be priests; looks as if he fasted and half-starved himself," whispered
one to the other. "The Rector should be more careful. Who knows but
what he is a Jesuit in disguise?" replied the third.
And at intervals during the sermon little groans or ejaculations of
disapproval might have been heard from the seats of the wealthy
spinsters.
"I did my best not to listen," said the eldest candidly, as they were
walking home, "for I knew in a moment what it was going to be. But no
doubt he had a persuasive tone and manner. Poor deluded young man--he
will be over to Rome in no time! Did you hear--all that about `the
Church?'--"
"The `invisible' Church, he spoke of also, I think," suggested the
younger sister timidly.
"Ah, I daresay, just to hide their real meaning; but I can see through
it. There was all that in favour of images, too--symbols he called
them. What was it he said, Janet? You have the best memory."
"`The childlike expressions of human yearnings after the Divine, which
is not for you to condemn or despise,'" quoted Janet.
"Ah, yes--all very fine. We shall be having Madonnas and rosaries and
graven images in our English churches next," said the eldest sister
somewhat confusedly.
"He seemed to me a conscientious young man, very much in earnest, I
should have said," observed the younger sister humbly.
"Of course, they take that tone; that is the very danger of it,"
answered the elder lady. "I really must ask the Rector to be on his
guard."
And yet by another group seated just across the aisle the stranger's
sermon had been criticised in a very different fashion. By some among
his hearers his views were pronounced to be, not too "high," or "leading
to Rome," but dangerously "broad."
"I dislike those allusions to `evolution' and `development' in the
pulpit. It is not the place for science; our preachers should keep to
the Bible, and not give heed to all the talk of the day about matters
which have nothing to do with religion," said an elderly gentleman
dogmatically.
His companion smiled; they, too, were walking down the street. "Yes,
religion or teachers of religion get rather out of their depth when they
touch upon science, certainly," he said.
"But if science be true, and religion be true, _truths_ cannot
disagree," said a young girl, who was walking between the two, her
bright intelligent face raised to the last speaker, her brother, as he
spoke. "You are a very clever and learned man, Gerald, and I am only a
very young and ignorant girl, but yet I _feel_ you are wrong, and I
never felt this more intensely than when listening to this stranger this
morning. Why should we refuse to believe what we cannot understand? Is
it not the very height of presumption, and even stupidity, to do so? I
cannot remember his words, but they seemed to me to say it as I have
never heard it said before. And--I hoped you felt it so, too."
But the philosopher only shook his head. The two were some paces in
front of the old gentleman by now; they knew that such talk annoyed him,
hedged in, in his "orthodoxy."
"I am glad if you were pleased, my dear child," said the brother; "but I
must keep to my old opinion. Reality and dreams _cannot_ be reconciled.
We can only know that which we have experience of. Still, I allow that
he put it in rather an original way."
"You mean," said the girl, eagerly, "when he said that our refusing to
believe in God and the spiritual universe, because we cannot see and
touch them, is like a deaf-mute refusing to believe in music--that we
complain of the things of God not being proved and explained to us
before we have learned the alphabet of the spiritual language."
"That we complain of not being treated as gods before we have learned to
live as men. Yes, that was rather fine," the other allowed. "But
still, my dear child, I cannot see that these discussions are
profitable. We have plenty to do and learn about matters as to which we
_can_ arrive at certainty. Why not be content to leave those matters as
to which we _know_ nothing? I don't quarrel with the clergy for trying
to bring us to a different way of thinking; it is their business, and as
long as there are priests, we must submit to their platitudes. But what
can a young theologian, determined to see things in but one way, know of
the researches of science, the true spirit of philosophy?"
The girl looked grievously disappointed, and tears filled her beautiful
eyes.
"Gerald," she said, "I could not live in the negation of all belief that
you advocate; still less," she went on in a lower voice, "could I die in
it. Uncle thought the preacher dangerously `liberal;' _you_ think him
narrow and ignorant. For me, I can only say, if I may use the words
without irreverence, that my heart burned within me as I listened."
"Little enthusiast!" said her brother, smiling. Mentally he thought to
himself that it would really be a pity if Agatha went too far in "that
direction," and his eyes wandering across the street, caught sight of a
party of young people, laughing and talking, though in well-bred
fashion, as they went along. "She should be more like other girls of
her age," he reflected, as his glance again fell on the thoughtful young
face at his side.
"You should be pleased and flattered, Agatha," he said, "that I gave so
much attention as I did to this pet preacher of yours."
"I don't know him, Gerald," she replied. "I never saw or heard him
before."
"Really," he said, "I had half an idea that you had some reason for so
particularly asking me to go to church this morning."
"Oh, no. I expected the Rector would be preaching himself," she said.
"But I am glad you came, Gerald. You do allow that it was a remarkable
sermon."
"Ye-es," he replied, smiling again, and with that Agatha was forced to
be contented.
Across the street the same subject was being discussed.
"I feel quite tired," laughed one of the pretty girls to the man beside
her. "Do you know, for once in my life, I really listened to the
sermon?"
"You don't mean to say so," he replied. But something in his tone made
her glance up at him archly.
"Why do you seem so conscious?" she said. "Were you asleep?"
"No, I scarcely think so. I was very sleepy at the beginning, it was so
hot. But there was something rather impressive in that fellow's voice.
To confess the truth, I caught myself listening, like you."
"If one could always listen, it would make church-going less wearisome,"
said the girl. "As a rule, I never attempt it; they always say the same
thing."
"And there was nothing particularly new in what that pale-faced young
man had to say this morning, after all," said her companion. "It was
the mere accident of his having an unusually good voice."
"Yes, I suppose so," replied the young lady, indifferently, "though I've
really forgotten what it was about--there are too many other things to
think about when one is young and--"
"Lovely," interrupted her companion. "Yes--and for my part I don't see
what we're in the world for, if it isn't to make ourselves as happy as
we can. That's _my_ religion."
"A very pleasant one, if it has no other merit," the girl replied, with
a laugh.
At that moment a carriage passed them. It had but one occupant--an
elderly lady. Her face, though worn and even prematurely aged, was
sweet and calm. Her glance fell for an instant on the upturned laughing
face of the girl.
"Something in her recalls my Margaret," thought the lady; "but Margaret
was more serious. How is it that they all seem to have been so near me
to-day? All my dead children who have left me--I am so glad I went to
church. I have not felt so near them all for years. I could almost
fancy that young man knew something of my sorrows, his glance rested on
me once or twice with such sympathy. How beautiful and how
strengthening were his words! Yes--we are not really separated--I am
content to wait while God has work for me to do here. And I am glad I
am rich when I feel how many I can help. God bless that preacher,
whoever he is, for the strength and comfort he has given me to-day."
Mildred in her place sat quietly waiting till the congregation had
dispersed. Then she rose and went forward to speak to the verger.
"Will you tell the clergyman," she said, "Mr Lyle is his name--that I
hope he will return with me to the rectory to luncheon. I will wait
here till he comes out."
The man went with her message. But in a moment or two he reappeared
looking somewhat surprised.
"He has gone, ma'am," he said. "I can't make out how he went off so
quickly. No one seems to have seen him."
"He must have hurried off at once. No doubt I shall find him at home,"
she said, feeling nevertheless a little disappointed. She had looked
forward to the few minutes' talk with the preacher who had so impressed
her; she would have liked to thank him without delay.
"I shall feel too shy to say it to him before Reginald, I am afraid,"
she thought. "I am a little surprised he did not tell me more of this
Mr Lyle."
And she set off eagerly to return home. At the church door she almost
ran against one of the curates, an honest and hard-working, but
dictatorial young man, with whom she did not feel much sympathy. He
accompanied her a few steps down the street.
"And how did you like the sermon?" he said.
Mildred replied by repeating his own question, hoping thus to escape a
discussion she felt sure would not be to her mind.
"How did _you_ like it, Mr Grenfell?" she asked.
He smiled in a superior way, conscious to his fingertips of his
unassailable theology.
"I daresay he may come to be something of a preacher in time," he said.
"But he was crude--very crude--and I should say he would do well to go
through a good course of divinity. He evidently _thinks_ he knows all
about it; but if I could have a talk with him I could knock his
arguments to shivers, I could--"
"Mr Grenfell," said Mildred, feeling very repelled by his manner, "do
you think religion is only theology of the Schools? If you could not
feel the love of God, and love to man--the `enthusiasm of humanity,' if
you like to call it so--breathing through Mr Lyle's every word and look
and tone, I am sorry for you."
Mr Grenfell grew very red.
"I am sorry," he began, "I did not mean--I will think over what you say.
Perhaps it is true that we clergy get into that way of thinking--as if
religion were a branch of learning more than anything else. Thank you,"
and with a shake of the hand he turned away.
A step or two further on, Mildred overtook a young man--a cripple, and
owing to his infirmity, in poor circumstances, though a gentleman by
birth. She was passing with a kindly bow, when he stopped her.
"Might I ask the name of the clergyman who preached this morning?" he
asked, raising his face, still glowing with pleasure, to hers.
"Mr Lyle," she replied; "at least," as for the first time a slight
misgiving crossed her mind, "I feel almost sure that is his name."
"Thank you," the cripple said. "I am glad to know it, though it matters
little. Whoever he was, I pray God to bless him, I little knew what I
was going to church to hear this morning; I felt as if an angel had
unawares come to speak to us."
And in the relief of this warm sympathy Mildred held out her hand.
"Thank _you_, Mr Denis, for speaking so," she said; "you are the first
who seem to have felt as I did."
Then she hurried on.
She found her husband on the sofa, but looking feverish and uneasy.
"How?" he began, but she interrupted him.
"Is Mr Lyle not here?" she said.
"Mr Lyle!" Reginald repeated. "What do you mean? You had scarcely
gone when a special messenger brought this from him;" and he held out a
short note of excessive regret and apology from the young priest, at
finding the utter impossibility of reaching Saint X's in time for the
morning service. "I have been on thorns," said the Rector, "and I could
do nothing. There was no one to send. Did Grenfell preach, or was
there no sermon?"
Mildred sat down, feeling strangely bewildered.
"I cannot explain it," she said. "Reginald, tell me what is Mr Lyle's
personal appearance? Can he have come after all? even after despatching
his message? Is he slight and fair--rather tall and almost
boyish-looking, but with most sweet yet keen eyes, and a wonderful
voice?"
The Rector could hardly help smiling.
"Lyle," he replied, "is slight, but short, and dark--very dark, with a
quick lively way of moving, and a rather thin, though clear voice. He
has not a grain of music or poetry in his composition."
Nothing could be more unlike the preacher of that morning.
Mildred told her husband all she could recollect of the sermon. Its
vivid impression remained; but the words had grown hazy, and curiously
enough she could not recall the text. But Reginald listened with full
sympathy and belief.
"I wish I could have heard it," he said. "Were the days for such
blessed visitations not over, I should think." But there he hesitated.
Mildred understood, and the words of the cripple, Mr Denis--"an angel
unawares"--returned to her memory.
The events I have related were never explained, nor of the many who had
been present that Sunday morning at Saint X's did any ever again look
upon the fair face of the mysterious stranger.
But--till the matter had passed from the minds of all but two or three--
the Rector had to listen with patience to much fault-finding with the
sermon, and with its preacher.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The End.