The Case of Richard Meynell | Page 5

clerical garb, and carried a couple of books under his arm.
"I came to return these," he said, placing them beside the Rector; "and
also--can you give me twenty minutes?"
"Forty, if you want them. Sit down."
The newcomer turned out various French and German books from a
dilapidated armchair, and obeyed. He was a fresh-coloured, handsome

youth, some fifteen years younger than Meynell, the typical
public-school boy in appearance. But his expression was scarcely less
harassed than the Rector's.
"I expect you have heard from my father," he said abruptly.
"I found a letter waiting for me," said Meynell, holding up the note he
had taken from the hall-table on coming in. But he pursued the subject
no further.
The young man fidgeted a moment.
"All one can say is"--he broke out at last--"that if it had not been my
father, it would have been some one else--the Archdeacon probably.
The fight was bound to come."
"Of course it was!" The Rector sprang to his feet, and, with his hands
under his coat-tails and his back to the fire, faced his visitor. "That's
what we're all driving at. Don't be miserable about it, dear fellow. I bear
your father no grudge whatever. He is under orders, as I am. The
parleying time is done. It has lasted two generations. And now comes
war--honourable, necessary war!"
The speaker threw back his head with emphasis, even with passion. But
almost immediately the smile, which was the only positive beauty of
the face, obliterated the passion.
"And don't look so tragic over it! If your father wins--and as the law
stands he can scarcely fail to win--I shall be driven out of Upcote. But
there will always be a corner somewhere for me and my books, and a
pulpit of some sort to prate from."
"Yes, but what about _us?_" said the newcomer, slowly.
"Ah!" The Rector's voice took a dry intonation. "Yes--well!-you
Liberals will have to take your part, and fire your shot some day, of
course--fathers or no fathers."

"I didn't mean that. I shall fire my shot, of course. But aren't you
exposing yourself prematurely--unnecessarily?" said the young man,
with vivacity. "It is not a general's part to do that."
"You're wrong, Stephen. When my father was going out to the
campaign in which he was killed, my mother said to him, as though she
were half asking a question, half pleading--I can hear her now, poor
darling!--'John, it's right for a general to keep out of danger?' and he
smiled and said, 'Yes, when it isn't right for him to go into it, head over
ears.' However, that's nonsense. It doesn't apply to me. I'm no general.
And I'm not going to be killed!"
Young Barron was silent, while the Rector prepared a pipe, and began
upon it; but his face showed his dissatisfaction.
"I've not said much to father yet about my own position," he resumed;
"but, of course, he guesses. It will be a blow to him," he added,
reluctantly.
The Rector nodded, but without showing any particular concern,
though his eyes rested kindly on his companion.
"We have come to the fighting," he repeated, "and fighting means
blows. Moreover, the fight is beginning to be equal. Twenty years
ago--in Elsmere's time--a man who held his views or mine could only
go. Voysey, of course, had to go; Jowett, I am inclined to think, ought
to have gone. But the distribution of the forces, the lie of the field, is
now altogether changed. I am not going till I am turned out; and there
will be others with me. The world wants a heresy trial, and it is going
to get one this time."
A laugh--a laugh of excitement and discomfort--escaped the younger
man.
"You talk as though the prospect was a pleasant one!"
"No--but it is inevitable."

"It will be a hateful business," Baron went on, impetuously. "My father
has a horribly strong will. And he will think every means legitimate."
"I know. In the Roman Church, what the Curia could not do by
argument they have done again and again--well, no use to inquire how!
One must be prepared. All I can say is, I know of no skeletons in the
cupboard at present. Anybody may have my keys!"
He laughed as he spoke, spreading his hands to the blaze, and looking
round at his companion. Barron's face in response was a face of
hero-worship, undisguised. Here plainly were leader and disciple;
pioneering will and docile faith. But it might have been observed that
Meynell did nothing to emphasize the personal relation; that, on the
contrary, he shrank from it, and often tried to put it aside.
After a few more words, indeed, he resolutely closed the personal
discussion. They fell into talk about certain recent developments