Love and Mr. Lewisham | Page 7

And the
evening service at Whortley church--at the evening service surplices
were worn--the chanting and singing, the vague brilliance of the
numerous candle flames, the multitudinous unanimity of the
congregation down there, kneeling, rising, thunderously responding,
invariably inebriated him. Inspired him, if you will, and turned the
prose of his life into poetry. And Chance, coming to the aid of Dame
Nature, dropped just the apt suggestion into his now highly responsive
ear.
The second hymn was a simple and popular one, dealing with the
theme of Faith, Hope, and Charity, and having each verse ending with
the word "Love." Conceive it, long drawn out and disarticulate,--

"Faith will van ... ish in ... to sight, Hope be emp ... tied in deli ... ight,
Love in Heaven will shine more bri ... ight, There ... fore give us Love."
At the third repetition of the refrain, Lewisham looked down across the
chancel and met her eyes for a brief instant....
He stopped singing abruptly. Then the consciousness of the serried
ranks of faces below there came with almost overwhelming force upon
him, and he dared not look at her again. He felt the blood rushing to his
face.
Love! The greatest of these. The greatest of all things. Better than fame.
Better than knowledge. So came the great discovery like a flood across
his mind, pouring over it with the cadence of the hymn and sending a
tide of pink in sympathy across his forehead. The rest of the service
was phantasmagorial background to that great reality--a
phantasmagorial background a little inclined to stare. He, Mr.
Lewisham, was in Love.
"A ... men." He was so preoccupied that he found the whole
congregation subsiding into their seats, and himself still standing, rapt.
He sat down spasmodically, with an impact that seemed to him to
re-echo through the church.
As they came out of the porch into the thickening night, he seemed to
see her everywhere. He fancied she had gone on in front, and he hurried
up the boys in the hope of overtaking her. They pushed through the
throng of dim people going homeward. Should he raise his hat to her
again?... But it was Susie Hopbrow in a light-coloured dress--a raven in
dove's plumage. He felt a curious mixture of relief and disappointment.
He would see her no more that night.
He hurried from the school to his lodging. He wanted very urgently to
be alone. He went upstairs to his little room and sat before the upturned
box on which his Butler's Analogy was spread open. He did not go to
the formality of lighting the candle. He leant back and gazed blissfully
at the solitary planet that hung over the vicarage garden.
He took out of his pocket a crumpled sheet of paper, smoothed and
carefully refolded, covered with a writing not unlike that of Frobisher
ii., and after some maidenly hesitation pressed this treasure to his lips.
The Schema and the time-table hung in the darkness like the mere
ghosts of themselves.
Mrs. Munday called him thrice to his supper.

He went out immediately after it was eaten and wandered under the
stars until he came over the hill behind the town again, and clambered
up the back to the stile in sight of the Frobishers' house. He selected the
only lit window as hers. Behind the blind, Mrs. Frobisher, thirty-eight,
was busy with her curl-papers--she used papers because they were
better for the hair--and discussing certain neighbours in a fragmentary
way with Mr. Frobisher, who was in bed. Presently she moved the
candle to examine a faint discolouration of her complexion that
rendered her uneasy.
Outside, Mr. Lewisham (eighteen) stood watching the orange oblong
for the best part of half an hour, until it vanished and left the house
black and blank. Then he sighed deeply and returned home in a very
glorious mood indeed.
He awoke the next morning feeling extremely serious, but not clearly
remembering the overnight occurrences. His eye fell on his clock. The
time was six and he had not heard the alarum; as a matter of fact the
alarum had not been wound up. He jumped out of bed at once and
alighted upon his best trousers amorphously dropped on the floor
instead of methodically cast over a chair. As he soaped his head he
tried, according to his rules of revision, to remember the overnight
reading. He could not for the life of him. The truth came to him as he
was getting into his shirt. His head, struggling in its recesses, became
motionless, the handless cuffs ceased to dangle for a minute....
Then his head came through slowly with a surprised expression upon
his face. He remembered. He remembered the thing as a bald discovery,
and without a