She was a brand snatched from the burning; his

detailed eloquence had frightened her into heaven; salvation came in

the nick of time; his words had plucked her from the edge of that lake

of fire and brimstone where their worm dieth not and the fire is not

quenched. She regarded him as a hero, sighed her relief upon his

saintly shoulder, and accepted the peace he offered her with a grateful

resignation.

For her husband was a ‘religious man’ who successfully combined

great riches with the glamour of winning souls. He was a portly

figure, though tall, with masterful, big hands, he 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 theatres, ball-rooms and

race-courses 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 Societes,

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 king 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 odour 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 meagre

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 hail 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.