The third postulant, the Reverend Samuel Winterton, appeared to take things very coolly. If he derived satisfaction from the fact that the right of second selection from the little flock of ewe lambs was his, such was more sober than enthusiastic. Ardour, except for the Kingdom of Heaven, had been left entirely out of his composition, and he was very much wrapped up in a somewhat narrow religion.
Mr Bloxam and Mr Wardley laboured at reclaiming the heathen, and dwelt at country mission stations; Mr Winterton had spiritual charge of a mixed congregation, and dwelt in a small country village in Lower Albany, which, as everybody ought to know, is inhabited by the descendants of the British settlers of 1820.
It was sundown when the drivers called a halt at a grassy glade on the bank of a clear stream which was fringed with mimosa and acacia trees. Here the teams were “outspanned” and turned out to graze. Soon a fire was lit, mutton chops were grilled, tea was brewed, and the three lovers made a frugal repast. The only talkative one of the party was Mr Bloxam, whose tongue continually tingled with ponderous jocoseness that had a strongly Scriptural flavour. He rallied Mr Wardley on his subdued manner and his bad appetite. Mr Winterton came in for a share in the chaff as well, but the shafts seemed to fall dead from the armour of his imperturbability. Mr Wardley, on the other hand, distinctly winced at every thrust, so there was far more fun to be got out of him.
“Come, Brother Wardley,” said Mr Bloxam; “a contented mind is, I know, a continual feast, but it does not do to travel on—that is, by itself. It will never do for you to arrive looking hungry. You must try and look your best, man. Eh, Winterton?”
Mr Winterton’s mouth was too full to admit of his answering. Mr Wardley smiled uneasily, and helped himself to a chop, which he bravely attempted to eat.
“Just think of these three Roses of Sharon blooming for us, and soon to be transplanted to our homes,” said Mr Bloxam, unctuously. “Wardley is, I am afraid, thinking of the thorns already. If, however, he had studied the botany of Scripture he would have known that Roses of Sharon have no thorns.”
“I trust their ages may be suitable to ours,” said Mr Wardley in a nervous voice. “It is so important in marriage that husband and wife be not too different in this respect.”
“Scripture does not bear you out, brother,” said Mr Bloxam in a positive tone. “Take the case of Ruth and Boaz, for instance; and we must not forget King David’s having taken Abishag the Shunamite to comfort him in his old age.”
“You could hardly call Abishag the wife of David,” interjected Mr Winterton, whose knowledge of Scripture was precise.
“Quite so, quite so,” said Mr Bloxam, airily, “yet she comforted him in his old age. The principal functions of the wife of a minister of the Gospel lie in assisting her husband in his duties and comforting him when the powers of evil seem temporarily to prevail against his efforts. Now, a young woman, if she have the necessary dispositions, may be able to perform such duties effectively at the side of a man even considerably her senior.”