PARSON'S METHODS
Next day, immediately after breakfast, Sir Geoffrey summoned his two
footmen and the odd man, so called because he does odd jobs in a big
establishment and works harder for less pay than any other servant
except, possibly, the scullery-maid. The first footman, Alfred Rockley,
had married recently his cousin, Prudence, and, for the moment, the
Squire regarded him as ineligible for service elsewhere. Charles, the
second footman, was held by the Squire to be an oaf, sadly in need of
barrack-yard discipline; the odd man had been taken from the Home Farm,
and felt more at home in a barn than in the pantry.
They had attended the lecture of the previous evening.
Sir Geoffrey marshalled them in front of him, as he sat at his desk, and
said genially:
"Now, Alfred, what do you think about joining up?"
The gallant fellow answered promptly:
"I'm ready to enlist with Captain Pomfret, Sir Geoffrey."
"So he told me, and it warmed the cockles of my heart. But you have a
wife and----"
"Somebody else coming, Sir Geoffrey," added a true son of
Nether-Applewhite.
"Yes, yes; a hint of that reached me, and I was much pleased. Babies,
b'Jove, ought to command premiums nowadays. Under the circumstances,
Alfred, you can go back to the pantry. Single men must march first."
Alfred thanked the Autocrat, and withdrew. Charles happened to be the
Squire's godson, and not a credit to his sponsor. Sir Geoffrey stared at
his bovine face, now exhibiting a grin which might be seen at funerals
and on all momentous occasions, a grin indicating nervousness and
apprehension. If Sir Geoffrey could have looked through a very massive
desk, he would have reprimanded Charles for standing on one foot and
scratching his calf with the other.
"What do you propose to do, Charles?"
"I be thinking, Sir Gaffrey."
"Good. I want my people to exercise such thought as God has given to
'em. What conclusion have you come to--hey?"
"Mother don't fancy me going for a soldier."
"Possibly not. But this is a case for your conscience, not for your
mother's fancy."
He spoke with increasing testiness.
"I be thinking, Sir Gaffrey," he repeated, with a still broader grin.
"Very well. Off with you! Think hard for the next twenty-four hours, and
I'll see you again."
"Yas, Sir Gaffrey."
Charles withdrew, still grinning, and joined Alfred in the pantry, where
he used encarmined language which provoked a rebuke from the middle-aged
butler who had stepped into Fishpingle's shoes.
Sir Geoffrey eyed the odd man.
"What have you to say, my lad?"
"I ain't going to the wars, I ain't."
"Oh, you ain't going to the wars? Why not?"
"Because I'm quite satisfied with my place, sir."
"By the way, what's your name?"
"William Busketts."
"To be sure. Unmarried?"
"I'm walking out with Jemima Pavey, a very respectable young woman."
"What does Jemima Pavey say about it?"
"She thinks with me, sir. Most of us think the same, as we ain't ready
to go to furrin' parts. If the Kayser invades Old England, I'm ready to
shoulder gun, stand behind a tree, as brave as my neighbours, and take a
true shot at 'un."
Sir Geoffrey stared at him. Did all the young men in his beloved village
think this? And, if so, how was Authority going to deal with such a lot
of damned fools? He said slowly:
"Has it occurred to you, my lad, that if able-bodied men like you refuse
to enlist willingly, they will be made to do so? Willy-nilly----!"
"Ah-h-h, you're talking of conscription, sir. Old England won't never
stand that. 'Tis devilish Proosianism, so they tell me."
"Who has told you that? Answer me!"
"I have heard William Saint say so."
Sir Geoffrey suppressed an oath. That William Saint, a former servant of
his own, a tenant, a trusted friend, b'Jove! should so poison men's
minds at such a time seemed incredible. If this were true, the world was
indeed upside down. He fidgeted in his chair; his face flushed; wrath
bubbled within him. He began to despair of his fellow-countrymen.
However, he choked down his rising rage and said freezingly:
"You can go, sir."
"Where to?"
"Back to your work for the present."
William Busketts retreated, slightly moithered, but more at ease. He had
expected an explosion, followed by the "sack."
Sir Geoffrey leaned back in his chair, sorely discomfited. It would be
pleasant to record that happier fortune awaited him in his stables, in
his gardens, and at the Home Farm; but truth will leap from her well on
rare occasions. Out of all the young men interviewed upon this memorable
morning, young men more or less dependent upon the will and whim of
their interlocutor, only one promised to enlist forthwith. The others
touched their caps, bobbed their heads, and professed themselves willing
to do anything except bear arms for their country.
Luncheon at Pomfret Court, accordingly, was not a very cheery meal. The
Squire sat silent and abstracted; the troubles in his brain upset his
appetite.
In the afternoon, he called upon Captain Davenant, whom he found
apoplectic with indignation. The Captain had a modest establishment, but
he had discharged two men who--so the Captain affirmed--preferred to
guzzle ale when a unique opportunity for sticking pig was held out to
them.
"Country's rotten," concluded the Captain. "It may be saved by the
gentlemen, by God! sir, but not by our yokels."
The Squire protested against this, saying, mildly for him:
"Perhaps, Davenant, our methods are at fault."
"That be damned!" roared the Captain.
"Well, well, it's fairly obvious that so far our recruiting campaign has
not been an overwhelming success. Hamlin means to have a go at 'em on
Sunday. I haven't a notion how he'll tackle the job, but there it is.
What is your opinion of William Saint?"
"A very shifty fellow, Pomfret, with a face the colour of skilly. He
licks your boots. I wouldn't let him black mine. By the way, I've
promised Habakkuk Mucklow half-a-sovereign for every cove he collars."
"That we should have come to such a pass!"
"Light a fresh cigar, and we'll go to the stables. When I'm fed up with
mankind, I always take a squint at my gees."
"So do I, Davenant. But they'll have to go, too."
"Mine are ready for 'em."
This talk took place in mid-September, at a moment when an astrologer,
doing a roaring trade not far from Piccadilly Circus, predicted
confidently that the final disappearance of the All-Highest would take
place upon the twenty-fifth day of October, 1914! Many believed him. And
the mere sight of our splendid regulars route-marching over country
roads, singing "Tipperary" as they swung along, deepened in the hearts
of those who beheld them the conviction that French's Army was quite
sufficient to stem the Hun tide, and, later on, sweep it back to Berlin.
The pacifist press was widely read by men who had never looked at a
newspaper before.
Unspeakable atrocities had begun in prostrate Belgium. Some refused to
credit them. Others shrugged their shoulders and remarked blandly that
war was not five o'clock tea. Out of the seething mass of
contradictions, affirmations, exaggerations and recriminations, men in
the rural districts who could hardly read and write were invited to step
forward and abandon the beaten tracks. Can one blame them, to-day, that
they shrank at first from a desperate plunge into the unknown?
Upon the following Sunday, Nether-Applewhite Church was crowded to the
galleries.
All over the country, churches were filling up or emptying according to
the virtue that emanated from the preachers of God's Word. One wonders
whether ministers of the Gospel apply this numerical test to themselves.
It is certain, however, that those, like Hamlin, whether in Church or
Chapel, who laid aside for the moment merely Biblical exegesis and the
expounding of doctrine and dogma, and concentrated spiritual and
intellectual energies upon dealing faithfully with the problem of human
conduct as affected by a catastrophic war, had no reason to complain
that they addressed empty pews.
Captain Davenant read the Lessons as if he were declaiming the Riot Act.
The good man believed that the young men present were shirking hounds to
be rated and whipped up to their Master. Under the lash of his rasping
voice, even Mrs. Yellam, louder in fervent response than usual, winced
and frowned. The Parson, in his three-decker, wondered whether a
discreet hint would serve to tone down the zeal of this militant
Christian, who positively wallowed in the slaughters and comminations of
the Old Testament. The Captain, as a stout upholder of Church and Crown,
must be handled delicately; a dry old stick breaks so easily. Uncle sat
with his wife in the Mucklow pew, half-way down the nave. He carried a
high head, and thought of the half-sovereigns soon to be rattling in and
out of his pocket. Jane sat beside him, sniffing audibly. Alfred Yellam
and Fancy Broomfield were opposite to each other, with the aisle between
them.
Hamlin ascended the pulpit.
He chose for his text a maxim of Bishop Berkeley:
"Where the heart is right, there is true patriotism."
The shuffling of skirts and occasional coughs soon died down. Sir
Geoffrey, from his coign of vantage in the chancel, perceived with some
astonishment that Hamlin had a script on the cushion in front of him. As
a rule he preached without notes. The Squire inferred rightly that the
Parson deemed his theme to be of such paramount importance that he
distrusted the effect of one careless, unconsidered word. Hamlin,
however, possessed long sight. He could read his typewritten sheets
without lifting them. Few in the congregation were aware of them.
He began with the curt statement that the actual word "patriotism" is
not to be found in the Bible. This challenged attention immediately. The
Squire fidgeted. He considered that Hamlin had made a shockingly bad
start. A weapon had been thrust into the hands of recalcitrants. This
apprehension, however, vanished as the preacher set forth convincingly,
in words that children could understand, the obsessing love of country,
of the Promised Land, which informed and sustained God's Chosen People
during forty weary years in the wilderness. With a swift transition, he
passed to the New Testament, dwelling, with more insistence, upon the
love that had inspired simple, obscure men to forsake home, country and
kindred, to fight God's battles in new and strange countries. When he
paused, before touching his real theme, he had the ears of his
congregation. He indulged in no gestures, his familiar tones fell
quietly. So far, what he had said was preparatory, novel neither in
theme nor treatment. None knew better than he how sadly his parishioners
were lacking in imagination. His success, as a preacher, had not been
gained by dealing with abstractions or by inviting ill-educated persons
to transplant themselves to surroundings and conditions which the wisest
of moderns find difficulty in apprehending. Hamlin believed in the
personal appeal.
He leaned forward out of his pulpit, gazing keenly at the faces upturned
to his.
"I am wondering," he said slowly, "how many of you young unmarried men
will be here a few Sundays from now?"
He paused again. His voice was gentler:
"I am wondering, also, what the mothers and sisters and sweethearts of
these young men are thinking to-day, and what part they mean to
play--to-morrow." Then he said austerely: "Where the heart is right,
there is true patriotism."
Many hearts began to beat faster, as he went on, picking his way,
pausing again and again, but never faltering. The Squire, upright in his
comfortable chair, became conscious of the man's grip upon everybody
present, gentle and simple. He could see their tense faces.
"I have never doubted one great thing. I believe in the soul and its
immortality. In God's sight all souls are equal, because they are part
of Him. From birth that soul is struggling to inform the body, in all
its functions. It never tires; it never despairs. I dare to affirm that
it is most active when body and mind are fighting against it, spurning
it, denying, perhaps, its very existence or power. I affirm, further,
that this quickening spirit within us may be least potent to achieve its
purpose when body and mind are stagnant, steeped in apathy, content with
the things of this earth, food, drink, clothes, money and--pleasure.
"Try to believe, for a moment, that your souls are omnipotently right.
In the text I have chosen, Bishop Berkeley uses the word 'heart.' I take
it that he meant mind. Are your minds right? Are they working in harmony
with your souls? Each of you is called upon to answer that question in
relation to this world-war, and what that war may demand of each of us.
It is the duty of some of you to go, not grudgingly, not because
pressure is brought to bear upon you, not because you want to pose
before others as more valiant than they are, not for any selfish reason
whatever, but in the same spirit which informed the apostles, men like
yourselves, hard workers, absorbed, as you are, in their own affairs,
who abandoned everything with one unswerving purpose before them--the
regeneration of a world in pain.
"A great Cause is animating all of us.
"This war may inspire some of you to actions undreamed of in days of
peace, to a valour which you cannot measure if you would, because the
hour provoking it has not yet come. Sooner or later that hour comes to
the greatest and the humblest. And the manner of our rising to it may
shape anew our lives and other lives, and determine our progress here
and hereafter. From the cradle to the grave, each of us carries a
sleeping energy capable of immense expansion, which wakes when the great
opportunity presents itself.
"Some of you, I daresay, are unconscious of this latent power. We don't
expect much of a child, do we? A child eats and plays and sleeps. But
children of the tenderest years have performed amazing, incredible
deeds. Why? Because of this Divine fund of spiritual force. And we who
are past middle-age; how difficult it is to say, with any certainty, how
early we began, resolutely, to exercise what is called the human will.
"I ask you again, are your hearts right? I repeat again that your souls
are right. Obey the voice of conscience, and it will be well with you.
It is the duty of some of us to stay here in Nether-Applewhite. I wish
with all my heart that I could go, but I must stay. A very solemn
obligation rests with the women. I have never doubted the immense
influence consciously or unconsciously exercised by you women over men.
Are your hearts right? Do you realise, thinking, as you must do, of your
dependence upon your bread-winners, that you may be hindering instead of
helping those whom you love; that, in urging them to stay at home, you
may be taking from them an opportunity to rise to their full stature,
never to be offered again?
"What does Bishop Berkeley mean by _true_ patriotism?
"Are the Germans true patriots? Let us admit that they are passionate
lovers of their Fatherland. But their patriotism would seem to be an
insensate fury of self-interest, shrinking from no outrage to be
inflicted on others, provided only that the material end be
accomplished--world-dominion. I cannot bring myself to speak, before
young women and children, of the atrocities deliberately wreaked upon
helpless Belgians. They are so abominable that details are unprintable
in clean newspapers.
"Is, then, their form of patriotism true?
"What form will your patriotism take? Will it be true, springing to life
and strength, out of a right mind inspired by the soul; or will it
pattern itself after the Prussian model, concerning itself with material
gain regardless of spiritual loss?
"Ask yourself these things.
"Before I close I want to say this. For many years I have worked amongst
you, in sickness and in health, in prosperity and adversity, and your
welfare is dear to me. Sometimes I have felt discouraged, acutely
sensible of failure and disappointment. For many of you I have cherished
ambitions, and some of these have been realised. And it is this which
has sustained and fortified me in the dark hours which none can escape.
What one can do may be done by another; not in the same way, perhaps,
but in the same direction--upward and onward. I believe, with all the
faith that is in me, that you will rise, with right and steadfast
hearts, to meet this stupendous emergency. I am at your service. My
house is open to you when I am in it. If you want counsel, if you feel
perplexed, as you may well do, come to me, and together we will attempt
to find a way. I shall not appeal to any one of you, personally."
The congregation filed out of the church. Many walked home in silence.
Alfred Yellam booked no orders in the churchyard on that Sunday. Susan
Yellam smelt no odour of baked meats as she passed the baker's. Uncle,
after greeting them not so exuberantly as usual, said with conviction:
"A very moving and proper discourse. 'Tis strange that me and Pa'son do
think just alike. I felt as I might ha' been preaching that upliftin'
sermon myself. His motter be mine--upward and onward! He be counting on
me to play my part, and I shan't disapint 'un."
His wife said tartly:
"There be one preacher you'll never disappoint, Habakkuk."
"You means Pa'son?"
"I means--yourself."
Uncle laughed, patting her shoulder.
"Old dear, I've heard 'ee make more foolish remarks."
Mrs. Yellam said no word about the sermon till the midday meal was over.
When Alfred had lighted his pipe, she came and sat near him.
"Alferd?"
"Yes, Mother?"
"There be moments when Mr. Hamlin do soar, so to speak, high above me. I
be a very unhappy 'ooman this day."
Alfred opened his mouth and left it open, gaping with amazement. The
Parson's sermon had moved him to the marrow, particularly the references
to the women, because he was well aware of the influence exercised over
him by his mother and Fancy, the more percolating because he never
admitted it except to himself. Nevertheless he knew that his mother was
subject to moods and tenses which no ordinary man could conjugate. She
held herself strictly to account upon matters affecting conduct,
somewhat complacently aware that less robust spirits cited her as a
model. Her cocksureness about others, oddly enough, accentuated
pitifully her private opinion about Susan Yellam. From time to time
Alfred alone was privileged to behold this strong woman self-shorn of
her strength. He could remember well a terrible fortnight after Lizzie
died, when Mrs. Yellam lay in bed and refused even his efforts to
console her. The remembrance of her grim, set face came back to him now,
as he stared mutely at her, wondering what he ought to say, and
miserably conscious that the situation lay far beyond him.
Why should his mother be unhappy?
Had he been a student of history, he might have reflected that Boadicea,
possibly, ruled wisely everybody except herself.
Mrs. Yellam continued:
"I have the notion that Mr. Hamlin expects too much o' me."
"What a queer, upsetting idea!"
"I be asking myself if my heart be right. It bain't."
"Maybe 'tis your stomach, Mother."
"No, Alferd. I be no true patriot."
"Well, I never! If such a woman as you are is bogged down, where are we,
I ask?"
"You be in the right path, Alferd. 'Tis some comfort to think o' that.
Now, let me bide wi' my own thoughts. Fancy be waiting for 'ee. Be kind
to the maid, Alferd, if so be as you find her, like me, down on beam
ends after this marning's sermon."
"Fancy'll be all right, I wager."
"Maybe. I tell 'ee this: we women be fearfully and wonnerfully made--a
puzzle to ourselves and all mortal men. That be a fact, my son. I knows
this too hard for any man to understand. If you stayed on here wi' me,
wi' the whole-souled notion o' comforting an unhappy 'ooman, I should
wax peevish wi' 'ee. God forgive us! We be cruel to they we love, when
life goes wrong wi' us."
Alfred wisely had a squint at his motor-'bus to hearten himself up, and
then took the road to the Vicarage.
Mrs. Yellam cleared away the dinner-things and washed them up. It was
too early, as yet, to expect visitors. She went into the parlour and
opened the big Bible, staring at Alfred's name and her own. She had rid
herself of him cleverly. Had he stayed, she would have broken down. She
wanted to make him swear to remain in Nether-Applewhite. She had made up
her mind to do so that very morning. Every word spoken by the Parson
seemed to be directed at her; his chance shafts quivered in the heart
that was not right.
She closed the Bible.