They had bought peppermints up at the village, and were coming home past
little St. Barnabas's church, when they saw Jimmy Kidbrooke, the
carpenter's baby, kicking at the churchyard gate, with a shaving in his
mouth and the tears running down his cheeks.
Una pulled out the shaving and put in a peppermint. Jimmy said he was
looking for his grand-daddy--he never seemed to take much notice of his
father--so they went up between the old graves, under the leaf-dropping
limes, to the porch, where Jim trotted in, looked about the empty
church, and screamed like a gate-hinge.
Young Sam Kidbrooke's voice came from the bell-tower, and made them
jump.
'Why, Jimmy,' he called, 'what are you doin' here? Fetch him, Father!'
Old Mr. Kidbrooke stumped downstairs, jerked Jimmy on to his shoulder,
stared at the children beneath his brass spectacles, and stumped back
again. They laughed: it was so exactly like Mr. Kidbrooke.
'It's all right,' Una called up the stairs. 'We found him, Sam. Does
his mother know?'
'He's come off by himself. She'll be just about crazy,' Sam answered.
'Then I'll run down street and tell her.' Una darted off.
'Thank you, Miss Una. Would you like to see how we're mendin' the
bell-beams, Mus' Dan?'
Dan hopped up, and saw young Sam lying on his stomach in a most
delightful place among beams and ropes, close to the five great bells.
Old Mr. Kidbrooke on the floor beneath was planing a piece of wood, and
Jimmy was eating the shavings as fast as they came away. He never looked
at Jimmy; Jimmy never stopped eating; and the broad gilt-bobbed pendulum
of the church clock never stopped swinging across the white-washed wall
of the tower.
Dan winked through the sawdust that fell on his up-turned face. 'Ring a
bell,' he called.
'I mustn't do that, but I'll buzz one of 'em a bit for you,' said Sam.
He pounded on the sound-bow of the biggest bell, and waked a hollow
groaning boom that ran up and down the tower like creepy feelings down
your back. Just when it almost began to hurt, it died away in a hurry of
beautiful sorrowful cries, like a wineglass rubbed with a wet finger.
The pendulum clanked--one loud clank to each silent swing.
Dan heard Una return from Mrs. Kidbrooke's, and ran down to fetch her.
She was standing by the font staring at some one who kneeled at the
altar rail.
'Is that the lady who practises the organ?' she whispered.
'No. She's gone into the organ-place. Besides, she wears black,' Dan
replied.
The figure rose and came down the nave. It was a white-haired man in a
long white gown with a sort of scarf looped low on the neck, one end
hanging over his shoulder. His loose long sleeves were embroidered with
gold, and a deep strip of gold embroidery waved and sparkled round the
hem of his gown.
'Go and meet him,' said Puck's voice behind the font. 'It's only
Wilfrid.'
'Wilfrid who?' said Dan. 'You come along too.'
'Wilfrid--Saint of Sussex, and Archbishop of York. _I_ shall wait till
he asks me.' He waved them forward. Their feet squeaked on the old grave
slabs in the centre aisle. The Archbishop raised one hand with a pink
ring on it, and said something in Latin. He was very handsome, and his
thin face looked almost as silvery as his thin circle of hair.
'Are you alone?' he asked.
'Puck's here, of course,' said Una. 'Do you know him?'
'I know him better now than I used to.' He beckoned over Dan's shoulder,
and spoke again in Latin. Puck pattered forward, holding himself as
straight as an arrow. The Archbishop smiled.
'Be welcome,' said he. 'Be very welcome.'
'Welcome to you also, O Prince of the Church,' Puck replied. The
Archbishop bowed his head and passed on, till he glimmered like a white
moth in the shadow by the font.
'He does look awfully princely,' said Una. 'Isn't he coming back?'
'Oh yes. He's only looking over the church. He's very fond of churches,'
said Puck. 'What's that?'
The Lady who practises the organ was speaking to the blower-boy behind
the organ-screen. 'We can't very well talk here,' Puck whispered. 'Let's
go to Panama Corner.'
He led them to the end of the south aisle, where there is a slab of iron
which says in queer, long-tailed letters: _Orate p. annema Jhone
Coline._ The children always called it Panama Corner.
The Archbishop moved slowly about the little church, peering at the old
memorial tablets and the new glass windows. The Lady who practises the
organ began to pull out stops and rustle hymnbooks behind the screen.
'I hope she'll do all the soft lacey tunes--like treacle on porridge,'
said Una.
'I like the trumpety ones best,' said Dan. 'Oh, look at Wilfrid! He's
trying to shut the altar gates!'
'Tell him he mustn't,' said Puck, quite seriously.
'He can't, anyhow,' Dan muttered, and tiptoed out of Panama Corner while
the Archbishop patted and patted at the carved gates that always sprang
open again beneath his hand.
'That's no use, sir,' Dan whispered. 'Old Mr. Kidbrooke says altar-gates
are just _the_ one pair of gates which no man can shut. He made 'em so
himself.'
The Archbishop's blue eyes twinkled. Dan saw that he knew all about it.
'I beg your pardon,' Dan stammered--very angry with Puck.
'Yes, I know! He made them so Himself.' The Archbishop smiled, and
crossed to Panama Corner, where Una dragged up a certain padded
arm-chair for him to sit on.
The organ played softly. 'What does that music say?' he asked.
Una dropped into the chant without thinking: '"Oh, all ye works of the
Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise him and magnify him for ever." We call
it the Noah's Ark, because it's all lists of things--beasts and birds
and whales, you know.'
'Whales?' said the Archbishop quickly.
'Yes--"O ye whales, and all that move in the waters,"' Una
hummed--'"Bless ye the Lord"--it sounds like a wave turning over,
doesn't it?'
'Holy Father,' said Puck with a demure face, 'is a little seal also "one
who moves in the water"?'
'Eh? Oh yes--yess!' he laughed. 'A seal moves wonderfully in the waters.
Do the seal come to my island still?'