HOLY COMMUNION
They reached the chapel and entered during the last verse of the
Processional Hymn. As Genevieve was known to the usher in charge of the
centre aisle, they were shown to a pew farther forward than Blake would
have chosen.
Genevieve produced a dainty hymnal and prayer-book, and gave her
companion the pleasurable employment of helping her hold first one and
then the other, throughout the service. If his spirit was quickened by
a re-hearing of the prayers in which he had once believed, he did not
show it. But he seemed pleased at the fact that Genevieve was too
intent upon worship to gaze around at the hats and dresses of the other
ladies.
The chapel choir could not boast of any exceptional voices. It was,
however, very well trained. Throughout the anthem Blake sat tense,
almost quivering, so keen was his delight. At the close he sank back
into the corner of the pew, his gaze shifting uneasily from the infirm
and aged bishop in the episcopal chair to the thin, eager-faced young
vicar who had hastened around to mount up into the pulpit.
With a quick movement, the vicar opened the thick Bible to his text,
the announcement of which caused Blake to start and fix his attention
upon him:
"'He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty, and he that
ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.' Proverbs 16:32."
Genevieve glanced at Blake, who recalled how she had expressed her
certainty that he would find the sermon helpful. The text was apt, to
say the least. His hard-set face momentarily softened with a smile that
caused her to settle back, in serene contentment. He assumed what Lord
James would have termed his "poker face" and leaned up in the corner of
the pew, to gaze at the preacher, as impassive as a wooden image.
The manner in which the Reverend Mr. Vincent elucidated his text soon
won a stare of pleased surprise from Blake. He began by describing, no
less vividly than briefly, the walled cities of the ancients and the
enormous difficulty of capturing them, either by siege or assault. This
was followed by a graphic summary of the life of Alexander the Great.
Blake listened with such intentness to this novel sermon that he did
not perceive that Genevieve was no less intently studying him. It was
evident he was deeply impressed by the obvious inference to be drawn
from the life of the mighty young Macedonian,--the youth who conquered
worlds, only to be himself conquered by his own vices.
But when, warming to his theme, the young vicar entered upon a eulogy
of asceticism, Blake bent over and stared moodily at the printed
"Suggestions to Worshippers" pasted on the back of the next pew. His
big body, to all appearances, was absolutely still and rigid, but the
fingers of his right hand moved about restlessly, tapping his knee or
clenching upon the broad palm.
In the midst of Mr. Vincent's explanations of what he considered the
fundamental differences between the self-torture of the Hindu yogis and
the mortifications of spirit and body practised by the mediaeval monks,
Blake shook his head in an uneasy, annoyed gesture. Yet if he meant
this as an indication of dissent, he gave no other sign that he was
following the thread of the sermon.
Even the close of the eloquent peroration, in which Mr. Vincent
besought his hearers to prepare for the fasting and prayer of the
Lenten season, failed to rouse Blake from his moody abstraction. But at
the end of the regular service, when the white-gowned choir-boys
flocked out and the majority of the congregation began to crowd into
the aisles with decorous murmurings and the soft rustling of silken
skirts, Blake raised his head and followed their departure with a
shifting, disquieted gaze.
At last all others than those who had remained for the communion had
passed out into the vestibule, and the closing of the doors muffled the
loud clear voices of those on the outer steps. Genevieve touched
Blake's arm. He started, and glanced up into the chancel. As he caught
sight of the bishop and Mr. Vincent behind the rail, his uneasiness
became so pronounced that Genevieve was alarmed.
"What is it? Are you ill?" she whispered.
"No," he replied. He thrust his shaking hands into his coat pockets,
forced himself to take a deep breath, and added in a thick,
half-inarticulate mutter, "no--won't give in--not a quitter."
She could not catch the words, but the resolute tone reassured her.
"It's the air in here. It's stifling. But we shall not be long now,"
she murmured, and she lapsed into devotional concentration.
Blake, however, followed the service with increasing restlessness. His
fingers twitched within the sheltering pockets, and the lines of his
face drew tense. He glanced about two or three times as though half
inclined to bolt.
A little more, and he might have broken under the strain and run away.
But then the communicants began to leave their pews and drift forward
into the chancel. At the touch of Genevieve's hand upon his arm he
started more sharply than before.
"Tom, you really are ill!" she insisted.
"No," he mumbled, "I guess I--Wait, though. I've forgotten. Does he
mean we're supposed to take it as real flesh and blood?"
"Only the Romanists hold to that. We take it symbolically."
"Then why doesn't he say so?"
"He did. Besides, every one understands. You are coming?"
"Wine--alcohol--and she still insists!" he muttered in a thick, almost
inarticulate voice.
Intent upon the sacrament, she failed to heed either his tone or the
despair in his tense face.
"Come. We are the last," she urged. "We'll soon be out in the open air."
With a heaviness that she mistook for solemnity, he stepped out into
the aisle for her to leave the pew, and walked beside her up into the
chancel.
She knelt near the extreme end of the altar rail, and bent over with
her face in the little hand that she had bared to receive the communion
bread. For a moment Blake stood beside her, staring dubiously at the
venerable figure of the bishop. Mr. Vincent passed between. Blake took
a step to the left and knelt down beside Genevieve.
The only sounds in the chancel were the intoned murmurings of the
bishop and Mr. Vincent and the labored breathing of an asthmatic woman
next to Genevieve. The less indistinct of the murmuring voices drew
near. Genevieve thrust out her palm a little way. Blake, without
looking up, did the same.
Mr. Vincent reiterated his intoned statement above them, as though in
invocation, and placed tiny squares of bread in their palms. They were
the last in the line of kneeling communicants. Blake waited until
Genevieve raised her hand to her mouth. Mechanically he followed her
example. He swallowed the little morsel of bread with perceptible
effort. Again he pressed his forehead down upon the hand that gripped
the brass rail.
The bishop's voice now murmured near them, feeble and broken, yet very
solemn: "'The Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was shed for thee,
preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life. Drink this in
remembrance that Christ's Blood was shed for thee, and be thankful.'"
Both of Blake's hands now clutched the rail in a grip that whitened the
knuckles. Persons from the other end and the centre of the line were
rising and softly retiring to their pews. The asthmatic woman gasped
and fell silent as the bishop held the communion cup to her lips.
The bishop shuffled quietly along another step and stood bowed over the
last two communicants. He was a very old man and he was ill. His voice
sank to an inaudible murmur: "'The Blood ... shed for thee, preserve
... life. Drink this ..."
Blake waited, tense and rigid, as one about to meet the shock of a
deadly attack. The bishop drew the chalice back from Genevieve's lips
in his trembling hands, and paused for Blake to reach out and take it.
Blake did not move. The bishop bent farther over. The fumes of the wine
rose in the face of the kneeling man. He quivered and shrank
back--then, almost violently, he flung up his head and caught the cup
to his lips.
Genevieve was rising. Blake stood up abruptly and followed her down to
their pew. She knelt at once; but he caught up his soft hat, and
holding it before his face, bent down close to her ear. He spoke in a
strained whisper: "Excuse me. I've got to go."
She half rose. "You're ill! I'll go with you and--"
"No. Sit still. I've a--a most important engagement with, a friend--Mr.
Griffith. Got to hurry!"
"Not so loud!" she cautioned him. "If you _must_ go, Tom!"
"Yes, must! Sorry, but--" His hand sought and closed upon hers in a
sudden caressing clasp, and his voice became husky. "Good-bye, girlie!
May not see you for a--for a time!"
"Why, are you going out of town?" she asked.
But he was already turning away. Without pausing to answer her
question, he started rapidly down the aisle, his head and shoulders
bent forward in a peculiar crouch. A slight frown of perplexity and
displeasure marred the serenity of Genevieve's face. But the benign
voice of the bishop immediately soothed her back into her beatific
abstraction.
When the service was ended, she walked home in a most devotional frame
of mind, and after luncheon, spent the afternoon searching out
scriptural verses that she thought would aid in the spiritual
re-awakening of Blake. Later in the afternoon she accompanied her
father to the Gantrys', her face aglow with reverent joy. It was as if
she felt that she had already guided Blake into the straight and narrow
way that leads up out of the primitive.
They found Dolores industriously shocking her mother by a persistent
heckling of Lord James, who was smiling at her quips and sallies and
twirling his little blond mustache as if he enjoyed the raillery.
"Oh, here's Vievie, at last!" cried the girl. "Vievie darling, your
eyes positively shine! Have you and the heroic Thomas been talking
about the sharks and crocodiles of your late paradise? That was so cute
of you, waiting this morning till we had gone, and then slipping off
with him alone."
"We went to my little chapel. I knew the dear old bishop would be
there. And the new vicar, Mr. Vincent, preached a splendid sermon."
"Which you talked about all the way home--I don't think," mocked
Dolores.
"No, you never think," agreed Mrs. Gantry.
"Mr. Blake had to hasten away, just before the close of the communion
service," explained Genevieve. "He remembered an important engagement
with Mr. Griffith."
"About the Zariba Dam?" queried her father with alert eagerness.
"He did not say. I am not altogether sure that he--"
"Pardon me," interrupted Lord James. "Do you really believe that, in
the circumstances, he would leave you for a business appointment?"
"Why shouldn't he?" said Mr. Leslie. "If he solves the problem of that
dam, his fortune is as good as made. He'll have big positions thrust
upon him. Did he seem excited, my dear--abstracted?"
"Oh, do you think it was that?" replied Genevieve. "I feared he was
ill. The ventilation of the chapel is so wretched. He did look odd; yet
he would not admit that he felt ill. I was half doubtful whether it was
right to insist that he stay to communion."
"Communion!" gasped Mrs. Gantry. "You don't mean to say, my dear, that
you've made a convert of him? Impossible!"
"I'm afraid not," sighed Genevieve. "I believe he took the communion
merely to oblige me."
"Took the communion?" echoed Lord James, no less astonished than Mrs.
Gantry. "Surely you do not--er--It seems quite impossible, you know."
"Is it so very amazing, when I asked him--urged him?" said Genevieve,
flushing ever so slightly under his incredulous look.
"My word!" he murmured. "Tom did that!"
"I regret that he was not in a condition to receive the utmost good
from it. But he was either ill or else rendered uneasy over his
business with Mr. Griffith," remarked Genevieve.
"Of course, of course!" assented Lord James, bending over to brush a
speck from his knee. "Quite a pity, indeed!" He straightened and turned
to Mrs. Gantry, with a forced smile. "Er--it's deuced stupid of
me--agreeing to dine, y'know--deuced stupid. Must beg pardon for
cutting it! I'd quite forgotten I was to meet Tom--er--and Griffith, at
their offices. They may be waiting for me now."
"Why, of all things!" protested Dolores. "You don't mean to say you are
going to run off, just when dinner is ready?"
"Lord Avondale has made his excuses," said her mother. "No doubt
another time--"
"Very soon, I trust--very soon," assented Lord James, with a
propitiatory glance at Dolores. "It's a keen disappointment, I assure
you." He looked about at Genevieve. "If you ladies will be so
kind--It's a most pressing matter. Er--Griffith is not in the best of
health. He may have to take a trip to Florida."
"No, he won't," broke in Mr. Leslie. "Not unless he leaves some one to
manage Lafayette Ashton. The young cub isn't fit to be left alone with
that bridge. Isn't that what this appointment is about? Griffith may
have it in mind to put Blake in charge of the bridge."
"Er--must say it wouldn't surprise me if he takes a run up there with
Griffith," said Lord James. "May go along myself."
"But you'll be back for the ball!" exclaimed Dolores.
"Right-o! Count on me for the ball. That's a fortnight off. Ample time."
"Then I promise you two waltzes. Bring back Laffie with you. He dances
divinely."
Lord James smiled in rather an absent manner, and turned to Genevieve.
"You take me? I expect to be away with Tom for a few days. He will
probably lack opportunity to call on you before he leaves town. You may
have a message for me to take to him."
"Give him my best wishes for the success--of his work."
"That is all?"
For a few moments Genevieve stood hesitating, too intent upon her own
thoughts to heed the covert stare of Dolores and the open scrutiny of
her aunt and father. Lord James waited, with his averted gaze fixed
upon the anxious face of Mrs. Gantry.
"That is all," quietly answered the girl, at last.
Mrs. Gantry sighed with relief, but Dolores frowned, and Mr. Leslie
stared in irritable perplexity. Lord James bowed and hastened out
before any of the others had observed his expression.