The Altar Steps. Compton MackenzieЧитать онлайн книгу.
and unselfish, and … there was always the evening hymn to fall back upon.
Now the day is over, Night is drawing nigh, Shadows of the evening Steal across the sky.
Mark thought of a beautiful evening in the country as beheld in a Summer Number, more of an afternoon really than an evening, with trees making shadows right across a golden field, and spotted cows in the foreground. It was a blissful and completely soothing picture while it lasted; but it soon died away, and he was back in the midway of a London night with icy stretches of sheet to right and left of him instead of golden fields.
Now the darkness gathers, Stars begin to peep, Birds and beasts and flowers Soon will be asleep.
But rats did not sleep; they were at their worst and wake-fullest in the night time.
Jesu, give the weary Calm and sweet repose, With thy tenderest blessing May mine eyelids close.
Mark waited a full five seconds in the hope that he need not finish the hymn; but when he found that he was not asleep after five seconds he resumed:
Grant to little children Visions bright of Thee; Guard the sailors tossing On the deep blue sea.
Mark envied the sailors.
Comfort every sufferer Watching late in pain.
This was a most encouraging couplet. Mark did not suppose that in the event of a great emergency—he thanked Mrs. Ewing for that long and descriptive word—the sufferers would be able to do much for him; but the consciousness that all round him in the great city they were lying awake at this moment was most helpful. At this point he once more waited five seconds for sleep to arrive. The next couplet was less encouraging, and he would have been glad to miss it out.
Those who plan some evil From their sin restrain.
Yes, but prayers were not always answered immediately. For instance he was still awake. He hurried on to murmur aloud in fervour:
Through the long night watches May Thine Angels spread Their white wings above me, Watching round my bed.
A delicious idea, and even more delicious was the picture contained in the next verse.
When the morning wakens, Then may I arise Pure, and fresh, and sinless In Thy Holy Eyes.
Glory to the Father, Glory to the Son, And to thee, blest Spirit, Whilst all ages run. Amen.
Mark murmured the last verse with special reverence in the hope that by doing so he should obtain a speedy granting of the various requests in the earlier part of the hymn.
In the morning his mother put out Sunday clothes for him.
"The Bishop is coming to-day," she explained.
"But it isn't going to be like Sunday?" Mark inquired anxiously. An extra Sunday on top of such a night would have been hard to bear.
"No, but I want you to look nice."
"I can play with my soldiers?"
"Oh, yes, you can play with your soldiers."
"I won't bang, I'll only have them marching."
"No, dearest, don't bang. And when the Bishop comes to lunch I want you not to ask questions. Will you promise me that?"
"Don't bishops like to be asked questions?"
"No, darling. They don't."
Mark registered this episcopal distaste in his memory beside other facts such as that cats object to having their tails pulled.
CHAPTER II
THE LIMA STREET MISSION
In the year 1875, when the strife of ecclesiastical parties was bitter and continuous, the Reverend James Lidderdale came as curate to the large parish of St. Simon's, Notting Hill, which at that period was looked upon as one of the chief expositions of what Disraeli called "man-millinery." Inasmuch as the coiner of the phrase was a Jew, the priests and people of St. Simon's paid no attention to it, and were proud to consider themselves an outpost of the Catholic Movement in the Church of England. James Lidderdale was given the charge of the Lima Street Mission, a tabernacle of corrugated iron dedicated to St. Wilfred; and Thurston, the Vicar of St. Simon's, who was a wise, generous and single-hearted priest, was quick to recognize that his missioner was capable of being left to convert the Notting Dale slum in his own way.
"If St. Simon's is an outpost of the Movement, Lidderdale must be one of the vedettes," he used to declare with a grin.
The Missioner was a tall hatchet-faced hollow-eyed ascetic, harsh and bigoted in the company of his equals whether clerical or lay, but with his flock tender and comprehending and patient. The only indulgence he accorded to his senses was in the forms and ceremonies of his ritual, the vestments and furniture of his church. His vicar was able to give him a free hand in the obscure squalor of Lima Street; the ecclesiastical battles he himself had to fight with bishops who were pained or with retired military men who were disgusted by his own conduct of the services at St. Simon's were not waged within the hearing of Lima Street. There, year in, year out for six years, James Lidderdale denied himself nothing in religion, in life everything. He used to preach in the parish church during the penitential seasons, and with such effect upon the pockets of his congregation that the Lima Street Mission was rich for a long while afterward. Yet few of the worshippers in the parish church visited the object of their charity, and those that did venture seldom came twice. Lidderdale did not consider that it was part of the Lima Street religion to be polite to well-dressed explorers of the slum; in fact he rather encouraged Lima Street to suppose the contrary.
"I don't like these dressed up women in my church," he used to tell his vicar. "They distract my people's attention from the altar."
"Oh, I quite see your point," Thurston would agree.
"And I don't like these churchy young fools who come simpering down in top-hats, with rosaries hanging out of their pockets. Lima Street doesn't like them either. Lima Street is provoked to obscene comment, and that just before Mass. It's no good, Vicar. My people are savages, and I like them to remain savages so long as they go to their duties, which Almighty God be thanked they do."
On one occasion the Archdeacon, who had been paying an official visit to St. Simon's, expressed a desire to see the Lima Street Mission.
"Of which I have heard great things, great things, Mr. Thurston," he boomed condescendingly.
The Vicar was doubtful of the impression that the Archdeacon's gaiters would make on Lima Street, and he was also doubtful of the impression that the images and prickets of St. Wilfred's would make on the Archdeacon. The Vicar need not have worried. Long before Lima Street was reached, indeed, halfway down Strugwell Terrace, which was the main road out of respectable Notting Hill into the Mission area, the comments upon the Archdeacon's appearance became so embarrassing that the dignitary looked at his watch and remarked that after all he feared he should not be able to spare the time that afternoon.
"But I am surprised," he observed when his guide had brought him safely back into Notting Hill. "I am surprised that the people are still so uncouth. I had always understood that a great work of purification had been effected, that in fact—er—they were quite—er—cleaned up."
"In body or soul?" Thurston inquired.
"The whole district," said the Archdeacon vaguely. "I was referring to the general tone,