THE GREAT WAR
Isabel Chayford came over to see me in the early spring, and
immediately after Easter, Annabel, Arthur and I went for a short trip
to the Canary Isles. Now that she was Dean and Chapter of Lowchester,
Annabel had not as much time as formerly to stand between me and the
East wind: but she still did what she could; and on this particular
occasion hid me in the shelter of the Canary Isles until the tyranny of
my traditional enemy was overpast.
Nothing particular happened during the early part of the summer. My
longing for Fay and my hatred of Frank were as great as they had ever
been: neither feeling seemed to diminish in intensity: and I felt that
forgiveness of Frank was as far from me as ever.
I was still very unhappy: but I had now been unhappy for so long that I
was fast coming to regard it as my normal state.
I did not see much of the new Rector, though what I did see I liked,
and he was most popular in the parish: but I was at war with the King,
whose ambassador he was, and I felt that, therefore, his embassage
meant nothing to me.
So the long, dreary, sunny days dragged on until the beginning of
August: and then suddenly the incredible happened, and the world as we
had known it was turned upside down.
It is not for me to attempt to tell the story of the Great War: that is
already written in blood and tears on the heart of the civilised world;
and likewise on the pages of those books which shall be opened before
the Great White Throne, when the earth and the heaven shall flee away
and there shall be found no place for them. Germany ruthlessly broke
the laws of God and of Man, and England upheld them and defended them
even to the death. Hell was let loose with all its furies, but the
hosts of Heaven were also in the field.
And whilst on the continent of Europe the awful battle raged between
Right and Might, between Righteousness and Unrighteousness, between the
Prince of Peace and the Lust of Power, we at home saw our old world
tumbling about our ears, and a new one rising phoenix-like from its
ashes.
Suddenly the whole scale of values was changed. In the old days before
the War, the important people were the middle-aged, wealthy,
intellectual people, the brains and backbone of the nation. Now those
people had ceased to matter at all. The only people that mattered were
the young and the strong and the fearless, the blood and the sinews of
the nation. The wisdom of the wise had become a thing of no moment
compared with the strength and the courage of the brave. It was the
boys that counted now: not the mature man of weight and position. The
old standards had passed away and new ones were set up in their place.
County magnates and landed proprietors sank into abysmal insignificance
beside the village lads in their new khaki: rank and wealth became
worthless, except in so far as they could be adapted to serve the
soldiers fighting at the front.
The world which had hitherto bowed down before us middle-aged,
influential, well-to-do people, simply because we were middle-aged and
influential and well-to-do, suddenly found it had no use for us, and so
cast us ruthlessly aside. It had heavier work on hand--work that was
beyond our over-ripe powers. And the strange thing was that this
casting aside did not hurt our pride as it would have done at another
time, for the reason that our personal pride was dead, and in its place
had come a newer and a better feeling, the sense of a corporate unity.
The boys who were preferred before us were no rivals, but part of
ourselves, because we were all part of one great and united Empire.
For the first time in the memory of living men we knew experimentally
what it meant to be members one of another.
At the coming of the Great War old things passed away and all things
were made new, and life was suddenly charged with a terrible and yet
glorious meaning. Our very prayers were changed. For the first time
for a century we comprehended the Litany, and offered it up with
understanding hearts. The "hands of our enemies," which had for so
long been merely figurative dangers, were now an actual and hideous
menace: and because we believed we were fighting not for greed of gain
nor for lust of power, but for love of abstract righteousness, we dared
to raise from our hearts that solemn and compelling plea: "O Lord,
arise, help us and deliver us for Thine honour."
Naturally I passionately wanted to enlist, and equally naturally my age
and short-sightedness rendered me unable to respond to my country's
need: but for the first time in my life, failure had lost the power to
hurt me. What mattered it that I was worthless, if there were younger
and better men ready to take my place? The individual unit had ceased
to signify.
Time also had changed its values. Everything that had happened before
the war was almost lost in the haze of a half-forgotten past: the
trifling events of the last week of July seemed as far off as the
happenings of my boyhood. A new era had begun on that fateful Fourth
of August, nineteen hundred and fourteen.
It was only a few weeks according to the old reckoning of time, though
it seemed as if a long stretch of years had elapsed since the setting
of the sun of peace, that another crushing blow fell, and I received
the following letter from Isabel Chayford--
"My DEAR REGGIE,
"I have terrible news to tell you--the very worst--and trying to break
it gently is no good at all. I have seen Frank Wildacre, who has just
come over from Belgium with a lot of Belgian refugees and he tells me
that Fay is dead--killed by a shell at Louvain."
I put the letter down as I could not see to read any more. A thick red
mist was before my eyes, and my brain reeled.
Fay dead--my beautiful, light-hearted little Fay! The thought was
unthinkable.
Yet though it was unthinkable, the certainty of it crushed me to the
earth. I could not believe--I felt I never could believe--that Fay was
dead: yet on the other hand I felt as if she had been dead for years
and years, and that I had always known it. Sorrow is always so old.
The moment that its shadow touches us we feel that it has enshrouded us
for ages.
As long as I live I shall never forget the agony of that moment. The
sun shone through the dining-room window as I sat at the
breakfast-table, and I hated it for shining. It seemed as if it ought
never to shine again now that Fay was dead. And all the familiar
objects around me--the furniture and the flowers and the
breakfast-things--suddenly became charged with a terrible and sinister
meaning, as if they were all part of a grotesque and unspeakably
horrible dream.
I sat for what seemed an eternity trying to realise, though in vain,
that Fay was dead; and yet feeling that I had realised it, from the
foundation of the world, in every fibre of my being.
So it was all over, the joy and the pain of my married life! The
breach between Fay and myself could never now be healed. There was now
no longer any hope of her coming back to me, and asking me to let
bygones be bygones and to begin our life together afresh. The bygones
were bygones indeed, and there was no beginning again for my darling
and me. Everything was over and past, and there was nothing left--not
even a happy memory. She could never again weigh me in her balance,
and this time more mercifully; nor could she ever cross out that
_Tekel_ she had written against my name. It must stand for ever to my
eternal undoing. The anguish of this thought was almost more than I
could bear, and yet live!
And across the intolerable anguish there came another feeling--an
intensity of hatred against him who had destroyed the happiness of my
life; and who now came back to complete the havoc he had wrought, by
the news of my darling's death. If I had found it impossible to
forgive Frank while Fay was alive, I found it still more impossible now!
After an eternity of such agony as I trust never to go through again,
it occurred to me to finish reading Isabel's letter. There was nothing
in it that could matter: nothing could ever matter any more now that
Fay was dead: but I felt I might as well read it. I had a dim feeling
that Isabel sympathised and was sorry, but I did not care whether she
was sorry or not. Neither she nor anybody else could ever help me any
more. Still she meant to be kind; and though her kindness was of no
use to me, I thought I might as well finish her letter. I owed that
much to her. So I went on with the reading of the letter that I had
begun to read ages ago, in that dim, far-off past before I knew that
Fay was dead.
"It appears," the letter continued, "that Fay and Frank had come over
for a trip through Belgium when the war began, as Fay was rather
overdone by acting and wanted a thorough rest and change: and instead
of trying to get away at once, they stayed on at Louvain in order to
help to look after the wounded. During the deliberate destruction of
the town, Fay rushed out of cover to save a child that had run into the
street by itself; and in so doing was struck by part of a shell, which
killed her. So she died to save another, which is the most splendid
death of all.
"Frank was so prostrated by the shock that he could no longer help to
nurse the wounded, so he got away, and came over to England with a lot
of Belgian refugees. I found him among these immediately after his
arrival in London, and knew him at once from his strong resemblance to
Fay. I brought him home with me to Prince's Gate, as he looked far too
fragile and delicate to be left among strangers; and he is here now--an
absolute wreck.
"Of course I shall only be too glad for Fay's sake to keep him here and
nurse him back to health: but he doesn't want to stay here: he wants to
go back to you.
"I have told him how you blame him--and justly so--for all that has
happened, and how impossible you find it to forgive him. I haven't
spared him at all. But in spite of all that I have said he still
persists that he wants to go back to Restham. He is dreadfully sorry
for what he has done: but of course that doesn't mend anything.
"Reggie, don't think it is unfeeling of me to bother you about all this
now. I need not tell you how deeply I grieve for you in your crushing
sorrow, nor how fully I realise that you are beyond the reach of any
grief or sympathy of mine. All this you know better than I could tell
you. But I feel I must tell you that Frank repents, and that he wants
to come back to you from the far country. This may be your one chance
of learning how to forgive your enemy: and I dare not stand between any
man and his hope of salvation. So I just tell you the facts: and leave
results in your hands--and God's.
"Ever yours, in truest sympathy,
"ISABEL CHAYFORD."
Yes, Isabel meant well. I was sure of that: though her meaning was of
no moment to me. But what she asked was impossible. If I could not
forgive Frank when Fay was alive and there was still the chance of
things coming right again between my darling and me, how could I
forgive him now, when the mischief he had wrought was irremediable, and
my life was spoiled beyond redemption?
No: I felt that Isabel, and--I say it in all reverence--even God
Himself were asking too much of me.
The forgiveness of Frank Wildacre was a demand too exorbitant to be met
by a man who was suffering as I was suffering. I could never forgive
him--never: especially now that Fay was dead. And suddenly, through
the clouds of my spiritual anguish and across the storms of my
passionate rebellion, I seemed to hear a Voice which said: "Behold, I
stand at the door, and knock!"
But I would not heed it.
I pushed my untasted breakfast away from me and rang the bell. Jeavons
answered it, and I heard myself saying to him in a voice that I did not
recognise as my own--
"Let all the blinds be pulled down at once. Her ladyship is dead."
Then--before he could utter the commonplace condolences which I felt
would kill me--I went along the passage to the library and shut the
door: and I sat down at my writing-table and laid my head on my arms
and wept like a child. And there was none to comfort me.
Everybody was very kind to me for the next few days, with that
combination of fear and pity which we always show towards the newly
bereaved, and which sets these apart from their fellows as completely
as if they were lepers. Arthur and Annabel came over at once from the
Deanery, and vainly endeavoured to console me in their different ways:
Annabel by letting me see what a sacrifice she had made on my behalf by
leaving Lowchester, even for a day, with all the work--Red Cross and
otherwise--which the war had thrown on her hands: and Arthur by saying
hardly anything at all, but gazing at me with the eyes of a faithful
dog.
And all the time that still small Voice kept sounding in my ears:
"Behold, I stand at the door, and knock!"
I showed Arthur and Annabel Isabel's letter, and awaited their comments
upon it.
Annabel was very indignant with Lady Chayford. "It is just like Isabel
to begin bothering you about Frank at a time like this!" she exclaimed:
"but she never did have any sense. As if you hadn't trouble enough,
poor dear boy, without her trying to thrust Belgian refugees on to your
shoulders as well!"
"I could not possibly have Frank here," I said.
"Of course you couldn't," replied my sister: "it would be most
upsetting to you, with his likeness to Fay, and the way in which he has
treated you, and all! I cannot conceive what induced Isabel Chayford
to make such an improper suggestion. But she always was utterly
inconsiderate of other people's feelings."
My sense of justice rebelled at this. "I don't think you are quite
fair to her there, Annabel. Isabel may be unwise, but she is never
inconsiderate."
"Well, at any rate, she used to be," retorted Annabel; "and what people
used to be they generally are."
I could not deny the truth of this statement, broadly speaking: and I
had not the spirit to point out that there might be exceptions.
"What do you think?" I asked, appealing to Arthur.
He was silent for a moment; then he said in his slow, grave way: "It is
very difficult to judge for other people, and I agree with Annabel that
had I been in Lady Chayford's place I should never have ventured to
make such a daring suggestion. But I cannot help feeling that she is
right when she says that it may be your one chance."
"That is just Isabel's nonsense," interpolated Annabel. "I haven't
patience with her. As if Frank Wildacre deserved to be forgiven! And
even if he did--which he doesn't--it isn't the time to bother poor
Reggie about it now."
"I can never forgive him," I repeated.
"I didn't say you could, old man," replied Arthur: "neither does Lady
Chayford. She only says that this might be your one opportunity of
doing so: not that you could necessarily avail yourself of that
opportunity. As I take it, she does not suggest to you to forgive
Frank, but to put yourself in a position where it might become possible
for you to forgive him. There is a difference between the two, I
think."
"I can never forgive him," I repeated doggedly. And we left it at that.
Annabel pressed me to go back to Lowchester with her and Arthur: but I
declined to do that, or even to let them remain at Restham with me. I
wanted to be alone with my sorrow. And as they had their hands full of
all kinds of work connected with the war and could ill be spared from
Lowchester, they let me have my way.
I wrote a short note to Isabel Chayford thanking her for her sympathy
in my overwhelming sorrow: and saying that I found it impossible to
grant Frank's wish and to let him come to Restham. And then I sat
alone in my house that was left unto me desolate, and mourned my dead.
But was I alone?
Through the long sunless days and the dreary sleepless nights that
Voice kept ringing in my ears--
"Behold, I stand at the door, and knock!"
And I knew that the Hand that knocked was pierced; yet I steeled my
soul against that incessant pleading, and kept fast shut the door.
Some æons of agony passed--I think in reality it was three or four days
as happy people count them--and Arthur came over to see me again.
We sat chiefly in silence, or else talked about impersonal matters,
Arthur looking at me all the time with his dog-like eyes. But just as
he was leaving he said--
"Have you thought any more about Lady Chayford's suggestion, old man?"
"I have thought about nothing else."
"Then don't you think you might do as--as--she suggests?" he asked
timidly: then: "for Fay's sake," he added, almost in a whisper.
I turned round upon him quickly.
"If I consent to have Frank Wildacre here, I shall not do it for Fay's
sake," I said, "but for Christ's sake."
And as I uttered the three words which are the greatest lever of power,
both human and Divine, which the world has ever known--those words
whereby Man is permitted to control the Actions of even God Himself--I
knew that at last the door had been opened to Him Who stood outside and
knocked. Once again the Galilean had conquered.