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  On either side of the fireplace were heavy hangings of emerald and copper woven stuff, a present to the Vicar's daughter, Helena, from an uncle who had bought them at Benares. Schuabe stood motionless before this background.

  The man was tall, and the heavy coat of fur he was wearing increased the impression of size, of massiveness, which was part of his personality. His hair was dark red, smooth and abundant. The eyes were large and black, coldly, terribly aware, with something of the sinister and untroubled regard seen in a reptile's eyes.

  The jaw, which dominated the face and completed its remarkable ensemble, was massive, reminding people of steel, covered with olive-coloured parchment. Handsome was hardly the word which fitted him. He was a strikingly handsome man; but that, like "distinction," was only one of the qualities which made up his personality. Force, power -- the relentless and conscious power suggested by some great marine engine -- surrounded him in an almost indescribable way. Most people, with the casual view, called him merely resolute, but there were others who thought they saw something evil and monstrous about the man.

  The door opened with a quick click of the handle, and the vicar entered, having lingered, hesitant, in the hall, as though nerving himself for this encounter.

  Mr. Byars advanced to take the hand of his visitor. Beside the big man he seemed shrunken and a little ineffectual. He was slightly nervous in his manner also, for his curate's impassioned and terror-ridden words still rang in his ears.

  The coincidence of the millionaire's arrival was altogether too sudden and bizarre.

  When they had made greetings, cordial enough on the surface, and were seated on either side of the fire, Schuabe spoke at once on the object of his visit.

  "I have come, Mr. Byars," he said, in a singularly clear, vibrant voice, "to discuss certain educational proposals with you. As you probably know, just at present I'm taking a very prominent part in the House of Commons in connection with the whole problem of primary education. Within the last few weeks I have been in active correspondence with your School Board, and you will know all about the scholarships I founded.

  "I'm here to propose something of the same sort in connection with your own Church schools. My opinions on religious matters are, of course, not yours. But despite my position I have always recognised that, with whatever means, both the clergy and my own party are broadly working towards one end.

  "The mills and other businesses in Walktown provide me with many thousands of pounds a year, and I see it as my duty in some way or another to help the people. My proposal is roughly this: I will found and endow two yearly scholarships for two boys in the national schools. The money will be sufficient, in the first instance, to send them to one of the great Northern grammar schools, and afterwards, always providing the early promise is maintained, to Oxford or Cambridge.

  "My only stipulation is this. The tests will be purely and simply intellectual, and have nothing whatever to do with the religious teaching of the schools, with which I am not in sympathy. Nevertheless, it is only fair that a clever boy in a church school should have the same opportunities as in a secular school. I should tell you that I have made the same offer to the Roman Catholic school authorities and it has been declined."

  The vicar listened with great attention. The offer was extremely generous, and showed a most open-minded determination to put the donor's personal prejudices out of the question. There could be no doubt as to his answer -- none whatever.

  "My dear sir," he said, "your generosity is very great. I see your point about the examinations. Religion is to form no part of them. But by the time one of our boys submits himself for examination, we would naturally hope that he would already be so firmly fixed in Christian principles that his future career would have no influence on his faith. Holding the opinions that you do, your offer shows a great freedom from any prejudice. I hope I'm broadminded enough to recognise that philanthropy is a fine thing, despite the banner under which the philanthropist may stand. I accept your generous offer in the spirit that it is made. Of course, the scheme must be submitted to the managers of the schools, of whom I am chief, but the matter practically lies with me, and my lead will be followed."

  "I'm only too glad," said the big man, with a sudden and transforming smile, "to help on the cause of knowledge. All the details of the scheme I will send you in a few days, and now I will detain you no longer."

  He rose to go.

  During their brief conversation, the vicar had been conscious of many emotions. He blamed himself for his narrowness and the somewhat far-fetched lengths to which his recent talk with his curate had gone. This man was an atheist, no doubt. His intellectual attacks on the Christian faith were damaging and subversive. Still, his love for his fellowmen was sincere, it seemed. He attacked the faith, but not the preachers of it. And -- a half thought crossed his mind -- he might have been sent to him for some good purpose. St. Paul had not borne the name of Paul when he had attacked Christians!

  These thoughts, only half formulated in his brain, had their immediate effect in concrete action. "Won't you take off your coat, Mr. Schuabe," he said, "and smoke a cigar with me in my study?"

  The other hesitated a moment, looked doubtful, and then assented. He hung his coat up in the hall and went into the other room with the vicar.

  During the conversation in the drawing room, the vicar's daughter, Helena, had come back from the concert, and Basil, hearing her, had left the study and gone to her own private sanctum for a last few minutes before saying goodnight to her, for they were now engaged.

  His fiancée sat in a low chair by the fire. She explained she was a little tired by the concert, where a local pianist had been playing a nocturne of Chopin's as if he wanted to make it into soup. Here, the quiet of her own sitting room, the intimate comfort of it all, and the sense of happiness that Basil's presence gave her, were in delightful contrast.

  "It was very stupid, Basil," she said. "Mrs. Pryde was rather trying, full of dull gossip about everyone, and the music wasn't good. Mr. Cuthbert played as if he was playing the organ in church. His touch is utterly unfitted for anything except the War March from Athalie with the stops out. He knows nothing of the piano. I was in a front seat, and I could see his knee feeling for the swell all the time. He played the Moonlight Sonata as if he was throwing the moonlight at us in great solid chunks. I'm glad to be back. How nice it is to sit here with you, Basil," she concluded with a little laugh of content and happiness at this moment of acute physical and mental ease.

  He looked lovingly at her as she lay back in rest, and the firelight played over her white arms and pale gold hair.

  "It's wonderful to think," he said, with a little catch in his voice, "it's wonderful to me, an ever-recurring wonder, to think that some day you and I will always be together for all our life, here and afterwards. What supreme, unutterable happiness God gives to His children! Do you know, Helena, sometimes as I read prayers in our church or stand inside the communion rail, I'm filled with a sort of rapture of thankfulness which is voiceless in its intensity."

  "It's good to feel like that sometimes," she answered; "but it is well, I think, not to get into the way of inducing such feelings." She looked at him more closely. "You look tired, Basil. Have you been overworking?"

  He did not answer immediately.

  "No," he said slowly, "but I have been having a long talk with your father. We were talking about Mr. Schuabe and his influence. Helena, that man is the most active of God's enemies in England. When I was mentioning his name, by some coincidence, or perhaps for some deeper, more mysterious reason, the maid announced him. He'd come to see your father on business, and -- please don't think I'm unduly fanciful -- the Murillo photo print of the head of Christ on the mantelshelf fell down and was broken. Schuabe is here still, I think."

  "Yes," said Helena; "Mr. Schuabe is in the study with Father. But, Basil dear, it's quite evident to me that you have been doing too much. I look on Mr. Schuabe as a really good man. I have oft
en thought about him, and even prayed that he may learn the truth. Mr. Schuabe is sincere in his unbelief. His life and all his actions are for the good of others. It's terrible -- it's deplorable -- to know he attacks Christianity; but he's tolerant and large-minded also. Yes, I call him a good man. He will come to God some day. God would not have given him such power over the minds and bodies of men otherwise."

  Basil Gortre smiled a little sadly -- a rather wan smile, which sat strangely on his strong and hearty face -- but he said no more.

  Basil knew his attitude was illogical, perhaps it could be called bigoted and intolerant, but he knew his conviction came from something outside or beyond his reason, and would not be stifled.

  "Well, Helena," he said, "perhaps it is as you say. I'll go down now and say goodnight to your father and Mr. Schuabe -- just to show there's no ill feeling. Goodnight, Helena. God bless you. Remember me also in your prayers tonight."

  As Basil went into the study he found Mr. Byars and Schuabe in eager, animated talk. A spirit decanter had been brought in during his absence, and the vicar was taking the single glass of whisky and water he allowed himself before going to bed. Basil, who was in a singularly alert and observant mood, noticed that a glass of plain seltzer water stood before the millionaire.

  Basil's personal acquaintance with Constantine Schuabe was small. He had met him once or twice on the platform of big meetings, and that was all. As a simple curate, soon to take up a new post in London, he would not be very likely to come in the way of this mammoth.

  But Schuabe greeted him with marked cordiality, and he sat down to listen to the two men.

  In two minutes he was fascinated. In five he realised, with a quick and unpleasant sense of inferiority, how ignorant he was beside these two. In Schuabe, the vicar had found a man whose knowledge was as wide, and scholarship as profound, as his own.

  From a purely intellectual standpoint, probably Basil and Schuabe were more nearly on a level, but in pure knowledge, Basil knew he was nowhere. He wondered, as he listened, if the generation immediately preceding his own had been blessed with more time for culture.

  They were discussing archaeological questions connected with the Holy Land, which Schuabe, although an atheist, had visited many times. He possessed a profound and masterly knowledge of the whole background to the New Testament picture.

  Every now and again the conversation turned towards a direction that, pursued, would have led to controversy. But, with mutual tact, the debatable ground was avoided. That Christ was a historic fact, Schuabe, of course, admitted; and when the question of His Divinity seemed likely to occur he was careful to avoid any discussion.

  To the young man, burning with the zeal of youth, this seemed a missed opportunity. Unconsciously, he blamed the vicar for not pressing certain points home.

  What an opening was here! The rarity of such a visit, the obvious interest the two men were beginning to take in each other -- should not a great blow for Christ be struck on such an auspicious night?

  Basil felt his brain on fire with passionate longing to speak. But, nevertheless, he controlled it. None knew better than he the depth and worth of the vicar's character. And he felt himself a junior, with no right to question the decision of his superior.

  "You have missed much, Mr. Byars," said Schuabe, as he arose to go at last, "in never having visited Jerusalem. One can get the knowledge of it, but never the colour. Even today the city must appear, in many respects, exactly as it did under the rule of Pilate. The Egyptian peasant women sell their vegetables; the camels come in loaded with roots for fuel; the Bedouin; the Jews with their long gowns and slippers -- I wish you could see it all. I have eaten the meals of the Gospels, drunk the red wine of Saron, the spiced wine mixed with honey and black pepper, the 'wine mixed with myrrh' mentioned in the Gospel of Mark. I have dined with Jewish tradesmen and gone through the same formalities of hand-washing we read of two thousand years ago. I have seen the poor ostentatiously gathered in out of the streets and the best part of the meal given them for a self-righteous show. And yet, an hour afterwards, I have sat in a café by King David's Tower and played dice with Turkish soldiers armed with Martini rifles!"

  The vicar seemed reluctant to let his guest go, though the hour was late, but Schuabe refused to stay longer. Mr. Byars, with a somewhat transparent eagerness, mentioned that Basil Gortre's road home lay for part of the way in the same direction as the millionaire's. He seemed to wish the young man to accompany him.

  Accordingly, in agreement with the vicar's evident wish, but with an inexplicable ice-cold feeling in his heart, the young curate left the house with Schuabe and began to walk with him through the silent, lamp-lit streets.

  Chapter 3

  The two men strode along without speaking for some way, their feet echoing in the empty streets.

  Suddenly Schuabe turned to Basil. "Well, Mr. Gortre," he said, "I have given you your opportunity. Aren't you going to speak the 'word in season' after all?"

  Basil jumped. Who was this man who had been reading his inner thoughts and could quote Scripture? How could Schuabe have fathomed his repressed desire as he sat in the vicarage study? And why did he speak now, when he knew some chilling influence had him in its grip, that his tongue was tied, his power weakened?

  "It is late, Mr. Schuabe," he said at length. "My brain is tired and my enthusiasm chilled. Nor are you anxious to hear what I have to say. But your taunt is ungenerous. It almost seems as if you're not always so tolerant as men think!"

  The other laughed, a cold laugh, but not an unkindly one. "Forgive me," Schuabe said. "One shouldn't jest with conviction. But I would like to talk with you tonight. I'm in the mood for conversation."

  They were approaching a side road which led to Basil's rooms. Schuabe's great stone house was still a quarter of a mile away up the hill.

  "Don't go home yet," said Schuabe. "Come to my house, see my books, and let's have a talk. Make friends with the mammon of unrighteousness, Mr. Gortre! I sense you're disturbed and upset tonight. You'll not be able to sleep. Come with me."

  Basil hesitated for a moment, then continued with the great millionaire and militant atheist. He was hardly conscious why he did so, but even as he accepted the invitation his nerves seemed recovered as by some powerful tonic. A strange confidence possessed him, and he strode on with the air and manner of a man who has some fixed purpose in his mind.

  As he talked casually with Schuabe, he no longer felt towards him the cold fear, the inexplicable shrinking. He regarded him rather as a vast and powerful enemy. An evil, sinister influence indeed, but one against which he was armed with an armour not his own, but with weapons forged by God Almighty.

  So they entered the drive and walked up among the gaunt black trees towards the house.

  Mount Prospect was a large, castellated building of stone. In a neighbourhood where architectural monstrosities abounded, perhaps this one outdid them all in its almost brutal ugliness and vulgarity. It had been built by Constantine Schuabe's grandfather.

  Schuabe was rarely up here in the north of England in Walktown. His Parliamentary and social duties tied him to London, where he had a private set of rooms at one of the great hotels. But despite his rare visits, the hideous stone palace in the smoky North held treasures which he himself had collected, and others which had been left to him by his father.

  It was understood that at his death, the pictures and library were to become the property of the citizens of Manchester, held in trust for them by the corporation.

  Schuabe took a key from his pocket and opened the heavy door in the porch.

  "I always keep the house full of servants," he said, "even when I'm away, but they will be all gone to bed now, and we must look after ourselves."

  Opening an inner door, they passed through some heavy padded curtains which fell behind them with a dull thud, and came into the great hall.

  Ugly as the shell of the great building was, the interior was different.

  Here,
set like a jewel in the midst of the harsh, forbidding country, was a treasure house of ordered beauty which had few equals in England.

  Basil Gortre drew a long breath as he looked round. Every aesthetic influence within him responded to what he saw. How simple and severe it all was. Here was a great domed hall of white marble, brilliantly lit by electric light hidden high above their heads. On every side slender columns rose towards the dome, and beyond them were tall archways leading to the rooms of the house. Dull, formless curtains, striking no note of colour, hung from the archways.

  As Basil stood there, he knew, as if some special message had been given him, that he had come for some great hidden purpose -- that it had been foreordained. His whole soul seemed filled with a holy power, while unseen powers and principalities thronged round him like sweet but awful friends.

  He turned inquiringly towards his host. Schuabe's face was pale; the calm, cruel eyes seemed agitated; he was staring at the curate. "Come," he said in a voice which seemed to be without its usual confidence. "Come, this place is cold. I have sometimes thought it a little too bare and extraordinary. Come into the library. Let us eat and talk."

  He turned and passed through the pillars on the right. Basil followed him through the dark, heavy curtains which led to the library.

  They found themselves in an immense low-ceilinged room. "My valet is in bed," said Schuabe. "I prefer to wait on myself at night. If you wait here a few moments I will get some food. I know where to find some. Pray amuse yourself by looking at my books."

  Basil had, from his earliest Oxford days, been a lover of books and a collector in a moderate, discriminating way. As a rule he was roused to a great enthusiasm by such a fine library as this. But as his practised eye ran over the shelves, noting the beauty and variety of the contents, he was unmoved by any special interest.

  His hand had been wandering unconsciously over the books when it was suddenly arrested, and stopped on a familiar black binding with plain gold letters. It was an ordinary reference edition of the Holy Bible from the Oxford University Press.

  There was something familiar and homely in the little dark volume, which showed signs of constant use. A few feet away, a long shelf held Bibles of all kinds: rare editions, expensive copies bound up with famous commentaries -- all the luxuries of Holy Writ. But the book beneath his fingers was the same size and shape as the one which stood near his own bedside in his rooms -- the one which his father had given him when he went to Harrow, with "Flee youthful lusts" written on the fly-leaf in faded ink. It was homelike and familiar.