CHRISTMAS CAROLS
... Doubt, which, like a ghost,
In the brain's darkness haunted me,
Was thus resolved: Him loved I most,
But her I loved most sensibly.
Lastly, my giddiest hope allow'd
No selfish thought, or earthly smirch;
And forth I went, in peace, and proud
To take my passion into Church;
Grateful and glad to think that all
Such doubts would seem entirely vain
To her whose nature's lighter fall
Made no divorce of heart from brain.
COVENTRY PATMORE: _The Angel in the House_.
(1)
Paul, walking home from Claxted Station down Edward Street and past Mr.
Thornton's "Elite Photographic Studio," was puzzled. Some bewildering
spell had fallen upon Claxted in a couple of months. The suburban
station had a strange respectable air that sat ill on it, and whereas a
station may smell of dirt or smoke, it should not smell of stale paint.
Edward Street was horribly tidy, and gaped. The Town Hall and its
Libraries, once majestic centres of learning and authority, had been
cheapened. And the familiar road to his home appeared to have been
newly washed and to have shrunk in the process.
His father's house had only escaped the snare by a miracle, and Paul
was obsessed by a sense of that miracle. The case of stuffed birds in
the hall, the gilt presentation clock in the drawing-room, the old
arm-chair in the dining-room, the yards of commentaries and sermons in
the study, with the illuminated addresses above them, were miraculously
pleasant. For days after his return, he kept looking at them, and
marvelling inwardly that they were just the same. The furniture of
Manning's and Mr. Tressor's rooms had already made him feel that in his
home recollections there must be some mistake. But he knew now,
staring about him, that there was not. And he was still quite glad,
and a little subdued.
"Oh, Paul," cried his mother, hurrying into the hall to meet him, "how
well you're looking! Are you glad to be back?"
"Very glad, mother darling," said Paul, kissing her. "Where's dad?"
"It's the Band of Hope night, dear, don't you remember? He's not back
yet. But he said he wouldn't be late for supper. Sit down over there
where I can see you, and tell me all about Cambridge."
Paul laughed. "That's a big order," he said. "I don't know where to
begin."
"Tell me about your children's service and the open air meetings,
Paul," said his mother. "Is Mr. Hartley nice? Your father and I are
so glad you've made such friends."
Paul thrust "The Literary Lounge," the College Feast, the Theatre,
Donaldson, Strether and Manning, into the back of his mind, and told
her.
"And do you find the lectures hard?" she queried.
Paul laughed gaily. What a topsy-turvy notion of Cambridge his mother,
after all, must have!
His father's key grated in the door and Paul ran out into the hall.
The clergyman came in, followed by Mr. Derrick. "Ah, Paul," he said,
"it is good to see you home again. Come in, Mr. Derrick. Paul's just
back. I'll get you the books at once."
He entered the study, and Mr. Derrick held out his hand. Paul took in
the dapper little man, from his spotless tall linen collar to his neat
black boots. "How are you?" he said genially. "How goes things?"
"How do you do, Mr. Paul," said Mr. Derrick nervously. "We are all
very well, thank you. Have you had a good time at college? How short
the terms are! You seem scarcely to have gone away at all."
"Eh?" queried Paul, momentarily astonished. Then he recollected.
"Yes," he confessed, "I suppose they do seem short. We read more in
the vacs. than in the terms, you know."
"I hope you will still be able to lend us a hand, however," said his
visitor.
"Rather," said Paul. "Who's taking the children on Sunday?"
"I am, unless you'd rather."
"I put Paul down for the evening," said his father, returning. "I
rather hope he'll go to church with his mother in the morning. She'd
enjoy having him. You know what mothers are, Derrick."
"Yes, yes, to be sure," said the little man quickly. "I should have
thought of it. But I expect we shall see a good deal of you, Mr. Paul."
"Rather," said the young man again. "Are all the folk going strong?"
"Yes. Mr. Vintner is secretary of the Missionary Committee in your
place. He's coming on well."
"Vintner!" exclaimed Paul. But he was ashamed of his instinctive
thought the next moment. "Splendid," he said.
Mr. Derrick nodded. "He gave a most helpful address on Henry Martyn
last week.... Thank you, Mr. Kestern. Are those the books? I'll go
through them to-night and let you have them on Sunday. I don't suppose
it'll take me long. Good-night. Good-night, Mr. Paul."
The clergyman thanked him and saw him out. "Capital fellow," he said,
entering the dining-room. "Wait till you're ordained, Paul, and you'll
know what such lay help means to a clergyman. Well, dear boy, and how
are you? Really I think you've grown. What do you think, mother?"
"I've been admiring his fancy waistcoat," said Mrs. Kestern. "Where
did you get it, Paul?"
(2)
Paul was soon aware that he was in for a delightful vacation. Not many
young men in their circle went to the University, and none at all,
naturally, from among "the workers." Paul was, therefore, lionised.
It was impossible for him not to be aware of it. He had always been a
kind of natural leader, but he was now something more. A glamour sat
about him. It was possibly Miss Ernest who made him aware of it first.
She was to play at the Mission Hall that first Sunday night, and Paul
called for her to take her down through the dark, slummy streets. She
kept him waiting some minutes, and when she came down, she was most
unusually resplendent even for her.
"How do you do?" she said, shaking hands and smiling. "Do you know, I
hardly dare call you Paul now?"
"Why ever not?" he asked, closing the house door behind her.
"You're so much older," she said.
"Two months, Madeline," he protested, using her name deliberately.
"Is that all? It seems to me that you've been away ages."
Paul glanced at her. She was entirely demure, and did not look at him.
"Well," he confessed, "it seems a long time to me too. It's curious
how quickly Cambridge changes things. I hardly feel the same as I did
two months ago."
"I suppose you've met all sorts of ripping people."
"Rather. Do you know Mr. Tressor's at our college, and I've shown him
my verses. He said--he was awfully nice about them. And _The Granta_
has taken a story of mine."
"I'm not surprised," she said. "I always thought you had it in you."
Paul was a little piqued that she took it so easily, though on
reflection he perceived that this was a compliment. "It is impossible
not to write at St. Mary's," he said.
"Is it very lovely?" she asked softly.
"Oh, exquisite. You must see. Do you think you could come up in the
summer term? My rooms are small and high up you know, but perfect I
think. And the Hall and Chapel thrill me every time I see them. If
you could see the moonlight on our First Court!"
"Doesn't Claxted bore you after all that?"
Paul laughed. "It's rather quaint," he confessed. "It's really rather
like another world. Do you know, I've been to the theatre."
"Have you? Oh how splendid! I'd love to go."
"Don't tell anyone," said Paul, cautiously.
"Of course not. What did you see?"
"The Mikado."
"Oh don't--I can't bear it. You make me so jealous. There you are,
leading your own life, and I'm tied down to this. You don't know how
things bore me at times."
Paul grew suddenly grave. "I think perhaps I am beginning to," he
said, and lapsed into silence.
A lay-reader took the service, and Paul, in cassock and surplice on the
platform of the little mission church, had leisure to observe. He had
been there a thousand times; very dear memories linked him to it; but
not till now had he looked about him critically. The place was an iron
building of good size, garishly lit with gas, and at one end was a
platform which could be screened off from the body of the hall. The
curtains were drawn apart for this service, and Paul from where he sat,
stared sideways at the varnished Table within the encircling wood
railings; at the text above it; at the harmonium opposite him, with the
back of Miss Ernest visible, and the side of her face, under its big
hat, when she occasionally glanced at the lay-reader who was taking the
prayers and announcing the hymns. Below her sat the choir of working
men, and near them a couple of forms of girls who "strengthened" their
efforts. Paul scanned their faces surreptitiously with amusement.
There, against the wall, was old Miller who invariably started each
verse a word ahead of the rest, and got steadily more flat as the hymn
continued. Among the girls, he was surprised to see Miss Tillings. He
supposed she had been converted in his absence. In the front row was
Hodgson, a police-sergeant and a thoroughly good fellow. Next him,
McArthur, who played a cornet when he knew the tune. And then the
congregation, among them Mrs. Reynolds. If Edith Thornton were
present, he could not see her. But he looked.
The lay-reader was occasionally doubtful about his aspirates. He also
read an unduly large selection of collects. His voice, too, got on
Paul's nerves. He read for the hundredth time the short, staring gilt
text above the Table. "Till He Come." Except for the hymn notices,
there was nothing else to catch the attention. Oh yes, I.H.S. in a
monogram under the text. Paul wondered if the lay-reader knew what the
letters meant. He wondered if any of them knew what they meant. Then,
as the reader began the prayer for Parliament, if anyone knew what
anything meant. Mrs. Reynolds, for example. "That all things may be
bordered and settled by their hendeavours, upon the best and surest
foundations...." "Amen"--very loudly from old Miller. But he had
heard that old Miller was a strong Conservative and concerned with
politics in his off hours. Curious; it struck Paul suddenly that "the
workers" never seemed to have politics. Oh, at last--Hymn 148.
Afterwards, they were all very kind. He shook hands with the departing
congregation, including Hilda Tillings. Hodgson was unfeignedly glad
to see him back. But outside, while Paul was smilingly making his way
back to the platform by which Madeline was standing drawing on her
gloves, the sergeant was rebuffed by old Miller.
"Good sermon, Miller," he said. "He's a fine young chap, and I'm glad
he's back."
"Eh, eh, sergeant, but I dunno as I 'olds with all this 'ere
book-larning. 'E's got more grammar nor ever, and, seems ter me, less
grace."
"Doesn't it all seem rather queer to you now?" asked Madeline, as they
walked home.
Paul shrugged his shoulders. "They're rattling good people," he said,
enigmatically.
"Yes, of course. By the way, do you remember that the Sale of Work is
to be this week. You will help me decorate our stall, won't you, Paul?"
"Rather. Is it this week? I'd forgotten. Do you want all that muslin
stuff tacked up again?"
"Yes. But we'll get you a step-ladder this year. The boxes collapsed
last time--remember?"
He nodded, amused. "But why don't you try a new idea?" he suggested.
"Why always keep to the same old muslin?"
Madeline sighed. "We do always keep to the same old things, don't we?
But what could we do? Suggest something."
"Have a background of palms and cover the framework with ivy."
"That'd be lovely. But how could we get the ivy?"
"Leave that to me. I'll get it for you."
"Will you? Thanks so much. Could I help?"
Paul glanced at her carefully. She walked gracefully, but with her
eyes on the pavement. He admired her fair hair and her new hat, her
trim figure. After all, why not?
"Bicycle out with me on Friday and get some," he suggested. "There's
lots at Hursley."
Her voice was even as ever as she replied. "That would be delightful,"
she said. "Come in now and ask father, will you? Perhaps he'd come
too. And I say, do let me read your verses. I'd like to so much."
Paul was suddenly shy. "Oh they're nothing," he said.
She smiled. "Mr. Tressor did not think so," she retorted. "Paul, I
wonder if you're going to be a poet."
"I'm going to be a foreign missionary," he said.
"Well, you can be both. I expect abroad you would have no end of
inspiration. You're not likely to be sent among utter savages. You're
more likely to be made the head of some college or another, perhaps in
India. You could write too. I should think Calcutta or Delhi, or some
place like that, would be heavenly. And you'd go to the mountains in
the summer. It makes me envious to think of you. You'll have a
glorious life."
Paul grew grave. "I'd prefer to be among savages," he said.
"Why? Besides, do you think that's altogether right? God didn't give
you your gifts for you to waste them. And they want the other sort of
missionary just as much."
"I suppose they do," said Paul. "And if I lived that sort of life, I
should marry. One could. I've always doubted if a pioneer missionary
ought to marry."
Madeline nodded. "I think you're right. And besides, the wives of
that sort of missionary do get so awfully dowdy. I suppose it doesn't
matter what you wear among savages, and so they don't care any more
about dressing. I'm afraid I could never be so good as all that."
Paul laughed. "Honestly, I can't see you dowdy, Madeline," he said.
She smiled, but said nothing. He glanced at her shyly. "Summery
frocks and Indian Society would suit you," he said.
"Do you think so?" she said easily.
"Yes. By the way, you just must come up for the Mays. Will you
promise?"
"I'll come if I possibly can," she said, "and thank you ever so much
for asking me. Here we are. Now come in and settle with father about
the ivy, will you?"
(3)
The Annual Sale of Work was the parochial Feast of Claxted. A
distinguished visitor was always invited to open it; the stalls through
which one wandered, were so many courses, so to speak; and in the
evening, there were always songs, a few speeches, and light
refreshments. So far as the Mission Hall of the church was concerned,
only the more superior members were expected to put in an appearance,
and these chiefly in the evening. Thus Hodgson always came, but not
old Miller. The Christian Endeavour arranged little side-show concerts
from six o'clock onwards, at half-hour intervals, but even the
Endeavourers were not seen in the afternoon. During those sacred
hours, the carriages drew up outside the Parish Room in Edward Street,
and there descended from them the elite and the wealthy of the
congregation. These, entering the half-empty room, caused a ripple of
comment to run through the stall-holders proportionate to their
importance. "Old Mrs. Wherry," Mrs. Ernest would whisper
enthusiastically to Madeline. "Oh, my dear, try to get her here at
once. She always spends such a lot, and she's so blind, she can't see
what she buys. She just decides to spend so much, I believe, and when
it's spent, no one can get another penny out of her. Do fetch her
here."
"How can I, mother?" retorted Madeline, on this occasion.
"I'll try," said Paul, good-humouredly, and strolled off in her
direction.
"Madeline, I saw you fastening that ivy with Paul," said Mrs. Ernest,
as he went.
"Well, mother?"
"My dear, anyone might have seen. I thought I saw Mrs. Cator watching.
And you know what she is likely to say."
Madeline tossed her pretty head. "I know what I am about, mother," she
said.
"I hope you do," sighed Mrs. Ernest. Her husband was a good man, but
without distinction, and truth to tell, she was tired of living on a
curate's stipend.
Paul came up with Mrs. Wherry. The old lady had been genuinely glad to
see him, and, since her own sons had been at Cambridge, she showed him
caustic good humour. "You want me to spend my money here, I suppose,
do you? Well, it doesn't much matter to me. Good afternoon, Mrs.
Ernest. I see you've adopted a system of pickets. Or is it Miss
Ernest? Still everything's fair in love and war, and certainly a Sale
of Work is war. What have you? I shall only buy things that I can
send elsewhere."
Paul stood chatting with Madeline again while the old lady did her
shopping. A little hum of talk covered their conversation, which was
broken now and again as someone nodded and spoke to him, or he was sent
off by his father on some trivial errand. He was not as bored as
usual, but drifted back to the ivy-hung stall fairly regularly. At
half past four he suggested tea. "You can go, Madeline," said Mrs.
Ernest. "I'll wait a little. Someone must watch the stall."
"Come on then," said Paul, catching Madeline's eye, and she moved off
with him.
Formerly it had been hard to get Madeline for tea. Young men, who had
recently started going to the City, used to drop in about this time and
take her off. There were one or two about now, but she had no eyes for
them. He piloted her into a corner, and went to get the tea from the
buffet which was presided over by Mrs. Cator herself. She kept him
chatting while a fresh pot was made, and he was steering his way back
to Madeline with the little tray when he saw Edith.
It was early for her, for she arrived, as a rule, with the rest of the
Endeavourers. There she was, however, with her mother in a black dress
and a bead bonnet. Mrs. Thornton was well known in the congregation.
She aspired to rather a high estate, which was impossible for her,
socially, with her husband's shop in Edward Street.
Paul watched Edith bring her in. The girl was quiet and
self-possessed, and did not, apparently, see him. She steered her
mother to a little table and sat down by her. One of the Miss Cators,
acting waitress, went up for the order.
"Here's the tea," said Paul. "Sorry I was so long. You must want it."
"I do. Oh, and you've got eclairs! How delicious; I love them."
"I remembered that you did at the school-treat last August."
"That terrible day! Do you remember how Mrs. Thornton would have lunch
at our table? Look--there she is. I do hope she doesn't see you.
She's sure to come over if she does. ''Ow do you do, Mr. Paul, and 'ow
do you like Cambridge? We're glad to see you back, I'm sure.'"
Paul sat down deliberately in such a position that he could see Edith.
"Don't, Madeline," he said. "She's a thoroughly good sort really, and
means well."
"Paul, you know perfectly well you used to laugh at her as much as any
of us."
"Did I? Then I was wrong. I'm beginning to see that the world is full
of queer sorts of people, and that the only real test is their
sincerity."
"Well, then, some sincere people are impossible. You know they are.
At any rate I'm sincere enough to tell you that I think so."
Ethel Cator came up to them. She was a brunette, tall and thin, and in
a cap and apron she looked pretty. She was one of Madeline's friends.
"Hullo, Madeline," she said. "How are you two getting on? Have some
more tea?"
"My dear, aren't you worn out with this tea business? Can't I give you
a hand? It's a slack time at the stall."
"Oh no. It's all right. But it's our busy time, of course. Have some
more eclairs. We're running a bit short, but I can get some for you."
"I couldn't. Really, I couldn't. Will you, Paul? I say, Ethel, are
you going to the school dance? Grace said yesterday she didn't know
what you had decided. Do come, my dear. I've said I'll go, and you
must be there. I've positively got a new frock for it."
"Look here," said Paul, laughing, "this is no place for me. I'm off.
I'll tell your mother to expect you in half an hour, Madeline.
Good-bye. Good-bye, Miss Cator. Your tea's topping. I'll send in
everyone I see." And he walked off.
Madeline glanced quickly across the room; Mrs. Thornton and Edith were
making their way to the door; Paul caught them up as she watched. She
flushed slightly. Ethel Cator slipped into the empty place by her
side, and dropped her voice a little. "He's not keen on that girl,
surely," she said.
Madeline shrugged her shoulders. "How should I know?" she asked, with
an assumption of indifference.
Ethel laughed. "Well, my dear, of course it's not my business, but I
thought you saw a good deal of him."
"Well, naturally, seeing what our fathers are."
"Has Cambridge changed him? I should have thought he'd have dropped
the Mission Hall now."
Ethel's tone was a little contemptuous, and it roused Madeline to the
defensive.
"My dear, you don't know Paul," she said coolly. "He doesn't play at
religion. He probably wants to speak to Miss Thornton about the
Christian Endeavour. It would take more than a term at Cambridge to
make Paul throw that over. And I like him for it."
Her friend got up. "I must go," she said. "I didn't mean to be a cat,
Madeline. Everybody knows Paul's a born parson, and of course he'll
make a good one."
"He wants to go to India," said Madeline, mollified and inconsequent,
and not realising that she lied. "He'll be a bishop one day, I expect."
Ethel looked envious, and rewarded her. "India!" she exclaimed, and
sat down again for a minute or two. The girls fell to discussing Simla
with a suburban imagination.
Mrs. Thornton had asked him "'Ow he liked Cambridge?" and Paul had
replied at length. But she had gone off at last, and left him with the
tall girl whose brown eyes had been alight with a flicker of amusement
the while he had talked to her mother. They were standing near the
platform at the top of the room, and a not yet opened "fishpond" with
its appurtenances screened them slightly. He was able to look her full
in the face now and realise how good she looked, though the little fur
hat was slightly out of place there, and her coat a little shabby.
"Mother's a dear," she said.
He nodded. "I know. Edith, I've longed to see you again. Why weren't
you at the Mission Hall on Sunday?"
"I couldn't go. I was ever so sorry."
"Really?"
She nodded. "I knew you were preaching. Mr. Derrick told us. But I
had to stay and help mother with the kiddies."
Paul saw a mental vision of the little rooms over the shop and the
three small Thornton children sprawling everywhere. Once or twice he
had been in on business for the Society, and he knew it well. Edith in
that setting had always puzzled him a little. She did not seem quite
to belong to it, and yet she moved about household jobs with a quiet
dignity that did not in the least suggest resentment or incongruity.
"You'll be here to-night?" he questioned.
She shook her head. "That's why I've come this afternoon."
"When are we going to meet then? I do so want to talk to you.
Cambridge is wonderful, Edith. There's heaps to say. I don't know
why, but I want to tell you things."
He couldn't know that she had to make a little effort to steady her
voice. "Do you, Paul," she said. "That's awfully good of you."
He studied her a minute, thinking rapidly. "Tell me what you're doing
this week," he demanded.
"Oh, the usual things. Band of Hope, a committee Thursday, prayer
meeting Friday, and Saturday, some cousins of ours are coming over."
"Sunday?"
"You silly! You know as well as I do!"
Paul reflected. He would have to call for Madeline for the children's
service. Afternoon Sunday school--no good, he knew. Evening, his
mother would be going down to the Mission Hall. He shrugged his
shoulders impatiently. "Monday?" he queried.
She smiled. "Monday's the first night of carol singing," she said.
"No!" he cried eagerly. "I'll come. What time do you start?"
"You know you _never_ come," she said laughing. "Have you learned to
sing so much better at Cambridge?"
A little thrill of pleasure at her laughter ran through him. "You
shall hear," he said. "I shall be there. And when we've finished, I
shall see you home."
"I half promised Mr. Vintner," she said, "but perhaps---- There's
mother looking for me. I must go."
And Paul, alone, could not get Albert Vintner out of his mind while he
discoursed of the University to his father's senior churchwarden.
Mrs. Kestern left before the conclusion of the proceedings, and Paul
stood by the table alone, watching his father, Mr. Derrick and a warden
make neat piles of silver and gold, enter totals on slips of paper and
finally arrive at the exact figure taken. Conversation among the
waiting onlookers died down while the final immense calculation was
being made, and it was in a solemn silence that at last Mr. Kestern
stood erect, beaming and triumphant, to announce that the result
exceeded by five pounds, seven and fourpence the previous year's
figure, and to say that he thanked all who had in any way assisted at
this magnificent result with all his heart. They would now join in
singing the Doxology. Madeline went to the piano; "Thank God from whom
all blessings flow," they sang. Paul joined in heartily, but a little
self-consciously. It was odd, but the familiar words did not come as
naturally as they had used to do. Five pounds, seven and fourpence!
But his father was a saint, Paul thought, as he looked at him.
(4)
Paul, Mr. Kestern and Miss Bishop walked home together, the latter a
great friend of the Church. She was angular, tall, a little caustic
and an able speaker, and she had a great reputation for knowledge. She
felt deeply and expressed herself strongly. Paul liked her immensely.
She led the conversation now, in her clear, incisive, deep voice. It
appeared that a newly-appointed neighbouring vicar had accepted the
offer of a cross and two candlesticks for the Holy Table in his church.
It was known, at last, that he had definitely accepted; it was not
known, yet, what would be done about it--whether appeal would be made
by some aggrieved members of the congregation against the granting of a
faculty, or whether Mr. Kensit would be called in. Miss Bishop was
wholly in favour of this latter.
"What is the good of faculties and appeals?" she demanded. "They
always confuse the real issue. Kensit knocks the nail on the head
anyway. It's not a case of legal or illegal ornaments; it's a case of
Rome. Do they take us all for fools? Church after church has begun
that way, and ended with Mass and the confessional!"
"Mr. Duncan," observed Mr. Kestern mildly, "is entirely against all
that. This is a mistake, of course, but he seems to me a sincere,
earnest evangelical at bottom."
"Then what," continued Miss Bishop decisively, "has he to do with a
cross and candlesticks? It's all very well, Vicar, but that's the thin
end of the wedge. You know it as well as I do. His work is the saving
of souls, and that sort of thing never saved a soul yet. Is that not
so?"
"I'm afraid you're only too right," admitted Mr. Kestern. "It's a
great pity--a great pity."
"A pity! I should call it something worse than that," retorted the
lady.
Paul's mind was busy. He was recalling the chapel at St. Mary's in the
early mornings, and the remote, austere, moving little service enacted
there on Sundays before a cross and candlesticks. For the life of him
he had to say something.
"Miss Bishop," he said, "do you think, nowadays, a cross always leads
to Rome? There is one on the Table at St. Mary's."
"And how much Gospel have you heard preached there?" she demanded,
shrewdly.
"Yes, Paul, that's the test," said his father.
The boy hesitated. Then he equivocated. "But the cross is the sign of
our faith," he said.
"Is it?" Miss Bishop was emphatic. "I do not know that it is--not, at
any rate, in the sense people use the phrase. 'Christ is Risen':
that's Christianity."
"The empty cross symbolises that," said Paul.
"Then put a cross on the steeple, in the porch, over the pulpit even.
Why on the Table? You know as well as I do that the thing is
Pre-Reformation, Roman usage."
"A little earlier," retorted Paul.
"But not early enough. Did Paul have a cross in the catacombs?"
"Possibly," said Paul, nettled.
Miss Bishop uttered an indignant exclamation. "Not of that sort," she
said.
Mr. Kestern linked his arm in Paul's. "The lad doesn't mean to defend
Ritualism," he said kindly. "I know my boy too well. Keep to the Word
of God, Paul, and you won't go wrong."
"But, father," began his son----
Mr. Kestern pressed his arm. "That will do, Paul," he said. "I want
to ask our friend something. The theatre service for the last night of
the year is definitely settled, Miss Bishop; will you say a few words?"
Miss Bishop did not at once reply. Then: "I hate the place, Vicar,"
she said; "you know I do. I don't believe in using it. The whole
atmosphere reeks of the devil. Last year I could hardly bring myself
to go inside."
"Perhaps, possibly--but if we can perhaps draw the people there----"
"Yes, show them the road in, and maybe they'll go again."
"We hope not," said the clergyman meekly, "by the grace of God."
She shot a swift glance at him. They were outside her own door now,
and the light fell on the kind, gentle face of the man before her. Her
sharp face changed a little.
"I will speak, Mr. Kestern," she said, "if you wish it."
Paul and his father walked on a little in silence. Then the elder
sighed. "It's not easy, Paul," he said, "to combine the Master's
charity and the Master's zeal."
"You do, dad," cried Paul, moved more than a little, and meant it.
But as the days sped by, Paul was aware that at every turn he was
confronted with a contrast that gradually deepened into something
approaching a question. Moving with his father cheerily about the
parish; walking the familiar streets with his mother, so absurdly and
yet so lovably proud, by his side; stepping again into the round of
parochial activities, yet always now, as one who had no permanent place
among them; Paul had constantly to check within himself a certain
critical outlook that had never been his before. He criticised, too,
in more than one direction. There was the incident, for example, of
the Christmas decorations at the Mission Hall. Red Turkey twill, as
usual, had he and Madeline inserted into the panels of the Commandments
and the Lord's Prayer behind the little altar, for a brief while
escaping from the domination of their gilt lettering. Ivy tendrils,
likewise, had they set twining here and there across them, but, at this
orthodox conclusion, Paul had slipped back discontented.
"It still looks bare, Madeline," he said. "Let's put a big vase of
white chrysanthemums on the ledge behind."
"Rather," she said; "that will improve things."
They made it two vases and surveyed the result. Madeline shrugged her
pretty shoulders. "Of course I'm not high," she said, "but I must say
I like flowers on the altar--always." And Paul, looking at her,
agreed. But he was still his father's son. "If you don't call it an
altar," he said, smiling. Madeline smiled back.
Early Christmas morning, however, his father ordered their removal, and
with them sundry woven paper chains and flowers that Sergeant Hodgson,
with great enthusiasm, had erected with the aid of old Miller, after
Mrs. Kestern and Paul had left the night before. The gaily-coloured
paper had indeed been incongruous against the natural flowers, and Mrs.
Kestern had exclaimed at it. Her husband had been ruthless likewise.
But Paul had criticised their edict.
"Father," he had said, with his direct logic, "ought you to take away
old Miller's chains? He thinks them beautiful. They're his offering
to our Saviour. Surely God looks at the devotion more than at the
thing. And you abolish my flowers too. Surely there's nothing Popish
in a vase or two of chrysanthemums!"
Mr. Kestern had been, however, obdurate. "We cannot have paper chains,
Paul," he said, "not even to please you. I should have thought you, a
budding poet, would have especially disliked them! And as to flowers
behind the Table, you know it's not our custom."
Paul, as usual, persisted. "Of course I don't like the paper," he
said, "but that's not the point. And if a custom is good, why refuse
it because Mohammedans or heathens, let alone Catholics, practice it?"
"Don't argue with your father, my son," begged Mrs. Kestern, timidly.
She hated argument. Besides Mr. Kestern was above criticism.
(5)
That Christmas night, there was a last carol singing. Dr. Barnardo's
Homes had already benefitted heavily as a result of the Endeavourers'
efforts, and, truth to tell, the band of young people went singing that
evening under the twinkling, frosty sky more because they liked each
other's company than for charitable reasons. Mr. Derrick had been
outvoted, and, true Christian democrat, he had given in. They went
towards a new, wealthy suburb of Claxted, not far from the edge of the
country and Hursley Woods, and they sang here and there with great
success. At last, as, far off, the Town Hall clock boomed eleven, Mr.
Derrick nervously declared for home. It was cold, he said, and he was
sure they were all tired. In the deserted street of curtained and
mysterious villa windows, the moon glittering on the frosty road, the
little knot of young people prepared to go their several ways.
Paul, wrapped to the ears in his overcoat, stood by Edith altogether
delightful and attractive in her furs. Albert Vintner was collecting
hymn-books. He came up to them and hesitated. "May I see you home,
Miss Thornton?" he asked.
"It's out of your way, Vintner," said Paul. "I can do it."
The young shop-assistant ignored him. "It's the last night of the
carols," he said to Edith.
The girl flushed, ill at ease. Paul realised, suddenly, that they were
at a crisis. For a second or two it seemed to him that the small group
about them stood still watching, that the very stars listened. Then he
made up his mind and descended into the arena.
"Well, Miss Thornton," he said easily, "you must choose between us, it
seems. We can hardly both of us see you home. Which is it to be?"
Edith turned to the other and held out her hand. "I practically
promised Mr. Kestern before," she said. "Good-night, Mr. Vintner, and
thank you for asking me."
The young fellow took her hand with a muttered good-evening, and turned
away. Paul felt reproached. "Good-night, Albert," he said, with a
ring of friendliness. "I'm sorry I was before you. Another time,
perhaps."
Vintner moved off after the others, and Edith and Paul walked a little
up the road. Their turning lay on the right, but at the corner Paul
hesitated. "It will only take a quarter of an hour longer," he said.
"Let's go home by the field-path to Coster Lane. Probably your people
won't expect you till midnight."
She nodded without words, and the turn to the left hid them in a minute
from the least chance of observation by the others. Before them the
road ran straight ahead in the clear night, till the villas thinned,
and it became a scarcely-used way, and finally a half-country footpath
by a couple of fields. Paul drew her arm through his in silence, and
they fell into step together. They had been singing a carol with a
haunting refrain about a night of wonder, a night of grace. It rang in
his head now, and he could have sung as they walked. Every yard
deepened a sense of exaltation in him. This serene Christmas night, he
and Edith alone in it, the world wide and wonderful--oh, it was good to
live.
The paved footpath became a gravelled walk, and the walk, a mere track.
They were on the far edge of the town. Across the stubble, a line of
not yet doomed elms stretched delicate bare twigs clear in the
moonlight, and the stars swung emmeshed in their net. A half-built
house flung a deep shadow across their path, and Paul stopped without
warning on its verge. He had realised suddenly that his companion was
very silent and he wanted to see her. A little swing of his arm
brought the girl face to face with him, and he looked down into her
eyes. So he looked a minute, and then very slowly he bent his head,
and, still with his eyes on hers, their lips met. At that soft, warm,
fragrant, unaccustomed touch, his heart leapt and great waves of
emotion surged and tore within him.
"Oh!" cried Edith, and fell back from him.
The two stood quite still. Paul swallowed once or twice before he
could speak. Then: "Edith," he whispered foolishly, and again: "Edith."
"Oh, Paul!" she cried, "Paul! Paul! ... Oh, I never meant to let you
do it!"
Her words recalled the boy to his senses. He took her two hands, and
she did not stay him. "Edith," he said exultantly, "you're mine, now,
mine! Christmas night, too! Oh, it's wonderful, just wonderful!"
"No, no, _no!_" she cried, almost fiercely.
"No?" he queried, bewildered. "What do you mean? You let me kiss you.
You love me, Edith, don't you? You must! You couldn't have kissed me
like that if you hadn't loved me!"
"Don't, don't, Paul!" she cried again, and bent her head, trying to
release her hands.
Something that was almost anger surged up in him. He drew her to him.
"What do you mean, Edith?" he demanded. "I love you, do you hear? I
see now, I have been loving you for a long time. I love you with all
my heart. Don't you love me?"
At that new note in his voice, she faced him bravely. "Paul, dear,"
she said, "listen. I do love you, God knows I do, but--but--well, your
people would hate it if they knew. (Paul made an angry movement, but
she checked him.) No, listen. They would say you're too young; that
you ought not to think of such things now; that--that---- Oh, you
know. Don't make it hard for me. Your mother would hate you to marry
a girl like me."
Paul stared into her sad young face in silence for a moment, but his
heart sank. Then: "Mother hardly knows you," he said miserably.
"But she knows my mother," said the girl, simply.
Paul knew exactly what she meant. Vividly, he saw it all. His gift of
keen imagination aided him. He saw his mother's surprised, pained,
worried look; his father's perplexity. But he pushed it from him.
"Look here," he began.
"One minute, Paul, dear. Oh, Paul, do listen to me! I know what
you're going to say, and I love you for it. Perhaps, one day, I'll let
you say it. After all, in the end, that will be for us to decide. But
still I ought not to have kissed you. No, really I ought not. You've
got your work to do. You don't know what God will call you to. You're
so wonderful, Paul, dear--you with all your power of speaking and
writing and learning. You don't know how wonderful you are to me,
Paul. I don't see why you like me a bit. But _I_ won't stand in your
way. You must go on, and find out what God wants you to do, and go and
do it. And then, then, perhaps--later on---- Oh, Paul, say something!
I--I can't say--any more." The tears stood in her eyes. Her voice
choked.
He drew her to him and put one arm round her. She made a little
movement to resist, but in doing so, shot a glance at him and at what
she saw let him have his way. Then, in the luminous winter dark, he
peered down at her, and took her hand, and studied the oval of her
face, and her little ears, and the stray hair that escaped from her fur
cap. Love at any rate has this in common with true religion, that it
awes a man.
"I can't tell you all I feel," he declared at last, speaking very
slowly. "Edith, _I_ don't know you yet. You're very, very wonderful,
little girl. And you're such heaps bigger than I--that's what I see
most clearly. Edith, will you at least let me see you and talk to you?
I'm beginning to be worried, and I believe you're just the person I've
been wanting to talk to about it all. Will you let me? And will you
tell me just what you think? Shall we have it as a secret between us,
that you help me like that?"
"Oh, Paul! Could I? May I?"
"It's _will_ you," he said, smiling.
"You know I will. I think there's nothing I wouldn't do for you,
Paul," she said.
He kissed her again, then, gently, and she suffered him.
They made an odd couple as they walked home together. For a reason he
could not have explained, Paul saw so many things clearly--or thought
he saw--that Christmas night under the stars. He put into words the
growing criticism he was feeling of his father's traditional outlook on
life and religion. Explaining things to her, they became clearer to
himself. He set before her, one by one, the straws that had been
blowing past him on the wind. And he had chosen well, for Edith
Thornton understood.
"I don't see why evangelicalism should be all pitch-pine and Moody and
Sankey," he grumbled. "I don't see why things good in themselves
should be wrong simply because even Roman Catholics do them. I don't
love our Lord less because I rather like to see chrysanthemums behind
the Holy Table."
"Do you love Him more if they are there?" she asked.
"No, of course not. At least--no; I _will_ say no. Not that, at all.
But the beauty of things reflects Him somehow. It's easier to worship
in an atmosphere of beauty, Edith. Or it is for me. And surely that
can't be wrong!"
"But suppose He comes to us with His face so scarred that there is no
beauty that we should desire Him?"
Paul frowned a little. "That's not exactly what I mean," he said.
"There's no point in our making things ugly."
"No. But--oh, I hardly like to say it to you!--but don't you think,
somehow, one rather forgets about all that, seeing Him?"
In silence they reached the bottom of her street, and stood a moment.
"Edith," he exclaimed impulsively, "you're heaps better than I. Pray
for me, darling, won't you?"
"Oh, Paul, of course. And you mustn't say that."
"I shall. It's true.... Edith, when shall I see you again?"
(6)
The days sped by. They made a curious kaleidoscope as each morning
gave a new twist to life. Paul read most mornings; spent an afternoon
and evening or two in town with Strether who lived in South Kensington;
and mostly took his share in parochial gaieties and more serious
business for the rest of the time. He did not find it in the least
dull. He could still sit in a clothes' basket slung on a stout pole
between two chairs, and dust four others precariously with the aid of a
big stick, amid the tumultuous laughter of a Mothers' Meeting Tea. Or
he decorated the Infants' Christmas Tree, distributed sweets at the
Sunday School Treat, boxed with boys at the Lads' Brigade, conducted a
prayer meeting at the Christian Endeavour, called for Madeline on
Sunday mornings and took her in to supper at sundry parties. Except at
the latter, he met Edith frequently and revelled in the understanding
there was between them. Moreover there was hardly the suspicion of any
rift between him and his father.
Yet, once or twice, both Paul and Mr. Kestern were aware that things
were not wholly unchanged. And possibly the last night of the old year
offers the best example.
The Vicar had taken the Mission Hall Watch Night Service, and his son
had gone into the vestry to seek him when it was over. He had entered
without knocking as he was used to do, and found his father facing a
stained, unshaven, ragged tramp in the little wood and iron room, with
its incandescent light, photographs of previous vicars, shelf of hymn
and prayer books, and illuminated texts. He apologised, and made to go
out.
"Come in, Paul," said his father. "Our brother here is seeking the
Lord while He may be found and you can help us both. Sit down a
minute, will you."
Paul watched, while his father endeavoured to penetrate the other's
bewildered intelligence. The boy saw at once that the fellow was
maudlin with drink, but he did not estimate the extent to which "A few
more years shall roll," and the hot air of the crowded hall, were also
entering into the process of conversion.
"My brother," said his father again, earnestly, "it has all been done
for you. You have only to accept. Don't take my word for it; let us
see what God says. Listen. (He turned the pages of his Bible
impressively as though he did not know the texts by heart; but he was
wholly unconscious of posing.) 'Though your sins be as scarlet, they
shall be as white as wool.... Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise
cast out.... The Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all.' And
what then? The Apostle sums it up: '_Therefore_, being justified by
faith, we HAVE PEACE with God, through our Lord Jesus Christ.' That is
all. Claim God's free, perfect salvation, and you HAVE PEACE with God."
"Aye, aye, mister, but I bain't be no scholard. I've not bin so bad as
some blokes I knows on. A glass o' beer now and agin, Gawd Almighty 'E
carn't send a bloke to 'ell for that. Can 'E now, mister? I want ter
be saved, that's wot _hi_ want. Ter be saved. An' Gawd's truth, I
don't know wot'll do fur a doss ternight, Gawd's struth, mister...."
"Let us pray," said the clergyman suddenly.
The tears stood in Paul's eyes, as, his face hidden in his hands
against the rough wooden bars of his chair, he heard his father wrestle
with his God for the man's soul. He never heard his father pray thus
without seeing a mental picture from an old Bible of his childhood,
wherein Jacob, an ill-drawn figure in a white robe girt up about his
waist, twisted back with his shrunken sinew from an angel with an odd
distorted face like the one that a crack in the ceiling made with the
wall in the candle-light above his bed. Even now, he saw it again.
"Lord, we will not let Thee go except Thou bless us. Have mercy upon
this poor storm-tossed soul. Give him joy and peace in believing. Let
there be joy in the presence of the angels of God this night over one
sinner returning."
Out in the sharp air, he took his father's arm. "Daddy, he was
half-drunk. Do you think he understood?"
"Nothing is impossible with God, Paul, always remember that. If the
Master could save the dying thief, He can save him."
A dozen silent paces, and then: "But, father, suppose he were run over
and killed on his way to the lodging house, this night, as he is, do
you think he would go straight to heaven?"
"Yes, Paul, I do--by the infinite grace of God. Drunk as he was, I
believe he knew what he said when he repeated: 'Just as I am--I come,'
after me."
"But--but----" Paul found it hard to put his new thought into words.
"Well, Paul, laddie, out with it."
"Well, dad, I don't see how that could have made him fit for heaven."
His father's hand tightened on his arm. "Nor I, Paul, nor any man.
But do you suppose that God will go back on His pledged and written
Word?"
And then, just then, a memory had shot through Paul's mind. "Which of
the ten score different versions?" Manning had queried again, coolly.