As the words fell, deliberately, yet without hesitation, from his lips,
vivid, scathing, forceful, there was not one there but knew that this
man spoke of the things which he had felt. The facts he marshalled
before them were appalling, but not a soul doubted them. It was truth
which he hurled at them, truth before which the Bishop sat back in his
seat and felt his cheeks grow paler and his eyes more full of trouble.
A great deal of it they had heard before, but never like this--never had
it been driven home into their conscience so that doubt or evasion was
impossible. And this man, who was he? They rubbed their eyes and
wondered. Ninth Marquis of Arranmore, owner of great estates,
dilettante, sportsman, cynic, latter-day sinner--or an apostle touched
with fire from Heaven to open men's eyes, gifted for a few brief minutes
with the tongue of a saintly Demosthenes. Those who knew him gaped like
children and wondered. And all the time his words stung them like drops
of burning rain.
"This," he concluded at last, "is the Hell which burns for ever under
this great city, and it is such men as his lordship the Bishop of
Beeston who can come here and speak of their agony in well-rounded
periods and congratulate you and himself upon the increasing number of
communicants in the East End--who stands in the market-place of the
world with stones for starving people.
Pages:
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466