'eerd about poor Mr. Edward, and I ain't forgot you, sir, in my
prayers."
"Thank you, thank you," said the Vicar. "I need them."
"It do'ant matter, sir, do it, whether we be Church or Chapel at a time
like this?" went on Mrs. Rosewarn. "I ain't ever been to Church in my
life, 'cept to funerals and weddin's. I 'ave always been a Wesleyan, and
somehow I thought that your religion was deffurent to ours, but now,
sir.... Well, sir, perhaps you understand what I mean."
When the Vicar left I rose to go with him, but the simple woman
persuaded me to stay a few minutes longer.
"Only think, sir," she said, when he had gone. "Why, he ain't ever been
in my 'ouse before. 'E said that my 'usband was committing what he
called sacrilege, by preachin'. 'E said it was a sin for ignorant men,
like my John, to preach the Gospel, and now to think that 'e should come
'ere like this, and talk like 'e 'ave talked. And, sir, whether we be
gentle or simple, we 'ave got 'earts to feel, 'aven't us, sir?"
When I left the cottage I felt that in some way I was leaving a
sanctuary, and I realized that this woman possessed a secret which was
hidden from me. Her simple faith was greater and more profound than all
the learned tomes in the libraries at Oxford, greater than all the
scholarship of men. I wandered along the road aimlessly; I did not know
where I was going, I did not care, but I had not gone far when I found
the Vicar by my side. Evidently he had been waiting for me.
"Do you know that woman, Erskine?" he asked.
"I have met her a few times," I replied. "I have got very friendly with
some of the village folk."
"I, who have been the Vicar of this parish for many years, have never
been to that house before," he said. "I looked upon her husband as a
Radical, as a Dissenter, and therefore a dangerous man. I have been
angry with him for usurping offices which I did not think it right for
him to hold; but, great God! how a thing like this shows us what fools
we are!"
I was silent, for I did not know what to say to him.
"Do you ever read the Bible, Erskine?"
"No," I replied. "I have not read it since I was at Oxford. The last
thing that I remember reading was the story of St. Paul's shipwreck. I
could not help thinking then what a fine piece of literature it was; but
it seemed a long way off. I thought of Paul as one who lived in a
superstitious age, and one who saw miraculous interventions in what were
only commonplaces. Somehow it strikes me differently now."
"How is that?" he asked.
"I remember that Paul said something about the Angel of God standing
beside him, and telling him that the ship should be saved, and that in
the story Paul said, 'I believe God.' It was very fine, very graphic."
"Yes," he replied. "It was more than fine, more than graphic. Paul
possessed a secret which some of us have lost. I wonder, I wonder----"
"Wonder what?" I asked.
"Have you ever read the Book of Job?" asked the Vicar, without seeming
to notice my question.
"I have almost forgotten it," I replied. "I used to think in the old
days that it was a very fine drama, compared with which even _Macbeth_
was almost poor. But what of it?"
"Do you remember, towards the end of the story, that God answered Job
out of the whirlwind? God seems to be answering me out of the whirlwind.
He is just shattering all my poor little fancies, shrivelling up all my
little beliefs. Why, that woman----Good-day, Erskine."
He walked away as he spoke, and I watched him enter the churchyard gates
and find his way into the Church. A kind of curiosity impelled me to
follow him, and silently I found my way into the old stone building,
which had been erected in this quiet village in pre-Reformation
days--built by men long since dead, built before even Erasmus let in the
light of learning upon our country, before Luther's voice shook the
world. How quiet it was! Not a sound disturbed the silence. Not even the
murmur of the sea reached me here.
At first, I thought the place was empty; that the Vicar had passed
through it on his way to the Vicarage. But I was mistaken. Kneeling at
his desk, I saw him in prayer. His eyes were fixed on the stained-glass
window over the Communion table, but I am sure he did not see the
figures of saints and prophets that were placed there. He was looking
beyond. I turned and went silently away. It was not for me to disturb
him.
On looking back now, it seemed to me that that day was a day of great
events. Not that much had happened. News had come to me that two lads
had been killed in the war, and that was all. But there was more than
that. I had seen, as I had never seen before, into the hearts of two
people--into that of the Vicar of the parish, and into the heart of a
simple woman. They had both lost their sons.
I climbed over a stile which led to a footpath whereby I could, by a
roundabout way, return to my cottage on the cliff. I was in a strange
mood, I remember. My mind was bewildered by what I had seen and heard,
and I felt impatient with the philosophies which had somehow caused
material barriers to be placed around me. I wanted to overleap those
barriers. I was impatient with what seemed to place weights upon the
wings of the mind and the wings of that something which we call soul. I
hungered, as I never hungered before, for some assurance that life was
deeper, greater, diviner than that suggested by the theories of men. A
few months before I had been satisfied with the life I had been living.
I was beginning to be successful at the Bar, and I had many pleasant
friends and acquaintances. The possession of a good name and a
respectable profession opened the doors of some of the best houses in
England to me, and, as I said, I thought I was content. Then came Dr.
Rhomboid's verdict, followed by my visit to Cornwall. After that the
great war broke out, and life had become a maddening maze.
For some time now I had seen nothing of the Lethbridges. I had had two
letters from Hugh, who told me he was well. He also sent me a photograph
of himself, taken in his lieutenant's uniform. His letter, I remember,
was a cheery epistle, intermingled with a tone of sadness. He asked me
to visit his wife, and to try to cheer her; but there was no word either
of his father or of his sister. Perhaps the thought of Hugh's letter
made me think of the latter, for, as I found my way along the footpath,
I reflected on our meetings.
Why was it that my mind was constantly reverting to her? I had, in a
way, become almost sullenly resigned to the fact that, if Dr. Rhomboid
were right, I had only three or four months longer to live, and yet, in
a way for which I could not account, I constantly found myself thinking
of Isabella Lethbridge. I told myself again and again that I did not
love her, and I was sure I was right. Indeed, after my experiences with
the Vicar and with Mrs. Rosewarn, I felt angry with her, angry with
myself for constantly thinking about her; and while this feeling
possessed me, I met her. She had come by a pathway from her home, and
the two paths met just as we came in sight of each other. A kind of
madness possessed me as I shook hands with her.
"Have you heard from Hugh lately?" I asked, after our first greetings.
"No," she replied. "My father has forbidden both my mother and me to
receive any letters from him."
"Surely that is a foolish command on his part," I said. "He cannot stop
Hugh from writing, neither can he forbid the postman from bringing
letters to your house."
"No," she said, with a laugh, "but my father has the key to the letter
bag, and he can decide as to what letters reach us." She spoke, as I
thought, flippantly, and as one who did not care.
Perhaps it was the tone of her voice and the look in her eyes which
caused me to say what I did.
"Have I to congratulate you, Miss Lethbridge?"
"Congratulate me on what?" she asked.
"On your engagement," I said.
"Engagement! To whom?"
"To Mr. Barcroft?"
She laughed as though I had perpetrated a joke.
"What made you think of such a thing?" she asked.
"The look in his eyes when I saw him at your house, and your evident
liking for each other."
I felt how incongruous my words were, how utterly out of keeping with
the scenes of sorrow I had witnessed that day; but, as I said, a spirit
of madness was upon me.
"Men are such fools," was her reply.
"Yes, they are. But we cannot help that. Men were born to be fooled by
women. But surely Mr. Barcroft is a happy man now if what rumor says is
true."
"And what does rumor say?"
"That he is favored above all other men," I replied. "That Miss
Lethbridge has consented to make him happy."
"Was it not Shakespeare who said that 'rumor was a lying jade'?" And
again she laughed, as I thought, flippantly, heartlessly. "Poor man, I
cannot help what he feels."
I felt that her words were those of a vulgar woman, and yet, as she
stood there that day, with the early spring sunlight shining upon her,
her face flushed with the hue of health, her eyes shining brightly, I
had never seen any one so beautiful.
"And is rumor a lying jade in this instance?" I asked.
"Of course it is," was her reply. "Did I not tell you once, somewhere
near here, that I did not believe there was such a thing as love?"
"And did you ever tell him so?" And I think there was an angry note in
my voice as I asked her that question.
"Have I ever given you the right to ask that?"
"I don't know," I replied. "But I want to tell you something. I have no
right to tell you, but I am in a strange humor to-day. I have been
talking with Mr. Trelaske, whose son has been killed in the war. I have
also been to the house of Mrs. Rosewarn, whose boy Tom is dead."
"Of course, that is very sad," she said; "but I don't see what that has
to do with what you have to tell me. Come, I am impatient to hear."
Reflecting on it since, I cannot think why I yielded to the madness
which possessed me, but I am setting down in this narrative what
actually occurred. I suppose I acted like a boor, and I know that,
judging by every canon of good taste, I am to be condemned.
"Miss Lethbridge, do you know that more than once since I came to
Cornwall I have believed myself in love with you?"
She stared at me with wide-open eyes.
"I have sometimes thought," I went on, "that I would give worlds to
possess your love. Had I not been a dying man, I would not have said
this; but it does not matter now. Besides, I do not love you."
"Thank you," she replied. "But really----"
"No," I interrupted. "Do not retort by saying that you never wished for
my love, and that if I offered it you would decline it with thanks. I am
in a strange humor, or I should not say this. In a way I do love you,
love you more than words can tell or imagination can fancy; at the same
time, I know I do not love you at all. I love the woman you ought to be,
the woman God meant you to be--if there be a God."
She looked at me like one startled.
"You have tried to play with my heart," I said to her, "I who am only a
dying man. No, do not deny it, but you have. You have flashed looks of
love at me. You have tried to make me think that you love me, and all
the time you have not cared a straw about me. There have been times when
I have been ready to worship you, but I could not do it, although, as I
said, I have loved you--that is, I have loved the woman you ought to be,
that you were meant to be; but it was not you. Do you know, Miss
Lethbridge, that you have been a baleful influence in the lives of men?
It does not matter to me now, I am beyond that; but since I have been in
Cornwall I have met three fellows whose lives you have blackened. You
won their love, you made them think you cared for them. Why have you
done it?"
Her face from rosy red became ashy pale, but her eyes gleamed with hot
anger.
"Really, Mr. Erskine," she said quietly, "you mistook your profession. A
burlesque actor is your role."
"Your retort is poor," I went on. "I am not acting, but am in sober
earnest. Perhaps I have no right to think of such things, but there have
been times when I became mad about you, would almost have sold my soul
to possess you. Why, even now my heart cries out for you. I love you
more than life or being, and yet it is not you I love at all; it is the
woman you might have been."
She stood looking at me for some seconds, again with wide-open eyes.
Once or twice she seemed on the point of speaking, but she uttered no
word. Then she turned and walked away. Her head was erect, and she
carried herself proudly.
I knew I had wounded her deeply.
XX
THE VICAR'S SERMON
On the following Sunday I went to Chapel in the morning, and to the
Parish Church in the evening. As I wended my way thitherwards, I
reflected how strange it was that I should make it almost a habit to go
to a place of worship on a Sunday. Prior to coming to Cornwall, I had
not been inside a Church of any sort for years; indeed, such a thing was
alien to my life. I had no interest in it, neither did I see its
utility. Indeed, even then I could have given no explanation for my
action. Neither Church nor Chapel had given me an answer to things I
wanted to know.
As I tried to analyze my reason for going, it seemed that something in
the atmosphere of Sunday in Cornwall made it natural. Besides, it gave a
kind of mild interest to my life. I had but few friends, and living
alone as I did, I grew tired of reading and thinking; thus, when Sunday
came, the ringing of the Church bells seemed to call me to a house of
prayer. I dare say that if I had been in a country where Mohammedanism
or Buddhism was the established faith of the people, I should have gone
to their mosques or temples just as I went to Church and Chapel in
Cornwall.
To speak quite frankly, I had, up to the present, received no benefit
from either. Mostly the pulpit at the Chapel was occupied by some
layman, who spoke in a language different from my own. These laymen had
read no books expressing the thought of the age, neither did they at all
understand the attitude of my mind. That they were simple, earnest men I
did not doubt, and yet I often wondered at their daring to occupy the
position of religious teachers. What distressed me, moreover, was the
fact that most of them appeared very anxious to convince their
congregation that they had prepared a fine discourse, rather than to
help people. The note of deep experience was too often lacking; and yet
almost Sunday by Sunday I found my way there, until my presence caused
no remark whatever.
In spite of all this, however, I could not help reflecting that since I
came to the little village of St. Issey a subtle change had come over
the congregation. Not that the Chapel was very much more largely
attended; but there seemed to me to be a spirit of yearning, a deep
undertone of feeling among the worshippers. That morning especially did
I realize this. The preacher was John Rosewarn, the father of the boy
whose death had been recorded the previous week. I will not try to
reproduce his sermon.
Intellectually, John Rosewarn had practically nothing to say to me, and
yet my heart was moved strangely. The shadow of his loss was brooding
over him, and although he had no great mental acumen, he seemed to be
feeling his way to the heart of things. There was a deep tenderness in
his voice, a new light in his eyes. He made no mention of his son's
death, but the fact was felt throughout the whole Church. Many wondered,
I myself included, how he could have conducted the service that day, yet
he did; and although his message from an intellectual standpoint was
poor and unconvincing, there was a sense of reality which I had seldom
felt in the homely little building.
The congregation felt this too, and especially was it manifest during
the singing of the hymns. One hymn, I remember, the people sang with
great fervor. I had never heard it before, and from the standpoint of
poetry it had nothing to recommend it, but as these people sang it, it
was weighted with meaning.
"We know, by _faith_ we know
If this vile house of clay,
This tabernacle sink below
In ruinous decay
We have a house above
Not made with mortal hands...."
I saw the tears rolling down the faces of the people as they sang, and I
thought I noticed a note of triumph.
When the service was over, John Rosewarn came down from the pulpit into
the vestibule and spoke to me.
"Thank you, sir, for calling at our house the other day," he said. "It
is a terrible loss, sir, but we shall see our boy again."
I went back to my little house on the cliff thinking deeply. Yes, a
subtle change had come over the little congregation. The first
excitement of the war was over, but something, I could not define what,
had created a new atmosphere. Personally, I was still as much in the
dark as ever; and the faith, the suggestion of which I had realized that
morning, seemed to rest on utterly insufficient foundations; but I could
not deny its existence.
In the evening I found my way to the Parish Church. I saw at a glance
that a larger congregation than usual had gathered. I noticed that old
Squire Treherne was in the great square Treherne pew. Noticed, too, that
Mr. Prideaux, father of young Prideaux, whose name I have mentioned,
also several of the larger farmers who seldom came to Church of an
evening, were present. What had drawn them there I could not tell, for
it was in no way a special service. And yet, perhaps, it was special,
for I knew that the sympathies of the people were drawn out towards Mr.
Trelaske.
The Vicar did not look so haggard as when he had visited me, but the
marks of suffering were plainly to be seen on his face. There was no
change in the order of the service. The usual evening prayers were
repeated, the Psalms were sung, and the village schoolmaster read the
lessons as he was wont to do, and yet here, too, was a suggestion of a
change. A deeper note was struck, a new meaning felt. I asked myself why
it was so, and wondered if the change were in me or in the people around
me. The Vicar conducted the service like a man who was very weary. There
was no suggestion of triumph or even conviction in his tones. He seemed
to be bearing a heavy burden. When presently the hymn before the sermon
was being sung and he left his stall in the choir to go into the pulpit,
I wondered what he could say. Had he a message to deliver? Had his
sorrow brought him hope, faith?
He preached the shortest sermon, I think, I ever heard. Altogether, I
imagine it did not take more than five minutes in its delivery, but the
people listened as they had never listened before during the time I had
been in St. Issey. He chose for his text a passage from the Psalms: "The
fool hath said in his heart, there is no God." When he had read the
passage, he waited for some seconds as if not knowing what to say.
"Has it struck you, brethren, that during this ghastly war, in spite of
the fact that the greater part of the world is under arms, in spite of
the fact that hellish deeds are being done, in spite of the welter of
blood and the unutterable carnage, that we have heard no one deny the
existence of God? I thought when the war first broke out and assumed
such awful proportions, when I realized the misery it was causing, that
people would have doubted God, that they would have said, like the
enemies of the Psalmist of old, 'Where is now thy God?' I thought that
atheism would have lifted its head again and uttered its desolating cry;
that men would have said, 'If there is a God, He would not have allowed
these things.' And yet worse things have happened than we, at the
commencement of the war, thought possible, but I have heard no one deny
the existence of God, neither have I heard any one seriously doubt His
goodness. Why is it?"
He paused a few seconds and seemed to be communing with himself.
"Brethren," he went on, "we meet under the shadow of a great loss. Some
of you, even as I at this moment, feel that we are in the deep waters,
and in our heart's agony we cry out to God. We cannot help it."
He ceased again, and a silence, such as I have never known before in a
Church, pervaded the building.
"Brethren," he went on, "will you pray for me, and I will pray for you?
Pray that we may be led out of darkness into light."
I thought he was going to finish here, thought he was going to utter the
usual formula at the conclusion of a sermon, but he went on.
"God is teaching us many lessons--teaching us how foolish we are, how
paltry have been our conceptions of Him; teaching us, too, our need of
Him. Will the Church, will religion ever be the same to us again? I
think not."
Again he stopped, and the people breathlessly waited, as if wondering
what he would say next. To me he seemed like a man in doubt as to
whether he ought to utter the words which had come into his mind.
"In the past," he went on, "religion, even in our quiet little village,
has seemed as though it were divided into two camps. I have avoided the
Chapel people and the Chapel people have avoided the Church. I need not
say why. I am sure we shall never settle our differences by arguments or
by criticisms. There has been too much of that in the past. This is a
time when we need to pray, and so I am asking all the people in the
parish, whether they belong to Chapel or to Church, to meet in the
village schoolroom to-morrow night, to pray--to pray that God will bless
our soldiers and sailors, and all who are seeking to help us to destroy
this awful scourge of war, to pray for broken hearts at home, to pray
that God will lead us all into His light."
He made a long pause here, and we wondered what was to come next. Then
suddenly turning his face, as was his custom, he repeated the formula:
"And now to God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost, be all
honor, power, and dominion, world without end. Amen."
The little service was at an end. Quietly we left the old building and
found our way into the churchyard. As I reached the gates, I felt a hand
upon my arm and saw Squire Treherne standing by me.
"Will you come up and have a bite of supper, Erskine?" he said.
"Thank you, Squire, but I dare not. I ought not to have come out
to-night."
"I am glad you did, anyhow," was the Squire's reply. "My word! this
business is giving us a shaking up. Trelaske has never preached such a
sermon before in my hearing."
I could not help smiling, for in truth he had not preached a sermon at
all.
"I see what you mean," said the old man. "For that matter Trelaske never
could preach; and, mind you, I have been as bitter against dissent as
any man, but--but he has done more for religion to-night than he has
done for many a long year."
"Are you going to the prayer-meeting, Squire?" I asked.
"What, I! I go to a prayer-meeting!" And he laughed as though it were a
joke.
"Yes," I said, "why not? That is, if--if you believe it has any
meaning."
"Yes," he said, "why not? After all, why not? Are you sure you won't
come up to supper?"
"Quite sure, thank you."
I wandered slowly back to my little house, thinking of what the Vicar
had said. Yes, he was quite right. Never, during the beginning of the
war, had I heard any one deny the existence of God. It might seem as if
there were no God at all, when one remembered the deeds that had been
done; yet no one seemed to doubt that God lived and reigned.
I had scarcely reached the footpath which led to my little copse when,
to my surprise, I saw Mr. Josiah Lethbridge coming towards me. I judged
that he had been to my house, though I did not know why he should do so.
"The evenings are stretching out, Mr. Lethbridge," I said, "aren't they?
It is nearly half-past seven, and the daylight has not yet gone."
"Yes, the evenings are stretching out," he said, with a sigh.
"Have you heard from Hugh lately?" I asked.
"No, I have not heard from him. I--I do not expect to; you know that."
"I had a letter from him a few weeks ago," I said, as cheerfully as I
could. "He sent me his photograph in his lieutenant's uniform. Have you
seen it?"
He shook his head.
"Would you care to?" I asked. "It is in the house close by."
"No," he said, and his voice was almost harsh. "No, I do not wish to see
it."
"I have just come from the Parish Church," I said. "The Vicar has
received a terrible blow, hasn't he?"
"The Vicar believed in that kind of thing--I never did."
"No," was my answer, "I do not think the Vicar believed in it any more
than you. He regards war only as a ghastly necessity. But would you,
knowing all you know, realizing all our sufferings, and all we shall
have to suffer, have had us do differently?"
"You mean----?"
"I mean, would you have the Germans work their will, and dominate the
world by material forces? Would you have had them glorify militarism,
and set a war-god upon a pinnacle to worship? Would you have Europe
accept the teaching of Treitschke and Nietzsche as the gospel of the
future, while we did nothing?"