Star over Bethlehem - Agatha Christie [9]
And perhaps, knowing now just what it was, she could learn the beginning of the road to it …?
She thought of the coat woven in the harmony of one piece. She had not been able to see the man’s face. But she thought she knew who He was …
Already the warmth and the vision were fading. But she would not forget—she would never forget!
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Hargreaves, speaking from the depths of a grateful heart.
She said it aloud in the empty railway carriage.
The mate of the water bus was staring at the tickets in his hand.
“Where’s t’other one?” he asked.
“Whatchermean?” said the Captain who was preparing to go ashore for lunch.
“Must be someone on board still. Eight passengers there was. I counted them. And I’ve only got seven tickets here.”
“Nobody left on board. Look for yourself. One of ’em must have got off without your noticing ’im—either that or he walked on the water!”
And the Captain laughed heartily at his own joke.
In the Cool of the Evening
The church was fairly full. Evensong, nowadays, was always better attended than morning service.
Mrs. Grierson and her husband knelt side by side in the fifth pew on the pulpit side. Mrs. Grierson knelt decorously, her elegant back curved. A conventional worshipper, one would have said, breathing a mild and temperate prayer.
But there was nothing mild about Janet Grierson’s petition. It sped upwards into space on wings of fire.
“God, help him! Have mercy upon him. Have mercy upon me. Cure him, Lord. Thou hast all power. Have mercy—have mercy. Stretch out Thy hand. Open his mind. He’s such a sweet boy—so gentle—so innocent. Let him be healed. Let him be normal. Hear me, Lord. Hear me … Ask of me anything you like, but stretch out Thy hand and make him whole. Oh God, hear me. Hear me. With Thee all things are possible. My faith shall make him whole—I have faith—I believe. I believe! Help me!”
The people stood. Mrs. Grierson stood with them. Elegant, fashionable, composed. The service proceeded.
The Rector mounted the steps of the pulpit, gave out his text.
Part of the 95th psalm; the tenth verse. Part of the psalm we sing every Sunday morning. “It is a people who do err in their hearts, for they have not known my ways.”
The Rector was a good man, but not an eloquent one. He strove to give to his listeners the thought that the words had conveyed to him. A people that erred, not in what they did, not in actions displeasing to God, not in overt sin—but a people not even knowing that they erred. A people who, quite simply, did not know God … They did not know what God was, what he wanted, how he showed himself. They could know. That was the point the Rector was striving to make. Ignorance is no defence. They could know.
He turned to the East.
“And now to God the Father …”
He’d put it very badly, the Rector thought sadly. He hadn’t made his meaning clear at all …
Quite a good congregation this evening. How many of them, he wondered, really knew God?
Again Janet Grierson knelt and prayed with fervour and desperation. It was a matter of will, of concentration. If she could get through—God was all powerful. If she could reach him …
For a moment she felt she was getting there—and then there was the irritating rustle of people rising; sighs, movements. Her husband touched her arm. Unwillingly she rose. Her face was very pale. Her husband looked at her with a slight frown. He was a quiet man who disliked intensity of any kind.
In the porch friends met them.
“What an attractive hat, Janet. It’s new, isn’t it?”
“Oh no, it’s terribly old.”
“Hats are so difficult,” Mrs. Stewart complained. “One hardly ever wears one in the country and then on Sunday one feels odd. Janet, do you know Mrs. Lamphrey—Mrs. Grierson. Major Grierson. The Lamphreys have taken Island Lodge.”
“I’m so glad,” said Janet, shaking hands. “It’s a delightful house.”
“Everyone says we’ll be flooded out in winter,” said Mrs. Lamphrey ruefully.
“Oh no—not most years.”
“But some years? I knew it! But the children were mad about it. And of course they’d adore