On Sunday we went to the Parish Church. At breakfast, Charmion seemed
silent and depressed; but, true to our agreement, I asked no questions,
and she volunteered no explanation. She said she was not going to
church, but later on she changed her mind. I think she saw that I was
disappointed, and a trifle shy at going alone, so off we went together--
Charmion a marvel of unobtrusive elegance in grey, and I "taking the
eye" in sapphire-blue--along the breezy lane, past the closed gates of
Uplands, through the shuttered High Street into the tiny square, in a
corner of which the church was nooked, with the vicarage garden
adjoining the churchyard.
The congregation was assembling from different parts, and everybody who
passed stared at us, the men stolidly enough, the women with a curiosity
which, to my mind at least, had something antagonistic in its nature.
Their pursed lips, their sidelong glances, reminded me of the assistants
in the draper's shop; of the cook who muttered that she was not "the
only one". I looked at Charmion to see if she felt the atmosphere, but
her eyes held the blank, far-off expression which marked her dark hours.
She had no attention to spare for village worthies: nothing that they
could do or think was of sufficient importance to arouse her attention.
Inside, the church was bare and uninteresting, and the musical service
poor, but the Vicar himself attracted me greatly. A plain-looking man
nearing forty, but with a most expressive and eloquent voice. He read
the service exquisitely--so exquisitely, that words which one knew by
heart seemed suddenly filled with new meaning. When the time came for
the sermon I expected great things. It seemed to me that the man who
could so wonderfully interpret the words of others, must be endued with
the gift of eloquence for himself. I even braced myself for a mental
effort, in case his argument should soar above my head. And then--a
child could have followed him! It was absolutely the simplest,
plainest, and most intimate address which I had ever heard from a church
pulpit. Incidentally, it was also the shortest!
It was ten minutes to twelve o'clock when he folded his arms on top of
the open Bible, and leant forward for a long, silent moment, looking
earnestly from side to side into the upturned faces of his hearers.
Then he began to talk--to _talk_, not to preach, speaking every word
with an inflection of the truest sincerity. The text was "Forgetting
the things that are behind, I press towards the mark," and the "talk"
ran pretty much like this:--
"How has this week gone with you, Brothers and Sisters? To some it has
brought success, to others failure. Bad weather, bad temper, lost
control, a host of tiny troubles have sprung upon us unprepared; have
worked their will, and left us discouraged and weak. Thank God for
beginnings! New years, new months, new weeks--after every twenty-four
hours, a new day, with the sun rising over a new world! Last week is
dead. All the grieving in the world cannot revive it into life. Bury
it! Remember only the lessons it has taught. Forget the things that
lie behind. _Press forward_! This week is alive. This week brings
opportunity. Live! Work! Pray! With God's grace make it the best,
the truest, the kindliest week you have ever lived."
The clock struck twelve, and the sermon was over. A bare ten minutes,
but if he had preached for an hour on end he could not have added to its
effect. The congregation listened in tense silence, as though afraid of
losing a word. One _felt_ the electric thrill of hope and courage and
high resolve which, flooded their hearts; felt it oneself; went out from
the church braced in heart and soul.