Out in the Forty-Five Part 56

His business could hardly have any connection with Annas, in that case.

It must be real business--something that concerned his father.

"Yes, Cary; my business was finished last night, so I was just in time to come with you." And the look of fun came into his eyes again.

"Oh, I am glad!" said I. "I wondered how my Aunt Kezia would manage all by herself."

"Had you three made up your minds to be particularly naughty?" asked he, laughing.

"Now, Ephraim!" said I.

"Sounded like it," he replied. "Well, Cary, are you glad to go home?"

"Well, yes--I think--I am," answered I.

"Then certainly I think you are not."

"Well. I am glad for some reasons."

"And not for others. Yes, I understand that. And I guess one of the reasons--you are sorry to leave Miss Keith."

I wondered if he guessed that because he was sorry.

"Yes, I am very sorry to leave her in this trouble. Do you think it likely that Colonel Keith can escape?"

Ephraim shook his head.

"Is it possible?"

"'Possible' is a Divine word, not fit for the lips of men. What G.o.d wills is possible. And it is not often that He lets us see long beforehand what He means to do."

"Then you think all lies with G.o.d?" I said--I am afraid, in a rather hopeless tone.

"Does not everything, at all times, lie with G.o.d? That means hope, Cary, not despair. 'Whatsoever the Lord pleased, that did He.'"

"Oh dear! that sounds as if--Ephraim, I don't mean to say anything wicked--as if He did not care."

"He cares for our sanctification: that is, in the long run, for our happiness. Would you rather that He cared just to rid you of the pain of the moment, and not for your eternal happiness?"

"Oh no! But could I not have both?"

"No, Cary, I don't suppose you could."

"But if G.o.d can do everything, why can He not do that? Do you never want to know the answers to such questions? Or do they not trouble you?

They are always coming up with me."

"Far too often. Satan takes care of that."

"You think it is wicked to want the answers?"

"It is rebellion, Cary. The King is the best judge of what concerns His subjects' welfare."

I felt in a corner, so I ate my pie and was silent.

We slept at Reading, and the next day we dined at Wallingford, and slept at the Angel at Oxford. Next morning, which was Sat.u.r.day, we were up before the sun, to see as much as we could of the city before the machine should set forth. I cannot say that I got a very clear idea of the place, for when I try to remember it, my head seems a confused jumble of towers and gateways, colleges and churches, stained windows and comical gargoyles--at least that is what Ephraim called the funny faces which stuck out from some of the walls. I don't know where he got the word.

This day's stage was the longest. We dined at Lechlade; and it had long been dark when we rattled into the courtyard of the Bell Inn at Gloucester, where we were to pa.s.s the Sunday. Oh, how tired I was!

almost too tired to sleep.

On Sunday, we went to church at the Cathedral, where we had a very dull sermon from a Minor Canon. In the afternoon, as we sat in the host's parlour, Ephraim said to me,--

"Cary, did you ever hear of George Whitefield?"

"Oh yes, Ephraim!" I cried, and I felt the blood rush to my cheeks, and my eyes light up. "I heard him preach in Scotland, when I was there with Flora. Have you heard him?"

"Yes, many times, and Mr Wesley also."

I was pleased to hear that. "And what were you going to say about him?"

"That if you knew his name, it would interest you to hear that he was born in this inn. His parents kept it."

"And he chose to be a field-preacher!" cried I. "Why, that was coming down in the world, was it not?" [Note 1.]

"It was coming down, in this world," said he. "But there is another world, Cary, and I fancy it was going up in that. You must remember, however, that he did not choose to be a field-preacher nor a Dissenter: he was turned out of the Church."

"But why should he have been turned out?"

"I expect, because he would not hold his tongue."

"But why did anybody want him to hold his tongue?"

"Well, you see, he let it run to awkward subjects. Ladies and gentlemen did not like him because he set his face against fashionable diversions, and told them that they were miserable sinners, and that there was only one way into Heaven, which they would have to take as well as the poor in the almshouses. The neighbouring clergy did not like him because he was better than themselves. And the bishops did not like him because he said they ought to do their duty better, and look after their dioceses, instead of setting bad examples to their clergy by hunting and card-playing and so forth; or, at the best, sitting quiet in their closets to write learned books, which was not the duty they promised when they were ordained. But, as was the case with another Preacher, 'the common people heard him gladly.'"

"And he was really turned out?"

"Seven years ago."

"I wonder if it were a wise thing," said I, thinking.

"Mr Raymond says it was the most unwise thing they could have done.

And he says so of the turning forth under the Act of Uniformity, eighty years ago. He thinks the men who were the very salt of the Church left her then: and that now she is a saltless, soulless thing, that will die unless G.o.d's mercy put more salt in her."

"But suppose it do, and the bishops get them turned out again?"

"Then, says Raymond, let the bishops look to themselves. There is such a thing as judicial blindness: and there is such a thing as salt that has lost its savour, and is trodden under foot of men. If the Church cast out the children of G.o.d, G.o.d may cast out the Church of England.

There are precedents for it in the Books of Heaven. And in all those cases, G.o.d let them go on for a while: over and over again they grieved His Spirit and persecuted His servants; but at last there always came one time which was the last time, and after that the Spirit withdrew, and that Church, or that nation, was left to the lot which it had chosen."

"Oh, Ephraim, that sounds dreadful."