‘Have you heard him say so?’
‘Not explicitly, but I have heard——’
‘You mustn’t believe all the nonsense you hear,’ cried Alma eagerly. ‘He is too intellectual for the people, and they don’t understand him. You shall go to church next Sunday, and hear him preach.’
‘But I’m not a church-goer,’ said the elder lady, smiling. ‘On Sundays I always read Herbert Spencer. Sermons are always so stupid.’
‘Not always. Wait till you hear Mr. Bradley. When I listen to him, I always think of the great Abelard, whom they called the “angel of bright discourse.” He says such wonderful things, and his voice is so beautiful. As he speaks, the church seems indeed a narrow place—too small for such words, for such a speaker; and you long to hear him on some mountain top, preaching to a multitude under the open sky.’
Miss Combe did not answer, but peeping sideways at her companion she saw that her face was warmly flushed, and her eyes were strangely bright and sparkling. She knew something, but not much, of Alma’s relations with the vicar, and she hoped with all her heart that they would never lead to matrimony. Alma was too wise a vestal, too precious to the cause of causes, to be thrown away on a mere country clergyman. In fact, Miss Combe had an errant brother of her own who, though an objectionable person, was a freethinker, and in her eyes just the sort of husband for her friend. He was rather poor, not particularly handsome, and somewhat averse to soap and water; but he had held his own in platform argument with divers clergymen, and was generally accounted a ticklish subject for the Christians. So she presently remarked:—
‘The finest speaker I ever heard is my brother Tom. I wish you could hear him.’
Alma had never done so, and, indeed, had never encountered the worthy in question.
‘Is he a clergyman?’ she asked innocently. ‘Heaven forbid!’ cried Miss Combe. ‘No; he speaks at the Hall of Science.’
‘Oh!’