Then a wave of religiosity passed through the school. Bad language was
no longer heard, and the little nastinesses of small boys were looked
upon with hostility; the bigger boys, like the lords temporal of the
Middle Ages, used the strength of their arms to persuade those weaker
than themselves to virtuous courses.
Philip, his restless mind avid for new things, became very devout. He
heard soon that it was possible to join a Bible League, and wrote to
London for particulars. These consisted in a form to be filled up with
the applicant’s name, age, and school; a solemn declaration to be
signed that he would read a set portion of Holy Scripture every night
for a year; and a request for half a crown; this, it was explained, was
demanded partly to prove the earnestness of the applicant’s desire to
become a member of the League, and partly to cover clerical expenses.
Philip duly sent the papers and the money, and in return received a
calendar worth about a penny, on which was set down the appointed
passage to be read each day, and a sheet of paper on one side of which
was a picture of the Good Shepherd and a lamb, and on the other,
decoratively framed in red lines, a short prayer which had to be said
before beginning to read.
Every evening he undressed as quickly as possible in order to have time
for his task before the gas was put out. He read industriously, as he
read always, without criticism, stories of cruelty, deceit,
ingratitude, dishonesty, and low cunning. Actions which would have
excited his horror in the life about him, in the reading passed through
his mind without comment, because they were committed under the direct
inspiration of God. The method of the League was to alternate a book of
the Old Testament with a book of the New, and one night Philip came
across these words of Jesus Christ:
If ye have faith, and doubt not, ye shall not only do this which is
done to the fig-tree, but also if ye shall say unto this mountain, Be
thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea; it shall be done.
And all this, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall
receive.
They made no particular impression on him, but it happened that two or
three days later, being Sunday, the Canon in residence chose them for
the text of his sermon. Even if Philip had wanted to hear this it would
have been impossible, for the boys of King’s School sit in the choir,
and the pulpit stands at the corner of the transept so that the
preacher’s back is almost turned to them. The distance also is so great
that it needs a man with a fine voice and a knowledge of elocution to
make himself heard in the choir; and according to long usage the Canons
of Tercanbury are chosen for their learning rather than for any
qualities which might be of use in a cathedral church. But the words of
the text, perhaps because he had read them so short a while before,
came clearly enough to Philip’s ears, and they seemed on a sudden to
have a personal application. He thought about them through most of the
sermon, and that night, on getting into bed, he turned over the pages
of the Gospel and found once more the passage. Though he believed
implicitly everything he saw in print, he had learned already that in
the Bible things that said one thing quite clearly often mysteriously
meant another. There was no one he liked to ask at school, so he kept
the question he had in mind till the Christmas holidays, and then one
day he made an opportunity. It was after supper and prayers were just
finished. Mrs. Carey was counting the eggs that Mary Ann had brought in
as usual and writing on each one the date. Philip stood at the table
and pretended to turn listlessly the pages of the Bible.
“I say, Uncle William, this passage here, does it really mean that?”
He put his finger against it as though he had come across it
accidentally.
Mr. Carey looked up over his spectacles. He was holding The Blackstable
Times in front of the fire. It had come in that evening damp from the
press, and the Vicar always aired it for ten minutes before he began to
read.
“What passage is that?” he asked.
“Why, this about if you have faith you can remove mountains.”
“If it says so in the Bible it is so, Philip,” said Mrs. Carey gently,
taking up the plate-basket.
Philip looked at his uncle for an answer.
“It’s a matter of faith.”
“D’you mean to say that if you really believed you could move mountains
you could?”
“By the grace of God,” said the Vicar.
“Now, say good-night to your uncle, Philip,” said Aunt Louisa. “You’re
not wanting to move a mountain tonight, are you?”
Philip allowed himself to be kissed on the forehead by his uncle and
preceded Mrs. Carey upstairs. He had got the information he wanted. His
little room was icy, and he shivered when he put on his nightshirt. But
he always felt that his prayers were more pleasing to God when he said
them under conditions of discomfort. The coldness of his hands and feet
were an offering to the Almighty. And tonight he sank on his knees;
buried his face in his hands, and prayed to God with all his might that
He would make his club-foot whole. It was a very small thing beside the
moving of mountains. He knew that God could do it if He wished, and his
own faith was complete. Next morning, finishing his prayers with the
same request, he fixed a date for the miracle.
“Oh, God, in Thy loving mercy and goodness, if it be Thy will, please
make my foot all right on the night before I go back to school.”
He was glad to get his petition into a formula, and he repeated it
later in the dining-room during the short pause which the Vicar always
made after prayers, before he rose from his knees. He said it again in
the evening and again, shivering in his nightshirt, before he got into
bed. And he believed. For once he looked forward with eagerness to the
end of the holidays. He laughed to himself as he thought of his uncle’s
astonishment when he ran down the stairs three at a time; and after
breakfast he and Aunt Louisa would have to hurry out and buy a new pair
of boots. At school they would be astounded.
“Hulloa, Carey, what have you done with your foot?”
“Oh, it’s all right now,” he would answer casually, as though it were
the most natural thing in the world.
He would be able to play football. His heart leaped as he saw himself
running, running, faster than any of the other boys. At the end of the
Easter term there were the sports, and he would be able to go in for
the races; he rather fancied himself over the hurdles. It would be
splendid to be like everyone else, not to be stared at curiously by new
boys who did not know about his deformity, nor at the baths in summer
to need incredible precautions, while he was undressing, before he
could hide his foot in the water.
He prayed with all the power of his soul. No doubts assailed him. He
was confident in the word of God. And the night before he was to go
back to school he went up to bed tremulous with excitement. There was
snow on the ground, and Aunt Louisa had allowed herself the
unaccustomed luxury of a fire in her bed-room; but in Philip’s little
room it was so cold that his fingers were numb, and he had great
difficulty in undoing his collar. His teeth chattered. The idea came to
him that he must do something more than usual to attract the attention
of God, and he turned back the rug which was in front of his bed so
that he could kneel on the bare boards; and then it struck him that his
nightshirt was a softness that might displease his Maker, so he took it
off and said his prayers naked. When he got into bed he was so cold
that for some time he could not sleep, but when he did, it was so
soundly that Mary Ann had to shake him when she brought in his hot
water next morning. She talked to him while she drew the curtains, but
he did not answer; he had remembered at once that this was the morning
for the miracle. His heart was filled with joy and gratitude. His first
instinct was to put down his hand and feel the foot which was whole
now, but to do this seemed to doubt the goodness of God. He knew that
his foot was well. But at last he made up his mind, and with the toes
of his right foot he just touched his left. Then he passed his hand
over it.
He limped downstairs just as Mary Ann was going into the dining-room
for prayers, and then he sat down to breakfast.
“You’re very quiet this morning, Philip,” said Aunt Louisa presently.
“He’s thinking of the good breakfast he’ll have at school to-morrow,”
said the Vicar.
When Philip answered, it was in a way that always irritated his uncle,
with something that had nothing to do with the matter in hand. He
called it a bad habit of wool-gathering.
“Supposing you’d asked God to do something,” said Philip, “and really
believed it was going to happen, like moving a mountain, I mean, and
you had faith, and it didn’t happen, what would it mean?”
“What a funny boy you are!” said Aunt Louisa. “You asked about moving
mountains two or three weeks ago.”
“It would just mean that you hadn’t got faith,” answered Uncle William.
Philip accepted the explanation. If God had not cured him, it was
because he did not really believe. And yet he did not see how he could
believe more than he did. But perhaps he had not given God enough time.
He had only asked Him for nineteen days. In a day or two he began his
prayer again, and this time he fixed upon Easter. That was the day of
His Son’s glorious resurrection, and God in His happiness might be
mercifully inclined. But now Philip added other means of attaining his
desire: he began to wish, when he saw a new moon or a dappled horse,
and he looked out for shooting stars; during exeat they had a chicken
at the vicarage, and he broke the lucky bone with Aunt Louisa and
wished again, each time that his foot might be made whole. He was
appealing unconsciously to gods older to his race than the God of
Israel. And he bombarded the Almighty with his prayer, at odd times of
the day, whenever it occurred to him, in identical words always, for it
seemed to him important to make his request in the same terms. But
presently the feeling came to him that this time also his faith would
not be great enough. He could not resist the doubt that assailed him.
He made his own experience into a general rule.
“I suppose no one ever has faith enough,” he said.
It was like the salt which his nurse used to tell him about: you could
catch any bird by putting salt on his tail; and once he had taken a
little bag of it into Kensington Gardens. But he could never get near
enough to put the salt on a bird’s tail. Before Easter he had given up
the struggle. He felt a dull resentment against his uncle for taking
him in. The text which spoke of the moving of mountains was just one of
those that said one thing and meant another. He thought his uncle had
been playing a practical joke on him.