he could teach her what she wished to know, and that Eberstein, to whom he had referred, could teach her more when the time came. Her face glowed at the idea and she felt anxious to be instructed at once. But by this time they had wandered down the path to the beach, below the black cliffs, and her lover was talking of other things. She therefore left theology alone for lighter conversation, and approved of Montrose's appreciation of the beauty which clothed sea and land.

"What a lovely place, Alice. I am sure the fairies dance on these yellow sands in the moonlight."

"Of course they do," said Alice, now talking on a subject about which she knew a great deal. "Fairies really exist, you know. Señor Narvaez calls them Nature-spirits. He showed me some one day."

Montrose turned on her in surprise. "Are you clairvoyant?"

"Yes! Señor Narvaez says so!"

"And does he know anything about clairvoyance?"

"A great deal. So does my father. They both take an interest in such things, you see, and study them."

"And you?"

"Oh, I know very little, save what information Don Pablo has given me. He says that my clairvoyant faculty must be trained before it can be of any use."

"True enough. Eberstein told me also that clairvoyance must be trained. But is Señor Narvaez the man to train it?"

"He knows much about the unseen, Douglas."

"I should not be surprised to learn that what he does know is of the worst, Alice," said Douglas dryly. "There is something evil about that man. I have only met him twice and each time I was uncomfortable in his presence. He is like a snake, a toad—a—a—oh, any noxious animal. And to think that he wanted to marry you. I never heard of such insolence."

"He means well," said Alice soothingly.

"I doubt it. Anything he means is to his own advantage. I shouldn't be at all surprised to learn that he was a Brother of the Shadow, since he knows about unseen things."

"A Brother of the Shadow?"

"So Eberstein tells me Black Magicians are called."

"But are there really such men?"

"Yes. There are White Magicians and Black. They both have acquired super-physical powers the same in essence, acting differently when used differently. Good men use them to help: bad men use them to hurt. Just like dynamite, you know, dear. You can use it for a good purpose to blow up rocks blocking a harbour, or for a bad one to destroy life. But the thing itself and the action of the thing are the same. How did you see these fairies?"

"Nature-spirits," insisted Alice quickly. "Oh, one day when I was on the moor Don Pablo came along. He told me about them and I did not believe in such things. Then he took my hand, saying I was clairvoyant. In some way his touch or some power which he poured into me opened"—Alice was puzzled how the experience could be explained—"opened a third eye, as it might be. I don't know exactly how to put it, but in some way I saw——"

"Saw what?"

"Little men and women on the heather. Some were playing and others were at work. The ground I sat on was alive with them. Yet when Don Pablo took his hand away, the third eye closed and they vanished. But of course they were still around me, though I could not see them. I told Julian about pixies and nixies, and he laughingly said that it needed the eye of faith to see them. I daresay that was my third eye. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly. Eberstein has explained some of these things to me. And I had an experience——" Douglas broke off abruptly, remembering that the doctor had asked him to say nothing about his vision. "Well, it doesn't matter. But I quite believe that the veil can be lifted, or perhaps—a better way of putting it—the veil can be seen through."

It was lucky for Montrose that Alice's attention was distracted at the moment, as she might have pressed him overhard to relate his experience. And as she had her full share of feminine curiosity, she would not have been put off with evasive replies. But at the rude jetty a boat had arrived and in the boat was a tall girl, whom Miss Enistor recognised at once. She told Montrose to stay where he was and ran down the slope to speak with Rose Penwin. The reason why she did not want Douglas to accompany her was obvious.

"Oh, Rose, why have you not been up to see me?" asked Alice, when the girl moored her boat to the jetty and stepped ashore.

"I have been too busy, miss," replied Rose, smiling, and showing a set of very white teeth. "Did you want me?"

"It's about Job Trevel."

"Oh!" Rose flushed and drew herself up. "What's he been saying?"

"Nothing. I haven't seen him. But people are talking, Rose."

"Let them talk," retorted the girl sullenly. "If I'd a shilling for every bad word they say of me I should be rich."

Alice looked at her in pained silence. Rose was a magnificent-looking woman, tall and stately, highly coloured and beautiful. With her black hair and black eyes and perfectly moulded figure, she looked the embodiment of a sea-goddess. Also her dress was picturesque, with a touch of colour here and there pleasing to the eye. But what Alice looked at most was a snake bracelet of Indian workmanship in silver which clung round her right wrist. "Do you think it right to let Don Pablo give you such presents?"

Rose flushed still deeper and her eyes flashed with anger. "He might be my grandfather," she snapped in a savage manner.

"But he isn't," replied Alice earnestly. "Oh, Rose, you know how hot-blooded Job is. And if you give him cause to be jealous——"

"I don't care if he's jealous or not, miss. The likes of me is a sight too good for the likes of him."

"But he's an honest man——"

"So is Don Pablo, and what's more he's a richer man. If he was young I wouldn't let him give me things. But whatever they may say, an old gentleman like that don't mean no harm. Besides, I haven't said yes to Job."

"But you will say yes."

"That depends upon how Job behaves himself, miss. I'm not going to have him glowering and swearing as if I was doing something wrong, which I ain't. And begging your pardon, miss, I don't see what you've got to do with it."

"I don't want to see you get into trouble," said Alice indiscreetly.

Rose flashed round furiously. "Who said I was going to get into trouble? I like pretty things, and if an old gentleman gives them to me, where's the harm, I should like to know?"

"Job's jealousy——"

"Let him keep it to himself," interrupted Rose, who was in a fine rage. "I ain't his wife yet to be at his beck and call. And perhaps I never shall be if it comes to that. Don Pablo says that a girl like me would make plenty of money in London as an artist's model: or I might go on the stage."

"I think Don Pablo should be ashamed of himself to poison your mind in this way," burst out Alice, angry in her turn. "Don't be a fool."

Inherited respect for the Squire's daughter kept Rose within bounds, but for the moment she looked as though she would strike Alice. With an effort she turned away, biting her lip and clenching her hands. "I'll forget myself if I stay, miss. You'd best keep away from me!" and before Miss Enistor could stop her she fairly ran up the path past Montrose on her hurried way to the village. Douglas turned to stare after the flying figure, and wondered what Alice had said to send the girl away with such wrath depicted on her face.

At the same moment as Rose disappeared Alice heard a deep male voice speaking to her, and turned to see Job clambering up on the hither side of the jetty. He was a tall, bulky, powerful man, with red hair and keen blue eyes, handsome and virile in a common way, and exhibited a strength which appealed to every woman for miles around. At one time it appealed to Rose, but since Don Pablo had poisoned her mind she had risked an unpleasant exhibition of that strength by her coquettish behaviour. Job looked dour and dangerous, and there was a spark in his blue eyes.

"I heard what you said, Miss Alice," he remarked, drawing a deep breath. "I was under the jetty waiting for her coming. But when you spoke to her I thought I'd just wait to hear if she'd listen to sense."

"It doesn't seem like it, Job," said Alice sadly, and looked with distress on the splendid figure of her foster-brother.

"No, it don't, miss," he responded gloomily. "She's got the bit between her teeth, she has. It's all that foreign devil, begging your pardon for the word, Miss Alice. I'd like to strangle him."

"Don't be silly, talking in that way, Job. It's dangerous."

"It will be for him, if he don't sheer off," muttered the man vengefully.

"Job, you know quite well that Don Pablo is an old man: he must be eighty if an hour. You can't be jealous of him."

"But I am, Miss Alice, and it ain't no good saying as I'm not. What right has he to give her presents and talk about taking her to London? I'll break his neck if he goes on with such talk."

Alice tried to defend the Spaniard, not because she thought he was acting rightly, but for the simple reason that she wished to talk Job into a calmer state of mind. At the moment the man was dangerous. "Don Pablo only admires Rose as a beautiful woman," she urged.

"Then he shan't. No one shall admire her but me. And if he wants to marry, Miss Alice——"

"Oh, nonsense," she broke in. "Why, he's too old."

"Well, they did say as you were going to marry him," retorted Trevel coolly.

"I am going to do nothing of the sort," cried the girl, stamping her foot. "I think you should be more sensible than to suggest such a thing."

"I didn't suggest it," said Job stolidly. "But the Squire wants——"

"I don't care what the Squire wants," interrupted Alice, with another stamp. "People say things they have no right to say. You are my foster-brother, Job, and I allow you more licence than most. But you must never speak to me in this way again."

"I didn't mean any harm, Miss Alice, and my heart is sore."

"Poor Job!" Alice became sorry for the big man. "You do suffer, and Rose ought to be ashamed of herself to cause you such pain. Get her to marry you at once and laugh at Don Pablo."

"She won't. He's got her fair under his thumb, Miss Alice," said Trevel gloomily. "I hate him, and so does everyone else. He's the only man as I ever heard the parson have a bad word for. There's something about that foreign chap," Job clenched a huge fist, "as makes you want to squash him like a toad."

Alice nodded comprehendingly. "All the same you must do him no harm, or you will get into trouble. And remember, Job, that I am your friend"—she gave him her hand—"and to prove it I shall tell you what will please you. I am engaged to that gentleman over there—Mr. Montrose."

Trevel shook the hand heartily and his face grew good-natured. "I'm fair glad of it, miss. I've seen the gentleman and like the gentleman. He's been down in the village with Mr. Hardwick, as we like also. As to that foreigner, miss—ugh!" Job scowled and turned away, while Alice went back to Douglas.

"I have been trying to reconcile two lovers, but I have failed," she told him.

"What is the cause of the quarrel?" asked the young man, amused.

"A dangerous one. Don Pablo," and she gave details.

"What an old beast!" said Montrose. "If I were that fisherman I'd screw his neck."

"Don't put such ideas into Job's head," cried Alice rebukingly. "He is angry enough as it is!"

"All the worse for Don Pablo, my dear!" and so they left the matter, which was of less importance then than it became afterwards.