(After the first, Paul had objected: "But Christianity may not be reasonable at all." "T-t-that hardly makes for Anglicanism," retorted Father Vassall. "Is it, the Via Media, reasonable?" And Paul had been silent thereafter.)
"That's enough, Father," said Paul, in a still voice.
"It is, only this." (He added, last on the list—Peter.) "Now, here you are. To-morrow, after breakfast, go into the chapel, put this before you, and pray. Pray. PRAY. Hear? I'll say no more, now or ever. You're alone, you know, you must be.... If it's 'yes,' after that, come and tell me, and I'll get the faculties and receive you. If it's 'no,' then don't say anything. Just 'good-bye.' And G-God bless you, anyway."
He had his way. The boy went almost silently to bed, heard Mass, ate breakfast quietly, went into the chapel, and knelt down. He propped his papers before him. He chose to kneel before the red lamp.
He read his paper, but he could not think. Confused
images buzzed through his head, and voices. "I'd rather see a son of mine dead," said Mr. Kestern. "God is very far off," said Childers. "He was deluded by Satan," said David Etheridge. "Oh, don't break your father's heart, Paul," cried his mother. "Concubinage is a regular thing in Spain," said the Bishop of Mozambique. "Christ is the most arresting figure in history," said Manning coolly. "He's a j-j-jealous God," said Father Vassall.
Paul shut his eyes. He was so tired. He turned deliberately away and thought of Edith. He remembered Hursley Woods, and the little brown cap, and the brown leaves, and the blue sky. A thrush, too, that looked at them out of beady eyes. And here he was, in a Popish chapel, Father Vassall's chapel.
He looked up. In the clear morning light, the chapel was all so plain. In front of him, as plain as plain, was a sponge on reed, a spear, a ladder, a scourge. He noticed that they were a little dusty. The glass reliquary reminded him of wax flowers under a glass case belonging to his great-aunt Sophie; no, it did not remind him of the flowers, it was just the case, with its plush fringe, that it brought ridiculously to his mind. But inside the case was that small splinter the priest had described, a fragment splintered from Calvary with its sweat and turmoil and blood.
It had been, of course, like that figure on the rood. He had hung dead. Dead. Drained of blood. Dead.
Dead? A little to the right the white tabernacle veil hung in the folds to which Father Vassall had adjusted it this morning. And behind lay the mystery. If only he KNEW.