CHAPTER IX

FATHER FRANCIS AT FOLKESTONE

When Herrick awoke on the following morning, after a night of restlessness and troubled dreams, the summer sunshine seemed to be almost mocking in its brilliancy. For, in spite of the gladness of Nature, the times were out of joint. There was something wrong with life. With a sigh of depression, as he recalled the occurrences of the previous night, he set about facing the problems of the day--his own problems and Aldwyth Westwood’s in particular.

His coat lay over the back of a chair, and two unopened letters had slipped from a pocket to the floor. They were those he had received from the alert “Awthur” in the Temple, left unopened in the hurry of his departure from town, and until now entirely forgotten. He picked them up with no great interest. He knew from the envelope what one would be about. It was a regimental notice from the headquarters of the “Devil’s Own” in Lincoln’s Inn. Until lately he had been a keen volunteer officer, but the systematic snubs administered by the War Office to the citizen soldiery had greatly discouraged him and a great many others. He opened the other letter mechanically and with a morning yawn. But what he read--typewritten on half a sheet of thin quarto paper--instantly fixed his attention. He stood up, stared at the words, and read them again:

“_Give up the law (if you value your skin). It will soon be a dangerous trade._”

[Illustration]

There was no date. The impression, which took the place of a signature, corresponded with that produced by the familiar seals of public companies. It was in the form of a disc, and had the outline of a spider in the centre.

Was this some silly practical joke, or could it be a genuine and malignant threat? But for what Sir John Westwood had told him on the previous evening, he would have concluded unhesitatingly in favour of the first theory. But now he pondered.

After a solitary breakfast in the coffee-room, and pondering still, he waited about the hotel, hoping to see Aldwyth, but she was unable to leave her father’s side. When he came out on to the Leas, the Folkestone Church Parade had already begun. Here, among the crowd in the sunshine, a serious reading of the threatening letter seemed impossible.

The seaside world was decked with light as with a garment, and the butterflies of fashion fluttered their laces and laughed at the little jokes of the wearers of Panama hats as if life could hold nothing more serious than the choice of a graceful “confection,” and the art of wearing it with good effect. At the west end of the Leas there was nothing suggestive of the seamy side of life, nothing to hint at the possibility of social earthquake. He wondered vaguely, as he walked eastward with hands clasped behind him, whether in olden time the good people who then looked out upon that sparkling sea had truly realised the danger, horror, and humiliation of the threatened invasion of a powerful enemy of England. It struck him that the British race, which has “worried through” so many awkward crises, obstinately cherished the conviction that, as a nation, it bore a charmed life; that the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune could never bring it to the proud foot of a conqueror. A dangerous faith! For here on this very coast, much less than two hundred years ago, invasion had been imminent. The French were mustered at Dunkirk, Calais, and Boulogne. The Pretender’s youngest son was with them, and there was an Irish Brigade to aid the enterprise. The English, too, had furnished a contingent of traitors to assist the enemy, for the Folkestone smugglers had sold themselves to act as pilots for the invading force. But for the vigilance of that tough old sailor, Admiral Vernon, invasion would have become an accomplished fact. By his order, the miserable fleet, placed at his disposal by a blundering government, patrolled the Channel unceasingly. Warning beacons blazed along the coast from Beachy Head to the South Foreland. There was one even on Hurricane House, as the sailors styled the parish church of Folkestone--the church which Herrick was passing at the very moment of recalling those far-off troubled times.

But to-day, in the old town as in the new, people knew or cared for none of these things, nor even dreamed of the possibility of any untoward events that might make Folkestone an ineligible resort for week-end trippers. On every side ’Arry and ’Arriet rejoiced, and were glad in the glorious weather. The ’Arry collars and shoes were entirely and manifestly satisfactory to their wearers; and the blouses of ’Arriet and her sisters, cousins, and aunts, blazed violently in the dazzling sunshine. The yachting caps the maidens wore were all that unbecomingness could possibly demand, and the hats of the mothers and aunts fully exemplified that marked unsuitability for which the British female of mature years is so renowned.

Herrick, as he made his way through the cheerful and perspiring throng, decided that, as an advocate, he could make out a strong case for the survival of our ancient sumptuary laws.

Though Folkestone, west and east, already was pretty full, here were other visitors, within a stone’s-throw of the shores that welcome such hosts of undesirables from foreign lands. One of the much advertised steamers of the South-Eastern line was rapidly nearing the harbour with a crowded human cargo. Of late years the Boulogne and Folkestone route had increased in favour. It was not surprising, for it made the journey between Paris and London shorter by twenty-eight miles than the Calais-Dover line.

Herrick, who knew something of the signals adopted on these boats, was aware that each ball on the foremast represented a hundred passengers; a ball on the mainmast vouched for another twenty; a flag on the foremast stood for fifty passengers; a ball at the peak over the ensign represented ten. It was plain to him that the _Queen of the South_, whose figurehead gleamed in its brand-new gilt above the dancing wavelets, was as full as the Board of Trade would allow--and perhaps a little fuller. While the steamer was being berthed, he stood upon the long platform and watched the passengers as they came ashore. The number of foreigners was quite astonishing. Swarthy, dark-haired, ill-favoured fellows, most of them, they hurried to the London train already in waiting, while there were a few whom the after-stress of what Thackeray called the “marine malady” drove in eager search of refreshment.

What, however, struck Herrick even more forcibly, and, indeed, with something akin to shock, was the fact that each one of those ill-favoured visitors wore upon his breast a metal disc. Yet more amazing, the disc--unless his eyes deceived him--resembled the impression on the threatening letter he had carefully placed inside his pocket-book only an hour or two ago.

While this staggering circumstance held him wondering, the through passengers entrained; the warning whistle sounded, and they were off. A man, who had landed in leisurely fashion from the boat, stood near him, also watching the departing train. Presently he turned. Their eyes met, and in them came a look of recognition. Somewhere, Herrick felt assured, he had seen that face before--but where? The man passed him, a slight smile on his lips, and entered a well-appointed motor-car. Then, in an instant, conviction flashed on Herrick’s mind. It was the face that had affected him so strangely at the Central Criminal Court, when he stood up as Counsel for the Crown in the memorable case that failed!

* * * * *

That evening, in the ancient parish church, so beautifully restored, Aldwyth and her lover stood side by side. Sonorous and impressive, organ, choir, and congregation together voiced a hymn of faith:

“Beneath the shadow of Thy Throne Thy Saints have dwelt secure; Sufficient is Thine Arm alone And our defence is sure.”

The sadness of fleeting life found deep expression towards the end:

“Time like an ever-rolling stream, Bears all its sons away; They fly forgotten, as a dream Dies at the opening day.”

Then, with gathering strength, came again the cry for help and hope:

“O God, our Help in ages past, Our Hope for years to come, Be Thou our guard while troubles last, And our eternal home.”

And all the people said “Amen.”

A rustle of expectancy, a settling movement, and, over the heads of the sitting congregation, Herrick and his companion could see the preacher. They exchanged quick glances of pleased surprise. The tall priest looking down with wistful eyes upon the many faces was Father Francis.

There were others in the church besides themselves who, in the shadowed after-time, recalled the preacher’s look and words that night.

In this narrative, though Father Francis has an honoured place, only the gist of what he said need be recorded.

“_Watchman, what of the night?_” There were those, he said--having given out the text--who saw a dark night gathering over England. The growth of luxury and self-indulgence, the follies of the rich, the miseries of the poor, the insatiable thirst for pleasure and excitement, the struggle between capital and labour, and the faltering of national faith in the eternal verities--these converging causes were shaping the materials for a great catastrophe. If righteousness exalted a nation, assuredly unrighteousness would lay it in the dust. In the book of this same prophet Isaiah it was written: “For the nation and kingdom that will not serve Thee shall perish; yea, those nations shall be utterly wasted.”

Again and again such prophecies had been fulfilled. The once mighty empires of the East, honeycombed with sensuality and corruption, had long since fallen into decay. The Roman eagle, beneath which the whole world had cowered in awe, no longer soared aloft; Carthage had fallen; Athens and Alexandria, and many another ancient capital of arms or learning, had lost their power and proud pre-eminence. The ruins of Nineveh lay buried beneath the sands and dust of centuries; Babylon the mighty, with its idols of silver and gold, had been laid low. “Come down and sit in the dust, O virgin daughter of Babylon, sit on the ground; there is no throne, O daughter of the Chaldeans; for thou shalt no more be called young and delicate. Take the millstones and grind meal. Sit thou silent, and get thee into darkness ... for thou shalt no more be called the lady of kingdoms.”

The women of old had not differed greatly from the women of to-day, said the preacher, looking down upon the many women who listened to his words. The prophet had marked their ways; they walked with stretched forth necks and wanton eyes. They were haughty in the bravery of their tinkling ornaments, their chains and their bracelets, the changeable suits of apparel, the mantles, the wimples, and the crisping pins, the fine linen, the hoods, and the veils. Wherein, he asked, did those women of old differ in their vanity and arrogance from the women of that great modern Babylon which they all knew so well--the centre and capital of the stupendous empire on which the sun never set?

There would yet, he believed, be a further fulfilment of that stern prophecy of the eastern seer, and in that dark and terrible time what part would be played by the women of England--the women of London? They were destined to faint and fail! The luxurious, jewel-decked women of ease and fashion would be swept like rotten leaves before the storm! Only a woman such as Solomon described in the last chapter of the Book of Proverbs could ever fulfil the high destiny of her sex, whether in times of peace or in times of trouble. “Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies ... strength and honour are her clothing, and she shall rejoice in time to come, ... she openeth her mouth with wisdom, and in her tongue is the law of kindness.... Her children arise up and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her.... Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all. Favour is deceitful and beauty is vain; but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.” You and I, said Father Francis, may never meet in this church again, but in this solemn evening hour, in this still and wonderful summer night, forget not the storms which sometimes beat upon this ancient building, and remember, too, the storms of life, the terror and distress of nations. Whither shall we flee in that dread hour? There is and can ever be but one refuge--the Rock of Ages, with its calm, cool shadow in a weary land; its strength and steadfastness amid the tempestuous passions of the human race. At the last, he said, in solemn tones, pointing to the “Tree of Jesse” in the north transept of the church, all nations and peoples of the earth would be brought to see that in Him of whom the prophets and the angels testified, and in Him alone, was hope, salvation, and tranquillity. “I am the root and offspring of Jesse, and the bright and morning Star.”

For a moment the preacher paused. Suddenly, with a thrilling intonation, he repeated the question of his text--” _Watchman, what of the night?_” Then, with hand pointing eastward--an action dramatic but not theatrical--he gave the prophet’s answer in triumphant tones--” _The watchman saith, The morning cometh._”