But even as he said it, a something began to move in his heart— a something half of jealousy for God, half of pity for poor souls buffeted by such winds as had that morning been roaring, chaff-laden, about the church, while the grain fell all to the bottom of the pulpit. Something burned in him: was it the word that was as a fire in his bones, or was it a mere lust of talk? He thought for a moment.
“Have you any gatherings between Sundays?” he asked.
“Yes; every Wednesday evening,” replied Mr Marshal. “And if you won’t preach on Sunday, we shall announce to-night that next Wednesday a clergyman of the Church of Scotland will address the prayer meeting.”
He was glad to get out of it so, for he was uneasy about his friend, both as to his nerve, which might fail him, and his Scotch oddities, which would not.
“That would be hardly true,” said Mr Graham, “seeing I never got beyond a licence.”
“Nobody here knows the difference between a licentiate and a placed minister; and if they did they would not care a straw. So we’ll just say clergyman.”
“But I won’t have it announced in any terms. Leave that alone, and I will try to speak at the prayer meeting.”
“It won’t be in the least worth your while except we announce it. You won’t have a soul to hear you but the pew-openers, the woman that cleans the chapel, Mrs Marshal’s washerwoman, and the old greengrocer we buy our vegetables from. We must really announce it.”
“Then I won’t do it. Just tell me—what would our Lord have said to Peter or John if they had told Him that they had been to synagogue and had been asked to speak, but had declined because there were only the pew-openers, the chapel-cleaner, a washerwoman, and a greengrocer present?”
“I said it only for your sake, Graham; you needn’t take me up so sharply.”