There had, it appeared, but lately been a serious controversy in the Church. A dean had preached at Westminster on the earlier chapters of Genesis, had depreciated their historic value, and had welcomed the teachings of Professor Darwin. A bishop had retorted in the _Guardian_, and Catholic-minded clergy taken the matter up in the _Church Times_. The _Record_ had said that it had long told the public that this would be the result of ... And so on. Mr. Prideaux, an able, energetic, zealous man, preached upon the subject. He believed in dealing with subjects of current interest, besides (though he did not say so), unless you are very High Church, the month of August is singularly desert in regard to festivals. He may also have thought that here his small select congregation did at any rate contain a proportion of listeners who would be more interested in such matters than the average villager. And he was quite right in a sense. Only the Vicar could not know that there was a veritable gulf fixed between his comfortable reasoned theology and the devastating vivid modernism of either Manning or Paul. The priest said that, "of course," Darwinism was not proved; an increasing host of scientists disagreed with it. Besides, Darwin had never taught Darwinism. Again, if he had, there was nothing inherently hostile to the true teachings of the Church in the theory of evolution. There was nothing of revelation as to the precise point at which the ape-man became the man-ape with a soul. And it was only those who had forgotten the true relation of Church and Bible who found any difficulty in Genesis. The devout churchman only saw in these inspired fragments of ancient legend illustrations of the eternal groping of the soul of man after truth, and, he might say, an unique witness to the guiding hand of God.... Mr. Prideaux came to supper afterwards, and played a couple of rubbers of bridge. He was genial, and hoped, when he learned of Paul's taking up of residence at Fordham, that Paul would come to see him. He was a bachelor, and it would be delightful if they could see a good deal of each other. Paul went up slowly to his room at last. He opened the window and looked out towards the avenue and the lake. The trees stretched grey and ghostly in a dim misty starlight, but they were not friendly or inviting to-night. Something had gone from the face of earth and sky. Darwin, evolution, science, ape-men, the interpretations of texts--what jargon! Where was God now, and why would He not speak? What else mattered? He was silent; He had been eternally silent it seemed; it was but the promptings of their own imagination which men had taken for His voice. No, he could not go and write poetry any more. CHAPTER X "THE BLIND BEGGAR"