The Case of Richard Meynell | Page 4

a long
journey that day to take a funeral for a friend, lay back in sybaritic ease,
now sipping his tea and now cutting open letters and parcels. The letter
signed "F. Marcoburg" in the corner had been placed, still unopened,
on the mantelpiece now facing him.
The Rector looked at it from time to time; it might have been said by a
close observer that he never forgot it; but, all the same, he went on
dipping into books and reviews, or puzzling--with muttered
imprecations on the German tongue--over some of his letters.
"By Jove! this apocalyptic Messianic business is getting interesting.
Soon we shall know where all the Pauline ideas came from--every
single one of them! And what matter? Who's the worse? Is it any less
wonderful when we do know? The new wine found its bottles
ready--that's all."

As he sat there he had the aspect of a man enjoying apparently the
comfort of his own fireside. Yet, now that the face was at rest, certain
cavernous hollows under the eyes, and certain lines on the forehead and
at the corners of the mouth, as though graven by some long fatigue,
showed themselves disfiguringly. The personality, however, on which
this fatigue had stamped itself was clearly one of remarkable vigour,
physical and mental. A massive head covered with strong black hair,
curly at the brows; eyes grayish-blue, small, with some shade of
expression in them which made them arresting, commanding, even; a
large nose and irregular mouth, the lips flexible and kind, the chin
firm--one might have made some such catalogue of Meynell's
characteristics; adding to them the strength of a broad-chested,
loose-limbed frame, made rather, one would have thought, for country
labours than for the vigils of the scholar. But the hands were those of a
man of letters--bony and long-fingered, but refined, touching things
with care and gentleness, like one accustomed to the small tools of the
writer.
At last the Rector threw himself back in his chair, while some of the
litter on his lap fell to the floor, temporarily dislodging one of the
terriers, who sat up and looked at him with reproach.
"Now then!" he said, and reached out for the letter on the mantelpiece.
He turned it over a moment in his hand and opened it.
It was long, and the reader gave it a close attention. When he had
finished it he put it down and thought a while, then stretched out his
hand for it again and reread the last paragraph:
"You will, I am sure, realize from all I have said, my dear Meynell, that
the last thing I personally wish to do is to interfere with the parochial
work of a man for whom I have so warm a respect as I have for you. I
have given you all the latitude I could, but my duty is now plain. Let
me have your assurance that you will refrain from such sermons as that
to which I have drawn your attention, and that you will stop at once the
extraordinary innovations in the services of which the parishioners have
complained, and I shall know how to answer Mr. Barron and to
compose this whole difficult matter. Do not, I entreat you, jeopardize

the noble work you are doing for the sake of opinions and views which
you hold to-day, but which you may have abandoned tomorrow. Can
you possibly put what you call 'the results of criticism'--and, remember,
these results differ for you, for me, and for a dozen others I could
name--in comparison with that work for souls God has given you to do,
and in which He has so clearly blessed you? A Christian pastor is not
his own master, and cannot act with the freedom of other men. He
belongs by his own act to the Church and to the flock of Christ; he
must always have in view the 'little ones' whom he dare not offend.
Take time for thought, my dear Meynell--and time, above all, for
prayer--and then let me hear from you. You will realize how much and
how anxiously I think of you.
"Yours always sincerely in Christ,
"F. MARCOBURG."
"Good man--true bishop!" said the Rector to himself, as he again put
down the letter; but even as he spoke the softness in his face passed
into resolution. He sank once more into reverie.
The stillness, however, was soon broken up. A step was heard outside,
and the dogs sprang up in excitement. Amid a pandemonium of noise,
the Rector put his head out of window.
"Is that you, Barron? Come in, old fellow; come in!"
A slender figure in a long coat passed the window, the front door
opened, and a young man entered the study. He was dressed in
orthodox