LAST WORDS AT WALKTOWN
The great building of the Walktown national schools blazed with light.
Every window was a patch of vivid orange in the darkness of the walls.
The whole place was pervaded by a loud, whirring hum of talk and
laughter and an incredible rattle of plates and saucers.
In one of the classrooms down-stairs Helena Byars, with a dozen other
ladies of the parish, presided over a scene of intense activity. Huge
urns of tea ready mixed with the milk and sugar, were being carried up
the stone stairs to the big schoolroom by willing hands. Piles of thick
sandwiches of ham, breakfast-cups of mustard, hundreds of slices of
moist wedge-shaped cake covered the tables, lessening rapidly as they
were carried away to the crowded rooms above.
A Lancashire church tea-party was in full swing, for this was the
occasion when Basil Gortre was to say an official farewell to the people
among whom he had worked in the North.
In the tea-room itself several hundred people were making an enormous
meal at long tables, under flaring, naked gas-lights, which sent
shimmering vapours of heat up to the pitch-pine beams of the room above.
On the walls of the schoolroom hung long, map-like pictures, heavily
glazed. Some of them were representations of foreign animals, or trees
and plants, with the names printed below each in thick black type.
Others represented scenes from the life of Christ, and though somewhat
stiff and wooden, showed clearly the immense strides that educational
art has taken during the past few years.
At one end of the room was a platform running along its length. Some
palms and tree-ferns in pots, chairs, a grand piano, and some music
stands, promised a concert when tea should be over.
All the ladies of the parish were acting as attendants, or presiding at
the urns on each table. There could be no doubt that the people were in
a state of high good humour and enjoyment. Every now and again a great
roar of laughter would break through the prevailing hum from one table
or another. Despite the almost stifling heat and a mixed odour of
humanity and ham, which a sensitive person might have shrunk from, the
rough, merry Lancashire folk were happy as may be.
Basil Gortre, in his long, black coat, his skin somewhat pale from his
long illness, walked from table to table, spending a few minutes at
each. His face was wreathed in perpetual smiles, and roars of laughter
followed each sally of his wit, a homely cut-and-thrust style of humour
adapted to his audience. The fat mothers of families, wives of
prosperous colliers and artisans, with their thick gold earrings and
magenta frocks, beamed motherhood and kindliness at him. The
Sunday-school teachers giggled and blushed with pleasure when he spoke.
The vicar, smiling paternally as was his wont, walked up and down the
gangways also, toying with the _pince-nez_ at his breast, and very
successfully concealing the fact from every one that he was by no means
in the seventh heaven of happiness. Tea-parties, so numerous and popular
in the North, were always somewhat of a trial to him.
Basil and Mr. Byars met in the middle of the room when the tea was
nearly over. Tears were gleaming in the eyes of the younger man.
"It is hard to leave them all," he said. "How good and kind they are,
how hearty! And these are the people I thought disliked me and
misunderstood me. I resented what I thought was a vulgar familiarity and
a coarse dislike. But how different they are beneath the surface!"
"They have warm, loyal hearts, Basil," said the vicar. "It is a pity
that such uncouth manners and exteriors should go with them. Surface
graces may not mean much, but there is no doubt they have a tremendous
influence over the human mind. During your illness the whole parish
thought of little else, I really believe. And to-night you will have
very practical evidence of their friendship. You know, of course, that
there is going to be a presentation?"
"Yes. I couldn't help knowing that much, though I wish they wouldn't."
"It is very good of them. Now I shall call for grace."
The vicar made his way on to the platform and loudly clapped his hands.
The tumult died suddenly away into silence, punctuated here and there by
a belated rattle of a teacup and the spasmodic choking of some one
endeavouring to bolt a large piece of cake in a hurry.
"We will now sing grace," Mr. Byars said in a clear and audible
voice,--"the _Old Hundred_, following our usual custom."
As he spoke a little, bearded man in a frock-coat clambered up beside
him. This was Mr. Cuthbert, the organist of the parish church. The
little man pulled a tuning-fork from his pocket and struck it on the
back of a chair.
Then he held it to his ear for a moment. The people had all risen, and
the room was now quite silent.
"La!" sang the little organist, giving the note in a long, melodious
call.
He raised his hand, gave a couple of beats in the air, and the famous
old hymn burst out royally. The great volume of sound seemed too fierce
and urgent even for that spacious room. It pressed against the ear-drums
almost with pain, though sung with the perfect time and tune which are
the heritage of the sweet-voiced North-country folk:--
"_All people that on earth do dwell,
Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice!_"
How hearty it was! How strong and confident!
As Basil Gortre listened his heart expanded in love and fellowship
towards these brother Christians. The dark phantoms which had rioted in
his sick brain during the long weeks of his illness lay dead and
harmless now. The monstrous visions of a conventional and formal
Christianity, covering a world of secret and gibing atheism, seemed
incredibly far removed from the glorious truth, as these strong, homely
people sang a full-voiced _ave_ to the great brooding Trinity of Power
and Love unseen, but all around them.
Who was he to be refined and too dainty for his uses? There seemed
nothing incongruous in the picture before his eyes. The litter of broken
ham, the sloppy cups, the black-coated men with brilliant sky-blue satin
ties, the women with thick gnarled hands and clothes the colour of a
copper kettle, what were they now but his very own brethren, united in
this burst of praise?
And he joined in the doxology with all his heart and voice, his clear
tenor soaring joyously above the rest:
"_To FATHER, SON, and HOLY GHOST,
The GOD Whom Heaven and earth adore,
From men and from the Angel-host
Be praise and glory evermore. Amen._"
It ceased with suddenness. There was the satisfied silence of a second,
and then the attendant helpers, assisted by the feasters, fell swiftly
upon the tables. Cloths and crockery vanished like snow melting in
sunlight, and as each table was laid bare it was turned up by a patent
arrangement, and became a long bench with a back, which was added to the
rows of seats facing the platform. As each iron-supported seat was
pushed noisily into its place it was filled up at once with a laughing
crowd, replete but active, smacking anticipatory chops over the
entertainment and speech-making to come.
Mr. Cuthbert, a painstaking pianist, whose repertoire was noisily
commonplace, opened the concert with a solo.
Songs and recitations followed. All were well received by an audience
which was determined to enjoy itself, but it was obvious that the real
event of the gathering was eagerly awaited.
At last the eventful moment arrived. A table covered with green baize
and bearing some objects concealed by a cloth was carried on the
platform, and a row of chairs placed on either side of it.
The vicar, Basil, a strange clergyman, and a little group of
black-coated churchwardens and sidesmen filed upon the platform amid
tumultuous cheering and clapping of hands.
Mr. Pryde, the solicitor, rose first, and pronounced a somewhat pompous
but sincere eulogy upon Basil's work and life at Walktown, which was
heard in an absolute and appreciative silence, only broken by the
scratching pencil of the reporter from a local paper.
Then he called upon the vicar to make the presentation.
Basil advanced to the table.
"My dear friends and fellow-workers," said Mr. Byars, "I am not going to
add much to what Mr. Pryde has said. As most of you know, Mr. Gortre
stands and is about to stand to me in even a nearer and more intimate
relation than that of assistant priest to his parish priest. But before
giving Mr. Gortre the beautiful presents which your unbounded generosity
has provided, and in order that you may have as little speech-making
from me as possible, I want to take this opportunity of introducing the
Reverend Henry Nuttall to you to-night."
He bowed towards the stranger clergyman, a pleasant, burly, clean-shaven
man.
"I am going from among you for a couple of months, as I believe you have
been told, and Mr. Nuttall is to take my place as your temporary pastor
for that time. My doctor has ordered me rest for a time. So my daughter
and myself, together with Mr. Gortre, who sadly needs change after his
illness, and who is not to take up his duties in London for several
weeks, are going away together for a holiday. And now I will simply ask
Mr. Gortre to accept this tea-service and watch in the name of the
congregation of St. Thomas as a token of their esteem and good-will."
He pulled the cloth away and displayed some glittering silver vessels.
Then he handed the agitated young man a gold watch in a leather case.
Basil faced the shouting, enthusiastic crowd, staring through dimmed
eyes at the long rows of animated faces.
When there was a little silence he began to speak in a voice of great
emotion.
Very simply and earnestly he thanked them for their good-will and
kindness.
"This may be," he said, "the last time I shall ever have the privilege
and pleasure of speaking to you. I want to give you one last message. I
want to urge one and all here to-night to do one thing. Keep your faith
unspotted, unstained by doubts, uninfluenced by fears. Do that and all
will be well with you here and hereafter." His voice sank a full tone
and he spoke with marked emphasis. "I have sometimes thought and felt of
late that possibly the time may be at hand, we who are here to-night may
witness a time, when the Powers and Principalities of evil will make a
great and determined onslaught upon the Christian Faith. I may not read
the signs of the times aright, my premonitions--for they have sometimes
amounted even to that--may be unfounded or imaginary. But if such a time
shall come, if the 'horror of great darkness,' a spiritual horror, that
we read of in Genesis, descend upon the world and envelop it in its
gloom and terror, oh! let us have faith. Keep the light burning
steadily. 'Let nothing disturb thee; let nothing affright thee. All
passeth: God only remaineth.' And now, dear brothers and sisters in the
Holy Faith, thank you, God bless you, and farewell."
There was a tense silence as his voice dropped to a close.
Here and there a woman sobbed.
There was something peculiar about his warning. He spoke almost in
prophecy, as if he _knew_ of some terror coming, and saw its advance
from afar. His face, pale and thin from fever, his bright, earnest eyes,
not the glittering eyes of a fanatic, but the saner, wiser ones of the
earnest single-minded man, had an immense influence with them there.
And that night, as they trudged home to mean dwellings, or suburban
villas, or rolled away in carriages, each person heard the intense,
quiet voice warning them of the future, exhorting them to be steadfast
in the Faith.
Seed which bore most fragrant blossom in the time which, though they
knew it not, was close at hand was sown that night.