King John of Jingalo

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The Prime Minister was beginning to get thoroughly uncomfortable.

"It is a breach--a fatal breach to my mind," said he, "in that caste
distinction which alone makes monarchy possible under modern conditions.
I mean no personal disrespect to your Grace: were it a question of my
own daughter, I should take the same view. It disturbs a tradition which
has worked well and for safety, and has not been broken for hundreds of
years. But most destructively of all it threatens that aloofness from
all political entanglements--that absolute impartiality between party
and party--which to-day constitutes the strength of the Crown."

"I might be quite prepared," said the Archbishop slowly, "in such an
event, to withdraw myself from all political action of a party
character."

"You cannot so separate yourself from the past," objected the Prime
Minister.

"I do not see the difficulty. You yourself, in a long and varied career,
have twice changed your party, or deserted it. If that can be done with
sincerity, it is equally possible to become of no party at all."

The Prime Minister flushed at this attack on his past record, and struck
back--

"Not for an Archbishop," he said, a little sneeringly. "The Church
now-a-days has become not merely a part of our political system, but a
stereotyped adjunct of party, and a very one-sided one at that."

"To answer such a charge adequately," replied his Grace, "I should be
forced into political debate foreign to our present discussion. What
concerns me here and now is that something has taken place--pregnant for
good or ill--which you regard as impossible, and which I do not. In
either case--whatever conclusion is reached--I am called upon to make a
sacrifice. Of that I do not complain, but what I am bound to consider,
even before the interests of the State (upon which we take different
views), are the interests of the Church. When we last met you were
preparing to do those interests something of an injustice: and your more
recent proposals do not induce me to think that you have changed your
mind. If the Church is to lose the ground she now holds in the State she
must seek to recover it elsewhere. I cannot blind my eyes to the fact
that, in the high position now offered to her, my daughter will be able
to do a great work--for the Church."

"I believed that you had no sympathy with the intrusion of women into
the domain of politics."

"Not into politics, no; but the Church is different. We have in our
Saints' Calendar women--queens some of them--who were ready to lay down
their lives for the Church, and to secure her recognition by heathen
peoples and kings. Why should not my daughter be one?"

He spoke with an exalted air, his hand resting upon his cross.

"Your Grace," said the Prime Minister in a changed tone, "may I put one
very crucial question? Have you a complete influence over your
daughter?"

"That I can hardly answer; I will only say that she is dutiful. Never,
so far as I am aware, has she questioned my authority, nor has she
combated my judgment in any matter where it was my duty to decide for
her what was right."

On this showing she seemed a very estimable and trustworthy young
person; and with a sense of encouragement the Prime Minister went on--

"Then upon this question of her marriage with the Prince, would she, do
you think, be guided by you?"

"She would not marry him without my consent."

"And your consent might be forthcoming?"

"Under certain circumstances, I think--yes."

"And as the circumstances stand now at this moment?"

The Archbishop paused, and looked long at the Prime Minister before
answering.

"How do they stand?" he inquired.

II

That evening when Jenifer returned home the Archbishop was waiting her
arrival. The door of his private library stood ajar. "Come in, my dear,"
he called, hearing her step in the corridor, "come in; I wish to speak
to you."

She entered with a flushed face. "_I_ wanted to speak to you, father,"
she said.

He saw that she was come charged for the delivery of her soul, and
perceiving what a strategic advantage it would give him to hear the
story first from her own lips, he waived his prior claim. "Very well, my
dear," he replied, "for the next hour I am free, and at your disposal."

"It may take longer than that," she warned him; "I have something to
tell you that seems to me almost terrible."

"Anything wrong?"

"Oh, no, but so tremendous I hardly know how to begin." Her breast
labored with the burden of its message, but in her face was a look of
dawn.

"Has it to do with yourself?"

"Yes, papa. I am engaged to marry Prince Max."

The Archbishop paused for a moment, thinking how best to avoid any
appearance of foreknowledge.

"My child," he said, "what Prince Max do you mean?"

"The only one that I know of," she answered.

"You mean the heir to the throne?"

"Yes, papa."

"You say you are engaged to him?"

"Yes."

"With whose knowledge, may I ask?"

"The King knows; he has just given his consent. That is why I am telling
you now."

"Why only now?" There was reproach in his tone.

"Until we had his consent we were not engaged."

"And now--being engaged--you come for mine?"

"No, papa; only to let you know." She paused. "Of course I should be
glad of your approval."

The Archbishop sat silent for a while. "How long have you known Prince
Max?" he inquired at last.

"About six months."

"Is not that rather a short time?"

"Yes."

"For so important a decision, I mean."

"Yes; it is, I know."

"For learning a man's character, shall I say?"

"Some characters one learns more quickly than others. I know him, papa,
better than I do you."

"That may well be, youth does not easily understand age. And so my
question remains: Do you know him well enough to marry him?"

"I want to marry him," she said.

"You know there are objections?"

"Oh, yes."

"Very serious ones."

"Yes, I told him; I said it was quite impossible. He said he could get
the King's consent. I did not think so: I felt sure, indeed, that he
could not. But to-day he came and showed it to me in writing--a promise
made conditionally more than two months ago."

"Conditionally?"

"Yes; it named a date. That is why until to-day there was nothing that I
could tell you."

"Not even the fact that he had asked you to marry him?"

"I could not wish that to be known, if nothing was to come if it--not by
any one."

"It would have been better, my child."

"No, papa; why should you, or any one, know what I had had to give up?"

"Of course, it would have been painful; that I can understand."

"I can smile at it now," she said; "but at the time it was terrible! For
I found, then, how much I loved him."

The Archbishop withheld all speech for a moment, then said tenderly--

"I am very sorry for you, my child."

"Ah, but there is no need to be now!" she cried joyfully.

Once more he paused; then he repeated the words.

There was quick attention then in her look, but she showed no fear; and
he shifted to easier ground.

"Tell me," he said gently, "how all this came about. How did you come to
know the Prince?"

"Only by seeing him at the Court; then I recognized that we had met
often before, when I had not known who he was."

"Why should he have concealed it?"

"He did not; one day he told me, and I would not believe him, it seemed
so unlikely. Neither did he believe me when I told him who I was; he
said that the facts were incompatible, and that mine was the more
unlikely story of the two."

"Did you--did you begin liking him very soon?"

"I began by almost hating him. He used to scoff at everything, he seemed
not to believe in anything that was good. Almost the first time that we
met he told me that the dress I wore was 'provocative'--'a lure of
Satan's devising' he called it, and said that nothing tempted men more
than for women to wear what he described as 'the uniform of virginity.'
He declared that it was because of my dress that he got lost following
me through the slums."

"Did not that warn you what sort of man he was?"

"No; for it was not true. We just happened to meet, and he helped me
when I was single-handed. He confessed afterwards that he had said
everything he could to shock me--to put me to the test. He has grown up
distrusting all religious professions."

"A scoffer? Did not even that warn you?"

"No; under the circumstances it seemed the most natural thing; it showed
me that he was honest."

These sounded dreadful words to the Archbishop, coming from his
daughter's lips; he felt that, in passing from theory to practice she
had become shockingly latitudinarian in her views; and again, cautious
and circumspect, he shifted his ground.

"My dear," he said, "you do realize, I suppose, that from a worldly
point of view the Prince has committed a very grave indiscretion."

She smiled. "He tells me so himself; it rather pleases him. But now the
King has given his consent."

"Yes, nominally he has," replied the Archbishop. "But in that there is a
good deal more than meets the eye. When his Majesty first gave that
promise he never intended that it should take effect."

She paled slightly at his words, and he saw that only now had he scored
a point.

"Why do you think that?"

"I do not think it, I know; but I am not at liberty to reveal secrets of
State. Let us put that aside, I cannot give you proof; if you wish to
disbelieve it, do. But now I come to my main point. There is a side to
this question about which you know nothing, but you know that in the
State to-day the Church has her enemies. This indiscretion on the part
of the Prince, supported by a promise from which the King cannot in
honor withdraw, has suddenly put into my hands a great opportunity which
must not be missed."

"Into _your_ hands, papa?"

"Under Providence, yes; I say it reverently. You are my daughter, and
in service and loyalty to the Church you and I are as one."

She looked at him steadfastly, but did not respond in words.

"A great opportunity," he said again; "a great power for righteousness,
to save the Church in her dire need. That is a great thing to be able to
do--worth more than anything else that life can offer. To you, my
daughter, that call has come; how will you answer it?"

Her face had grown white, but was still hard to his appeal; he had not
won her yet.

"Yes," she said, "I do partly understand. I will do all for you that I
can."

"Then you will release the Prince from his bond."

"He does not ask to be released."

"That may be."

Then there was silence.

"My dear child," murmured the Archbishop; there was emotion in his
voice, and putting out his hand he laid it upon hers.

She drew herself gently from the contact.

"Only if he wishes it," she said.

"He will not wish it."

"Then he has my word."

"Your life contains other and holier vows than that, my child."

She did not seem to think so. "Father," she said, "this is the man I
love!"

"That I realize," he replied gravely. "The question is which do you love
best,--him or the Church?"

Jenifer opened her eyes in a limpid and childlike wonderment. How could
he ask a question the answer to which was so obvious? "Why, him!" she
cried; "there is no possible comparison!"

The Archbishop was deeply shocked as well as nonplussed at such an
answer coming from his daughter; and meanwhile with clear sincerity of
speech she went on--

"You mean the Church of Jingalo--do you not, papa?"

Of course it was the Church of Jingalo that he meant, but it would not
do at this juncture to say so. His daughter might be one of those
dreadful people who believed that the Church would get value out of
disestablishment.

"I meant the Church of our fathers," said he, "the faith into which you
were baptized,--the spiritual health and welfare of the whole nation."

"I do not think that by marrying the Prince I shall do it any harm. I am
sure that he means none."

Her idea of the power of Princes struck him as curiously feminine; how
little she understood of politics!

"It is rather a case," said he, "of harm that you cannot prevent, except
in one way. What have you in your mind? Is it the wish to sit upon a
throne?"

"Oh, no!" she said; "I shall never like being queen." Then, after a
pause, she added honestly, "All the same, I could do things,
then--things which I have longed to do; and I know that he would let
me."

Her face glowed at the prospect; and suddenly she turned upon him a full
look of self-confidence and courage, and there was challenge in her
tone.

"I know far more about the poor than you do, father," she said, "and
much more of their needs. If I were queen I would have a house down
among the slums; and I would never spend Christmas, or Easter, or Good
Friday in any other place." Her voice broke. "I would try--I would try,"
she said, "to set up Christianity in high places. That has been my
dream."

"Have you told your dream to the Prince?"

She smiled tenderly, and with confidence. "He is already helping to
make it come true. I asked him to be upon the Commission. That is why he
is there."

"You?"

The Archbishop was now realizing that he knew very little about his
daughter, and she not only amazed him, she frightened him. For the first
time he feared that he might lose the great stakes for which he was
playing; and one thing was essential--this woman, this domestic pawn
which he held in his hand, must never be allowed to become queen.

And so with great pain he forced himself, and spoke on. How right he had
been when he told the Prime Minister that in one way or another
sacrifice would be required of him! For now he was going to sacrifice
his most sacred conventions, his ideal of how an unmarried woman should
be trained.

"My child," he said, "do you think that you know this man?"

"Yes; I know him better than any one else in the world."

"Do you also know his life?"

Jenifer's look turned on him a little curiously.

"I know," she said, "that he is not really a Christian."

"Ah!" he exclaimed, in a sort of joy, decorously flavored with grief,
"that I did not know! Of course that explains everything. The rest
inevitably follows."

"What follows?"

"No man who is not a Christian leads a life that will stand looking
into." And then, avoiding her eyes, he spoke of things which he knew;
some of them in certain quarters were almost common property; of others
he had only recently become informed.

And as he spoke he felt, with a strange oppression, the heart beside him
grow dumb. For this woman, with her clear and gracious understanding of
so many human ills and weaknesses, had been kept in one matter, the most
important of all, with the mind of an undeveloped child. Evil things she
knew of--they had an existence, a place, and a name--but for her no
reality except in their awful results. All that she had hitherto seen of
"irregular living" bore the stamp of betrayal and disease, a thing more
grossly criminal than anything else in the social body. She did not know
how that body was permeated, and how no class and no ordinary standard
of morality was free from the taint.

And now she heard that the man she loved had been keeping that thing
called "a mistress"--housing her in luxury, visiting her day after day,
not very greatly troubling himself whether the fact remained secret or
became known. Then dates were mentioned; and she was given to know how
those visits had still gone on while her lover had been offering her the
devotion of his heart. It was there, after his recent accident, that he
had gone to be nursed.

The Archbishop was extremely well informed, and he told nothing which
he did not absolutely believe to be true. And now at last all the
advantage was on his side, for ignorance left her almost without
defense; with no sense of proportion she stood looking out into a
non-dimensional world.

Dimly her mind made a struggle to escape.

"But what, what does it mean?" she asked. "There must be some reason for
it. Is it a kind of disease?"

"A corrupt nature," said her father solemnly; "these are what the Church
calls in her teaching 'the sins of the flesh.'"

She shuddered, for to her by religious training "flesh" had come to have
a dreadful sound. In her spiritual world she pictured it as a shop hung
with butcher's meat; yet why it was dreadful she did not know.

"Tell me," she murmured with pained speech, still trying for a way out,
"it isn't--natural, is it?"

"That doctrine is preached by some," said her father; "Christianity
forbids any such view."

"He said," she went on, "he said this, when he first asked me to marry
him: 'I have done some natural things which you would hold to be wrong.
I have loved,' he said, 'for mere comfort, not for honor or life.' He
asked me if I understood; I said 'Yes.' 'That is my confession,' he
said. 'I have been,' he said, 'no better than others; I hope not worse.'
And that was all. I thought he meant that he had been selfish and
worldly. Is that other thing what he really meant?"

"No doubt."

"But he _told_ me," she said, and looked at him with a forlorn hope.

"It was the best thing that he could do for himself; no doubt he guessed
that eventually you would come to know."

She stood thinking back into the past.

"After he had told, he kissed me," she said; "he had never done that
before." Her lips trembled and the tears ran down her face.

"You know enough now, my dear. That will not happen again."

"I still love him," she said, as though confessing to shame.

The Archbishop had sufficient wisdom to accept the statement without
protest. "It would be hard for you to do otherwise," he said. "The heart
cannot change all at once."

"I believed that with him I could do good."

"Can you believe that now?"

"I don't know."

"That sort of life enters the blood," said her father, "taints it, makes
evil that which would otherwise be holy."

"You mean----?"

"I speak of marriage; the drawing together of two into one."

"It still is marriage."

"Its mystery has been profaned. Marriage then, coming after, may be only
a reminiscence of sin."

She stood looking at him, her face very pale.

"I shall still have to ask him if it is true."

The Archbishop resigned himself to what he could not avoid. "If you
must," he said. And then, thinking forward to what might possibly
happen, he added: "It was my duty to tell you everything."

"Yes," she replied, "but you did not mean to tell me at first."

"I hoped that I might spare you," he explained. "These are not things
that one speaks of willingly; if they can be avoided it is better that
they should not be known."

She gave a gesture of impatience, pressing her hands against her eyes.

"Do not say anything more to me," she said, and her voice sounded
hopeless and dead. "Not now."

And then, very slowly, she turned and went out of the room.

The Archbishop told himself that he had done his duty. Personal
aggrandizement, great opportunities of power and social position he had
put away, he had done a true and holy thing. And so he sat down and
wrote to the Prime Minister.

CHAPTER XX

THE THORN AND THE FLESH

I

The next day Prince Max received a letter written by the hand which had
become for him the dearest in the world. It was very simple and
straightforward and methodical: it began with the word "Beloved" and
asked whether certain things were true. It seemed, then, that for the
first time his confession was understood. Not a single one of the
questions put to him contained anything that was untrue, but they did
not go much into detail, and no commentary was made upon the facts
indicated.

Max sat down and wrote a very beautiful letter in reply, and got no
answer.

For three days he put up with this rebuff to his honesty of character
and his literary ability; then not finding his lady where he expected
her to be, he went and called upon her father.

The Archbishop was out; but Max, not to be denied, sat down and waited
for his return. He waited for over two hours. It was getting towards
dusk when his Grace entered, a reverend, high-shouldered figure, showing
a stoop and beginning now to look old.

The Archbishop's very formal greeting told Max that here was the enemy.
This did not at all dismay him; at that time, indeed, he was full of
confidence. The temporary separation between himself and his beloved,
brought about in a conventional way which he thoroughly despised, was
for the moment a hindrance; but it had not yet taken to itself the
colors of doom. He knew that Jenifer's heart was entirely his, and that
they, with their common honesty, had only to meet again to be made one.
What he wanted to know, therefore, was not so much the opinion of
Jenifer's father about himself and the engagement, as to find out her
present whereabouts. From the first moment of their meeting he knew that
he did not stand in the Archbishop's good graces; but that hardly
concerned him; and so it was almost without circumlocution that he asked
for Jenifer's address.

The Archbishop, by a simultaneous depression of the head and raising of
the eyebrows, managed to convey his just sense of the honor which was
being done him and the liberty that was being taken.

"I wrote the other day," explained Max, "asking her to arrange a time
when I might come and see you. In strict etiquette I believe that your
Grace ought first to call upon me; but we have so few precedents to go
by. She has, I trust, done me the honor to tell you that we are
engaged?"

"I have been informed of the circumstance," replied the Archbishop with
stately formality.

The Prince took the matter boldly in hand. "From your manner I have to
presume that we have not the happiness of your consent?"

"My consent was not asked."

"Had it been?"

"I could not have given it."

"That I think," said the Prince, "would have been the perfectly correct
attitude until such time as the King gave his. It is for that we have
been waiting; had it not been so I should have come to you earlier."

"Early or late, my answer to your Highness would always be the same."

"May I ask upon what grounds?"

"I would ask, sir, in return, upon what grounds is it suitable that you
should marry my daughter?"

"It so happens," replied Max, "that I am in love with her."

"What precisely, sir, to your mind does the phrase 'being in love'
convey?"

The Prince saw that the tussle was coming; he gathered his thoughts
together, then said, "An intense personal desire to endow a certain
woman with motherhood."

The Archbishop flushed: sharp enmity showed itself in his eyes; he made
a gesture of repulsion.

"Ah!" cried Max, "does that shock the Church?"

The challenge went unanswered; instead came question.

"Have you not had this desire before--in other directions?"

"Never!" exclaimed Max. "No, never!"

The Archbishop eyed him keenly. "You have had experience."

"I have lived my life openly," said the Prince.

"I was aware of that," returned his Grace. "Need I trouble your Highness
with any further grounds for my refusal? Not with my consent shall my
daughter marry a libertine."

"Great Judge of Heaven!" cried Max, springing to his feet. "Hark to this
old man!"

"Don't shout," said the Archbishop; "He hears you."

Max's scorn dropped back like a rocket to earth.

"Yes," he retorted, "no doubt! The question is, are you capable of
hearing Him?"

"I am always ready to be instructed," replied his Grace sarcastically.

"I must remind you," said the Prince, "that as a Doctor of Divinity I
have some claim. Yes," he went on in answer to the Archbishop's look of
astonishment, "though you have forgotten the circumstance, you yourself
dubbed me Theologian by hitting me over the head with a Greek
Testament."

The Archbishop accepted the reminiscence.

"In that case," said he, "I bow to your Highness's authority."

"Yes: you were a shepherd of that fold, yet you let me in? I was the
clever one of my family; and the title was given me when, with three
lives standing between, there was little likelihood of my becoming Head
of the Church. Was I to wear it, then, as an ornament, or as an amulet
to guide me into right doctrine? Whatever faith I still hold, I fear me
that miracle has not been wrought."

"In these days," said the Archbishop, "faith itself is the great
miracle."

"That people should have any faith in the Church is indeed a miracle,"
said Max. "Yet I suppose it is but another instance of how easily the
world accepts what it finds. I myself remain outwardly a Churchman;
merely because it seems to me hardly to matter, and because any overt
act on my part would hurt those whom I love. And what spiritual
experience have I acquired as the result of my outward conformity? I
have found the pulpit the most polished of all social institutions: and
never once have I heard from it any word troublesome to a conscience
which has still, I can assure you, its waking moments. The eloquence
that flows from it never trespasses beyond the bounds of polite
conversation; and as regards 'unpleasant subjects' it deals faithfully
only with the lives of those who do not form the bulk of its
congregations. If it dealt faithfully with them, those polite
congregations would get up and walk out."

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