"That is very good. . . . Then good morning, Monsignor."

(II)

It was nearly midnight before Monsignor Masterman pushed away the book that lay before him and leaned back in his chair. He felt sick and dazed at what he had read.

First, he had studied with extreme care the const.i.tution of the Heresy-Court, and had sent off a couple of hours ago the formal letters to the Dominican Provincial and two other priests whom he had selected. Then he had studied the procedure of the court, and the penalties a.s.signed.

At first he could not believe what he read. He had turned more than once to the t.i.tle-page of the great quarto, thinking that he must find it to be a reprint of some medieval work. But the t.i.tle was unmistakable. The book was printed in Rome in the spring of the present year, and contained an English supplement, dealing with the actual relations of the Church laws with those of the country. There were minor penalties for minor offences; there was at every turn an escape for the accused. He might, even in the last event, escape all penalties by a formal renouncement of Christianity; but if not, if he persisted simultaneously in claiming a place in the Church of Christ and in holding to a theological opinion declared erroneous by the Court of Appeal ratified by the Pope, he was to be handed over to the secular arm; and by the laws of England--as well as of every other European country except Germany--the penalty inflicted by the secular arm was, in the instance of a tonsured clerk, death.

It was this that staggered the priest.

Somewhere within him there rose up a protest so overwhelmingly strong as to evade even an attempt at deliberate a.n.a.lysis--a protest that rested on the axiom that spiritual crimes deserved only spiritual punishment. This he could understand. He perceived clearly enough that no society can preserve its ident.i.ty without limitations; that no a.s.sociation can cohere without definite rules that must be obeyed. He was sufficiently educated then to understand that a man who chooses to disregard the demands of a spiritual society, however arbitrary these demands may seem to be, can no longer claim the privileges of the body to which he has. .h.i.therto adhered. But that death--brutal physical death--could by any civilized society--still less any modern Christian society--be even an alternative penalty for heresy, shocked him beyond description.

A ray of hope had shone on him when he first read the facts. It might be, perhaps, that this was merely a formal sentence, as were the old penalties for high treason abandoned long before they were repealed. He turned to the index; and after a search leaned back again in despair. He had seen half a dozen cases quoted, within the last ten years, in England alone, in which the penalty had been inflicted.

It was half an hour before he stood up, with one determination at least formed in his mind--that he would consult no one. He had learnt in the last few weeks sufficient distrust of himself to refrain from formulating conclusions too soon, and he learnt enough of the world in which he found himself to understand that positions accepted as self-evident by society in general, which yet seemed impossible to himself, after all occasionally turned out to be at least not ridiculous.

But to think that it was the young monk with whom he had talked at Lourdes who was to be the centre of the process he himself had to prepare! . . . He understood now some of the hints that Dom Adrian Bennett had let fall.

(III)

A card was brought up to him a couple of evenings later as he sat at his desk; and as he turned it over Father Jervis himself hurried in.

"May I speak to you alone an instant?" he said; and glanced at the secretaries, who rose and went out without a word.

"You look unwell," said the old priest keenly, as he sat down.

Monsignor waved a deprecatory hand.

"Well--I'm glad I caught you in time," went on the other. "I saw the man come in; and wondered whether you knew about him."

"Mr. Hardy?"

"Yes--James Hardy."

"Well--I just know he's not a Catholic; and something of a politician."

"Well, he's quite the shrewdest man the secularists have got.

He's a complete materialist. And I've not the slightest doubt he's heard of your illness and has come to see whether he can fish anything out of you. He's exceedingly plausible; and very dangerous. I don't know what he's come about, but you may be certain it's something important. It may be to do with the Religious Houses; or the Bill for the re-establishment of the Church. But you may depend upon it, it's something vital. I thought I'd better remind you who he is."

The priest stood up.

"Thank you very much, father. Is there anything else? Have you any news for me?"

Father Jervis smiled.

"No, Monsignor. You know more than I do, now. . . . Well, I'll tell Mr. Hardy you'll see him. Number one parlour?"

"That'll do very well. Thanks."

It was growing towards dusk as Monsignor Masterman pa.s.sed down the corridor a few minutes later; and he paused a moment to glance out upon the London street through the tall window at the end. Not that there was anything particular to be seen there; indeed the street, at the moment he looked, was entirely empty.

But he looked up for an instant at the great electric news-sheet where the headlines were displayed, above the corner shop on the way to Victoria Street where the papers were sold. But there was no news. There was the usual announcement of the weather conditions, a reference to one or two land-cases, and a political statement.

Then he went on.

The parlour with the gla.s.s doors was lighted, and a man in a black lawyer's dress stood up to greet him as he came in. He was rosy-faced and genial, clean shaven, above the middle-height, and his manner was very deferential and attractive.

The first minute or two was taken up by Mr. Hardy's congratulations on the other's appearance, and on his complete recovery. There was not a trace of anxiety or nervousness in his manner; and the priest almost insensibly found himself beginning to discount his friend's warning. Then, quite suddenly, the other turned to business.

"Well, I suppose I must come to the point. What I want to ask is this, Monsignor. Can you tell me in confidence (I a.s.sure you I will be discreet) whether the ecclesiastical authorities here realize the rush of Socialists that is bound to come, so soon as the Emperor's conversion is publicly announced."

"I----" began the priest.

"One moment, please, Monsignor. I do not in the least want to force any confidences. But you know we infidels"--(he smiled charmingly and modestly)--"we infidels regard you as our best friends. The State seems to know nothing of mercy. But the Church is always reasonable. And we poor Socialists must live somewhere.

So I wished----"

"But my dear sir," began Monsignor. "I think you're a.s.suming too much. Has the Emperor shown any signs---?"

Across the other's face he suddenly saw pa.s.s a look of complete vacancy, as if he were no longer attending; and, simultaneously, he heard a sudden sound which he could not at first identify, through the open windows looking on to Ambrosden Avenue.

"What is that?" exclaimed the lawyer sharply; and stood up.

Again from the street there rose the roar of voices, cheering, followed by a sharp punctuating cry.

"Come this way," said the priest. "We can see from the corridor."

When they reached the window the whole aspect of the street had changed. Half-way from where they stood, to the end where the sheet placard was erected, was a gathering, surging mob, increasing as they looked. From the left, from behind the west end of the cathedral clock a continual stream poured in, met by two others, the one, down the avenue, of figures that ran and gesticulated, the other from the direction of Victoria Street.

And from the whole arose gusts of cheering, marking the pauses in the speech of some tiny figure which, mounted beside the news-sheet, appeared to be delivering a speech.

Monsignor glanced at the news-sheet, and there, in gigantic letters, over the s.p.a.ce where the weather had been discussed just now, was the announcement made public at the very instant when the leader of the English Socialists was attempting to discover the truth of the rumour that had reached him:--

THE EMPEROR OF GERMANY WAS RECEIVED INTO THE CATHOLIC CHURCH ON THURSDAY EVENING.

And beneath it:

PROCLAMATION TO THE SOCIALISTS EXPECTED TO-NIGHT.

Monsignor read it, unconscious of all else except the astounding fact. Then he turned to speak, but found himself alone.

(IV)

London went soberly mad with enthusiasm that night, and Monsignor Masterman, standing on the cathedral roofs with half a dozen priests, watched what could be seen of the excitement for half an hour, before going downstairs for the _Te Deum_ in the great church.