The Damned | Page 3

a portly figure,
though tall, with masterful, big hands, his fingers rather thick and red;
and his dignity, that just escaped being pompous, held in it something
that was implacable. A convinced assurance, almost remorseless,
gleamed in his eyes when he preached especially, and his threats of hell
fire must have scared souls stronger than the timid, receptive Mabel
whom he married. He clad himself in long frock-coats hat buttoned
unevenly, big square boots, and trousers that invariably bagged at the
knee and were a little short; he wore low collars, spats occasionally,
and a tall black hat that was not of silk. His voice was alternately hard
and unctuous; and he regarded theaters, ballrooms, and racecourses as
the vestibule of that brimstone lake of whose geography he was as
positive as of his great banking offices in the City. A philanthropist up
to the hilt, however, no one ever doubted his complete sincerity; his
convictions were ingrained, his faith borne out by his life--as witness
his name upon so many admirable Societies, as treasurer, patron, or
heading the donation list. He bulked large in the world of doing good, a
broad and stately stone in the rampart against evil. And his heart was
genuinely kind and soft for others--who believed as he did.
Yet, in spite of this true sympathy with suffering and his desire to help,
he was narrow as a telegraph wire and unbending as a church pillar; he
was intensely selfish; intolerant as an officer of the Inquisition, his
bourgeois soul constructed a revolting scheme of heaven that was
reproduced in miniature in all he did and planned. Faith was the sine
qua non of salvation, and by "faith" he meant belief in his own
particular view of things--"which faith, except every one do keep whole
and undefiled, without doubt he shall perish everlastingly." All the
world but his own small, exclusive sect must be damned eternally--a

pity, but alas, inevitable. He was right.
Yet he prayed without ceasing, and gave heavily to the poor--the only
thing he could not give being big ideas to his provincial and suburban
deity. Pettier than an insect, and more obstinate than a mule, he had
also the superior, sleek humility of a "chosen one." He was
churchwarden too. He read the lesson in a "place of worship," either
chilly or overheated, where neither organ, vestments, nor lighted
candles were permitted, but where the odor of hair-wash on the boys'
heads in the back rows pervaded the entire building.
This portrait of the banker, who accumulated riches both on earth and
in heaven, may possibly be overdrawn, however, because Frances and I
were "artistic temperaments" that viewed the type with a dislike and
distrust amounting to contempt. The majority considered Samuel
Franklyn a worthy man and a good citizen. The majority, doubtless,
held the saner view. A few years more, and he certainly would have
been made a baronet. He relieved much suffering in the world, as
assuredly as he caused many souls the agonies of torturing fear by his
emphasis upon damnation.
Had there been one point of beauty in him, we might have been more
lenient; only we found it not, and, I admit, took little pains to search. I
shall never forget the look of dour forgiveness with which he heard our
excuses for missing Morning Prayers that Sunday morning of our
single visit to The Towers. My sister learned that a change was made
soon afterwards, prayers being "conducted" after breakfast instead of
before.
The Towers stood solemnly upon a Sussex hill amid park-like modern
grounds, but the house cannot better be described--it would be so
wearisome for one thing--than by saying that it was a cross between an
overgrown, pretentious Norwood villa and one of those saturnine
Institutes for cripples the train passes as it slinks ashamed through
South London into Surrey. It was "wealthily" furnished and at first
sight imposing, but on closer acquaintance revealed a meager
personality, barren and austere. One looked for Rules and Regulations
on the walls, all signed By Order. The place was a prison that shut out

"the world." There was, of course, no billiard-room, no smoking-room,
no room for play of any kind, and the great hall at the back, once a
chapel, which might have been used for dancing, theatricals, or other
innocent amusements, was consecrated in his day to meetings of
various kinds, chiefly brigades, temperance or missionary societies.
There was a harmonium at one end--on the level floor--a raised dais or
platform at the other, and a gallery above for the servants, gardeners,
and coachmen. It was heated with hot-water pipes, and hung with
Doré's pictures, though these latter were soon removed and stored out
of sight in the attics as being too unspiritual. In polished, shiny