The blue bells were under water in truth--drenched and drowned.And yet as the girl stood up before her, she looked taller--more the magnificent Miss Vanderpoel than ever--though she expressed a new meaning.
"There is one thing the villagers can do for him," she said.
"One thing we can all do.The bell has not tolled yet.There is a service for those who are--in peril.If the vicar will call the people to the church, we can all kneel down there--and ask to be heard.The vicar will do that I am sure--and the people will join him with all their hearts."Mrs.Brent was overwhelmed.
"Dear, dear, Miss Vanderpoel!" she exclaimed."THAT is touching, indeed it is! And so right and so proper.I will drive back to the village at once.The vicar's distress is as great as mine.You think of everything.The service for the sick and dying.How right--how right!"With a sense of an increase of value in herself, the vicar, and the vicarage, she hastened back to the pony carriage, but in the hall she seized Betty's hand emotionally.
"I cannot tell you how much I am touched by this," she murmured.
"I did not know you were--were a religious girl, my dear."Betty answered with grave politeness.
"In times of great pain and terror," she said, "I think almost everybody is religious--a little.If that is the right word."There was no ringing of the ordinary call to service.In less than an hour's time people began to come out of their cottages and wend their way towards the church.No one had put on his or her Sunday clothes.The women had hastily rolled down their sleeves, thrown off their aprons, and donned everyday bonnets and shawls.The men were in their corduroys, as they had come in from the fields, and the children wore their pinafores.As if by magic, the news had flown from house to house, and each one who had heard it had left his or her work without a moment's hesitation.They said but little as they made their way to the church.Betty, walking with her sister, was struck by the fact that there were more of them than formed the usual Sunday morning congregation.
They were doing no perfunctory duty.The men's faces were heavily moved, most of the women wiped their eyes at intervals, and the children looked awed.There was a suggestion of hurried movement in the step of each--as if no time must be lost--as if they must begin their appeal at once.Betty saw old Doby tottering along stiffly, with his granddaughter and Mrs.Welden on either side of him.Marlow, on his two sticks, was to be seen moving slowly, but steadily.
Within the ancient stone walls, stiff old knees bent themselves with care, and faces were covered devoutly by work-hardened hands.As she passed through the churchyard Betty knew that eyes followed her affectionately, and that the touching of foreheads and dropping of curtsies expressed a special sympathy.In each mind she was connected with the man they came to pray for--with the work he had done--with the danger he was in.It was vaguely felt that if his life ended, a bereavement would have fallen upon her.This the girl knew.
The vicar lifted his bowed head and began his service.
Every man, woman and child before him responded aloud and with a curious fervour--not in decorous fear of seeming to thrust themselves before the throne, ****** too much of their petitions, in the presence of the gentry.Here and there sobs were to be heard.Lady Anstruthers followed the service timorously and with tears.But Betty, kneeling at her side, by the round table in the centre of the great square Stornham pew, which was like a room, bowed her head upon her folded arms, and prayed her own intense, insistent prayer.
"God in Heaven!" was her inward cry."God of all the worlds! Do not let him die.`If ye ask anything in my name that I will do.' Christ said it.In the name of Jesus of Nazareth--do not let him die! All the worlds are yours--all the power--listen to us--listen to us.Lord, I believe--help thou my unbelief.If this terror robs me of faith, and I pray madly--forgive, forgive me.Do not count it against me as sin.You made him.He has suffered and been alone.It is not time--it is not time yet for him to go.He has known no joy and no bright thing.Do not let him go out of the warm world like a blind man.Do not let him die.Perhaps this is not prayer, but raging.Forgive--forgive! All power is gone from me.God of the worlds, and the great winds, and the myriad stars--do not let him die!"She knew her thoughts were wild, but their torrent bore her with them into a strange, great silence.She did not hear the vicar's words, or the responses of the people.She was not within the grey stone walls.She had been drawn away as into the darkness and stillness of the night, and no soul but her own seemed near.Through the stillness and the dark her praying seemed to call and echo, clamouring again and again.
It must reach Something--it must be heard, because she cried so loud, though to the human beings about her she seemed kneeling in silence.She went on and on, repeating her words, changing them, ending and beginning again, pouring forth a flood of appeal.She thought later that the flood must have been at its highest tide when, singularly, it was stemmed.
Without warning, a wave of awe passed over her which strangely silenced her--and left her bowed and kneeling, but crying out no more.The darkness had become still, even as it had not been still before.Suddenly she cowered as she knelt and held her breath.Something had drawn a little near.
No thoughts--no words--no cries were needed as the great stillness grew and spread, and folded her being within it.
She waited--only waited.She did not know how long a time passed before she felt herself drawn back from the silent and shadowy places--awakening, as it were, to the sounds in the church.
"Our Father," she began to say, as simply as a child.
