Peradventure; or, The Silence of God. Robert Keable

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."