Where the Road Led Over the Hills_The Flower-Patch Among the Hills

NEXT morning I was a wreck. Virginia and her sister were the same.

For a week past I had realised that I was in the last stage of mental

and physical disrepair. The midnight committee was the final straw.

As a rule, I stick at work in town till nerves and brain refuse to hold

out another day; then, flinging my tools down, and leaving both my

office desk and my study table in a hopeless and bewildering state of

piled-up letters, MSS. and proofs, I just fly—a goodly bale of arrears

following me by next post.

I had had practically no holiday owing to the war, and had reached that

forlorn and useless frame of mind when I declared I was far too busy to

take one—a very mistaken notion for anyone to have, by the way; it is

surprising how well most of us can be done without when we do at last

take a little time off duty!

However, I had just one faint glimmer of common sense left me, and

that told me to take the first train going west next morning, which

I did, leaving Paddington (in company with Virginia and Ursula, who

had a holiday due to her from the hospital) in a warm close fog that

might imply a thunderstorm, or an early autumn, or merely the ordinary

airless carbonic-acid gloom that is a distinguishing feature of London.

Some eminent authority has said that the air in London hasn’t been

changed for over a hundred years, and I can quite believe it!

We found the cottage bathed in the glow of the soft sunshine that is

still summer, but that brings with it the first touch of regret for

the good-bye that is near at hand. There had been some soaking rains

after a dry spell, and everything in the garden was holding up bright,

refreshed leaves, and glowing flowers, one and all assuring me that

though they had a gasping time a few weeks before, and had wondered

from day to day if they could manage to hold on till the evening,

things had now taken a glorious turn for the better; and they were glad

they hadn’t given up, since I was so pleased to see them.

Several apologised for ragged washed-out blossoms lower down their

stem, but explained that it was due to the rain, and that they were

sending up new ones to take the place of the shabby ones as quickly as

ever they could.

The dear things seemed to look at me with such understanding sympathy;

the pansies held up their bright little faces just like a bevy of

inquiring children; the hollyhocks, I am sure, turned round to look

in my direction; the last of the sweet peas threw out tender little

fingers to touch my arm as I passed beside their hedge; the golden rod

stretched its neck and tiptoed lest I should miss it at the back of the

border.

Haven’t you noticed that most flowers seem to have faces? I don’t mean

that you can trace a direct resemblance to human features in them

as you can in the moon; but there is something in the flowers that

looks at you—something that looks at you shyly, as the wild rose; or

stares at you boldly, like the marigold; or twinkles at you gaily,

like the cornflower and coreopsis; or appears slightly inclined to

frivolity, like the larkspur and the ragged robin; or takes life with

solid seriousness, like the Canterbury bell; or gives you the innocent

look of a baby, like the primrose; or beams at you with large-hearted

maternal kindness, like a big gloire de Dijon.

Most flowers, you will find, give you a look with some definite

characteristic—at least, so it seems to me. Probably that is one reason

why they are so comforting and companionable.

And I was wanting something comforting and companionable that day. I

had overworked and generally neglected the rules of common sense, till

I had got to that dismal pitch that simply asks of blank space, “What’s

the good of anything?”

Then more questions began to worry me.

What had Christianity accomplished, seeing the way the Sermon on the

Mount was being trampled under foot by the instigators of this war?

After all, wasn’t might going to win, in spite of all one believed of

the supremacy of right? Wasn’t the devil having things all his own way

now? What were Christians doing? Had religion lost its power? What were

the churches doing? Was _anybody_ doing _anything_ worth whiles?

Those who have let themselves run down physically, and have neglected

to take proper meals, and have turned night into day, and have tried

systematically to cram a fortnight’s work into every week, know exactly

where one finds oneself at the end of a few months.

And it is only the very exceptional people who do not find their

spiritual condition about as jaded as their nerves after a course of

this sort of thing. We get to feel that we are ploughing a very lone

furrow, and it is only a step further to the state of mind that says it

isn’t worth ploughing at all.

Personal experience has taught me that there is only one cure for me

when I get to this state of nervous wreckage; and that is to get away

to the solitudes; to listen among the great silences of the hills for

the still small Voice that has never failed those who wait for its

Message.

God’s methods of restoring weary humanity are many and various.

Sometimes He sees that first and foremost, like Elijah, His tired

children need rest and food. And just as one of the greatest terrors

that can befall the worn-out worker in a city is insomnia, so one of

the greatest boons that Nature in her quietudes bestows is the ability

to drop off into peaceful, brain-mending oblivion.

So He giveth His beloved sleep.

Or it may be that He sees His children need to be drawn away from the

world for a while, in order to talk face to face with Him. Sometimes we

have to be brought to a state of great weakness before we will listen

to His plea: “Come ye yourselves apart and rest awhile.” We do not

always heed it when we are well and strong. In the enforced quiet we

can find time to turn to Him.

And a sojourn with our Lord in the desert has meant for many the

feeding of five thousand on the morrow.

* * * * *

When I am badly in the depths, I know of no surer way to restore

my mind than a long walk across the hills. Some people need human

companionship; but, personally, I can do very well by myself under such

circumstances (always provided that I don’t meet a cow likewise on a

walking tour). I can pull myself together more quickly if I don’t have

to spend time and energy striving to be amiable and politely attentive

to someone.

I have often started out on a Sunday morning, and walked on till I came

upon some unknown church that served as a useful end to my pilgrimage.

On one occasion I remember discovering a small chapel hidden away among

a few homesteads in a pretty valley I unexpectedly tumbled into. They

were starting the first hymn as I entered. There were nine of us all

told, including the preacher, the two ladies who raised two different

tunes simultaneously, and the rugged-faced deacon or elder, who brought

me a hymnbook and, later, took the collection.

The singing was not a marked success at first, owing partly to the

divided opinion of the congregation as to which tune they were really

singing; moreover, my entrance had momentarily diverted attention

and seemed to make all concerned a trifle nervous. But at length the

preacher himself started a third tune that we all knew and were able to

join in; and a very sincere and devout service followed.

I gathered from information impressed upon us in the course of the

sermon (probably for my special benefit, as the handful of cottagers

assembled would assuredly know) that there was to be a special

collection that day on behalf of some chapel fund.

When I told this to Ursula, who didn’t then know so much about our

hill-people as she does now, she said, “Ah! I suppose that was why only

nine came!”

But, in reality, nine was not at all a poor congregation for a tiny

hamlet like this on a Sunday morning. The mothers are mostly at

home getting dinner; the fathers are seeing to the stock, and don’t

reckon to get themselves “cleaned up” till the afternoon. But in the

evening—then the little building would be packed to the door.

In his final prayer the minister prayed so earnestly that we might

all be induced to give with the greatest liberality, that I felt

exceedingly sorry I had only put a half-crown into my glove when I

started out, leaving my purse at home.

The rugged elder looked studiously in the opposite direction while I

slipped the coin on to the plate; somehow I hoped he wouldn’t be too

disappointed when he discovered that the respectable-looking stranger

had not given more handsomely after the pleading of the preacher. But

it was all I had.

After the service I lingered a moment to read a quaint old tombstone

in the church precincts. The rest of the worshippers likewise

lingered—respectful but curious—in the road outside the gate. The

preacher had shaken hands with me at the door; my rugged friend had

been immersed in the duties of his office as steward, treasurer, and

church secretary combined. But now he came out of the door, looked

anxiously about, and seeing me still there, made straight for me. I

concluded that he, too, was going to shake hands, and possibly inquire

if I was staying in the neighbourhood. But what he actually said was

this—

“Excuse me, ma’am, but do you happen to know what you put into the

plate?”

“A half-crown,” I faltered, wondering whether by any remote chance it

was a bad one.

He nodded his head, and, opening his work-hardened hand, displayed

the morning’s collection—seven pennies, three halfpennies, and my

half-crown on top.

“That’s right,” he nodded. And then, lowering his voice, presumably to

save my feelings, he added, “But if ’twas a mistake, and you didn’t

mean to put in all that, _you can have it back_.”

Do you know, it made a lump come in my throat.

* * * * *

I told Ursula about it at dinner, remarking that it looked as though

they hadn’t much faith even though they had specially prayed for

generous giving.

Ursula said that in _her_ opinion it looked as though it was high time

I presented to the ragbag the hat I had worn that morning, since it

had been for months past a dejected object of pity, though with her

usual delicacy of feeling she had, up to the present, refrained from

telling me so in plain English. But now, in all kindness such as only a

dear friend can show, she had no hesitation in saying that she wasn’t

at all surprised that they mistook me for an old age pensioner on the

verge of bankruptcy.

* * * * *

But I’ve been wandering again. To return to that September day when

I reached the cottage as weary of life and as downhearted about

everything as any mortal could well be. The whole world seemed out of

joint. Yet in my innermost soul I knew that religion was really all

right, and that it was I who had gone wrong. But I refused to look at

that aspect of it.

Next day I determined to give it all up, and just meditated on my own

funeral. I tried to reckon up how many people I could really rely on to

send wreaths; it didn’t make me feel any the less pessimistic when I

decided there were only four who could be counted upon as certainties,

and they included Virginia and Ursula!

And even one of these failed me; for when I mentioned the matter to

the girls, they said: Surely I didn’t imagine they were going to be so

wasteful as to send _two_ wreaths, when one would do quite as well if

both their names appeared on the card attached? But they did offer

to make it a wreath of painted-white-tin flowers, under a glass shade

(regardless of expense), if I preferred, suggesting that I might get

longer pleasure out of a wreath of this kind.

Getting no more consolation from them than this, I said I would go

for a walk. Virginia and Ursula anticipated my wishes and declined to

accompany me. They had urgent work on hand that was far too important

to postpone for a mere walk. It was the planting of onion seed.

The week before we had read in the papers how imperative it was that

everybody should plant food crops in any available scrap of ground they

might possess, to help keep starvation at bay.

We read the article eagerly.

I had several acres of land doing nothing in particular at the moment,

that I was only too glad to use for a special crop of eatables against

the time of national famine. Without finishing the article, we had

started to discuss what would be best to lay down, taking into account

the idiosyncrasies of our digestions.

“Green peas in the small field adjoining the orchard,” Ursula had

decided for me; and then she proceeded: “Broad beans in half of the

upper garden; scarlet runners at the back of the strawberry beds and

along by the south wall; the potato garden can now have carrots,

parsnips, turnips and beets; the west garden must have pickled cabbage

(I mean the cabbage before it is pickled), shallots, spring onions and

pickling onions, chives——”

“What _are_ ‘chives’?” interrupted Virginia.

“I don’t know, but I’ve read the name somewhere. Don’t interrupt me.”

“And fennel—that will come in handy for fish—and leeks. In that piece

of waste ground beyond the barn I think we ought to plant asparagus,

because, after all, there is no need to dispense with luxuries if you

can grow them for nothing, is there?

“And how would it be to plant maize all down that bed where you had the

Shirley poppies? I should think the same aspect would suit the two, and

some green corn would be very nice. I suppose, if you plant it now, it

will be about right in January or February, wouldn’t it? Or you could

sell it. It’s twopence halfpenny or threepence a cob at the Stores.

So if you had, say, fifty plants, and if each produced—how many _do_

they produce on a plant?... Oh, well, if you don’t know, let’s be on

the safe side and say one each—that would be a clear profit of—well,

at threepence each—let’s see, fifty pence is four and twopence, and

three times would be—twelve and sixpence—say twelve shillings, allowing

sixpence for seed. So that would be well worth trying, in case the

moratorium never ends. Then there would have to be cabbages and

suchlike. How about digging up the orchard, and——”

“Oh, yes,” said Virginia scornfully (she had picked up the paper and

read to the end of the aforementioned article, which had proved very

enlightening). “And I suppose you expect it all to grow under a couple

of feet of snow. Let me tell you that it is now too late to plant

anything but onions! He, she, or it, who wrote this article, says so.”

I myself had been going to tell her, when I could get a word in, that

it was too late for most of the things she had named.

But Ursula, who had never done any vegetable gardening, was still

sceptical. That was why I suggested that we should consult the obliging

manager at Carter’s, in Queen Victoria Street, as we often did over our

gardening woes.

Just ahead of us in the shop, when we got there, was an elderly

gentleman who wanted some grass seed; he asked if they would tell him

how to start a lawn next spring.

It was in the middle of the day—a very busy time for a shop of this

kind, when city men are on their way to or from lunch, and seize a few

extra minutes to buy their seeds. The shop was full—it looked as though

every scrap of land within the twelve-mile radius was going to be put

under cultivation—and the assistants had all their work to serve

everyone as quickly as they wanted to be served.

The Elderly Gentleman was apparently the only one who was not in a

hurry; so he asked the most minute questions, and the manager gave him

copious directions, from preparing the ground at the start, right up to

marking it off for tennis, when it was in its prime (though, judging

by the small packet of seed the E. G. had bought, the lawn would never

support a tennis-net).

Then by the time the shop was quite packed, and when everything that

was possible appeared to have been said about planting and maintaining

a lawn—including keeping it free from moss, the best way to trim the

edges, the law with regard to trespassing fowls, and the careful tying

of black cotton over the newly-planted seeds to keep off the birds—the

E. G. asked what he should do when daisies came up? The manager said

patiently that his firm’s grass seeds didn’t produce daisies; but as

the E. G. seemed to worry about daisies, he was told how to get rid of

daisies.

At last he really went, reluctantly, I admit; but the other

customers—who had all become so engrossed in his lawn that they

couldn’t remember what they had come in to buy for themselves—heaved a

sigh of relief.

Slowly he made his way to the middle of the wide crossing just in

front of the shop. You knew by his hesitating walk that there was

another question he had meant to ask, but he couldn’t recall it for the

moment.

Yes! He suddenly turned round briskly (and nearly ended the lawn under

a taxi), the shop-door opened again, and an anxious voice inquired,

“What ought I to do if the birds get at the seeds in spite of the black

cotton and the bits of white rag tied to them?”

The manager passed his hand across what looked like an aching brow, and

further braced himself to do his duty; but a gentleman customer came

to the rescue by replying, “It is usual, in such a case, sir, to buy

another packet of grass seed, and start all over again on exactly the

same lines as before, only you plant an extra reel of black cotton this

time.”

After this we were able to inquire of the manager what crops he would

advise us to plant as our contribution to the nation’s larder, to say

nothing of our own.

“Onions,” he said, so promptly that one would have thought others had

asked the same question. And then added—“Giant Rocca.”

I am not sure how many pounds of seed Ursula immediately ordered;

she proposed to make it a present to me, and naturally wished

to be generous. Virginia says she believes she heard her say a

half-a-hundredweight. Anyhow, the obliging manager asked, with a

slight cough, how large a portion of ground we were intending to

cultivate, as half an ounce would be sufficient for—I forget how many

acres! So she reduced her order to half a pound. She said she didn’t

want us to run short. (I don’t fancy we shall, either!) Besides, she

rather liked the name “Giant Rocca.” It suggested something large and

strengthening wherewith to combat the foe.

* * * * *

We hadn’t a moment’s rest after we arrived at the cottage until the

onion seed was well underground. Ursula decided that it would be really

a blessing if I _would_ go out—she could then plant in peace.

The handy man being unable to “oblige” me by doing a little work just

then, she had decided to plant the seeds herself.

At first she had made long troughs in which to place the seed,

sprinkling it very finely with thumb and finger; but after half an hour

of this spine-breaking work she straightened her back with difficulty,

and decided that to “sow broadcast” was more in accordance with Nature

herself, to say nothing of Biblical teaching. Hence we had it broadcast.

Here I may say that we eventually had Giant Roccas sown the length

and breadth of the vegetable garden, in between the rows of spring

greens, as well as in open spaces; also they are sending up their

spears between rows of snapdragons; round standard rose-trees; in the

beds usually devoted to Darwin tulips; down the narrow bed that has

Persian irises in the centre and double daisies at the edge; in the

rough bed of foxgloves at the back of the pigsty, along the edge of the

borders where sweet alyssum bloomed in the summer; under the damson

tree where the ground is bare; along by the south wall, where the sweet

pea remains were pulled up to make room for them; among the raspberry

canes; all over the potato-patch; along with the carnation cuttings in

the cold frame; in little dibbles among the strawberry plants; and I

even found a few pots, each with a bit of glass over the top, placed in

the sunny scullery window, which also proved to be “Giant Roccas,” in

case we should run short indoors.

When all these Roccas have attained to their gigantic proportions, I

fancy we shall be able to scent that garden a mile or two away!

* * * * *

Still, the onions were only being planted the day I set out for a walk,

wandering just where the road might chance to lead me. But you have

to take yourself with you, if you go for a walk, and it is some time

before you can get away from yourself—if you can make out what I mean

by this.

I merely walked on and on, looking at the blackbirds gobbling down

the red mountain ash berries, till one gasped at their stowing-away

capacity; at the swallows practising their long sweeping flights

preparatory to leaving us; at the ferns growing out of the shady side

of the walls; at a great patch of rich purple in the corner of a

field—that turned out to be a widespread tangle of flowering vetch; at

the beautiful colour effect of massed heliotrope Michaelmas daisies

against the grey-green background of a mossy fern-decked old stone

wall; at the harebells swinging in the wind; at the late foxgloves,

still poking beautiful spikes of colour through the hedges; at the

blackberries trailing over everything; at the butterflies still

flitting about, or resting motionless with outspread wings where they

found a warm sunny stone, or gorging themselves to repletion on some

over-ripe pears that had fallen by the roadside. There were several

lovely creatures with blue-black wings marked with red, white and a

little blue, who, like the wasps, were actually intoxicated with pear

juice!

A fox slunk across the road right in front of me, and plunged into a

wood; probably having the time of his life just now, with most of the

hunt somewhere in France.

The springs were coming to life again, after the heavy rain, and water

burbled along at the side of the lane, or tumbled out from the rocks at

the roadside in tiny waterfalls.

The orchard trees were flecked all over with gold, or pale yellow, or

bright crimson—surely we never had a more abundant apple year than this

one.

It was such a wonderful afternoon: I was bound to go on wandering.

* * * * *

At last I came to the end of the lanes and found myself on an open

hilltop. As the fresh bracing air met me full in the face, I began to

feel hungry. I looked at my watch: it was five o’clock. I looked at the

landscape, and realised that, though I didn’t know where I was, I was

certainly miles away from any tea.

I paused and considered: Should I carefully retrace my steps? That

always seems a poor-spirited way of getting home again, even though

you are lost! On all sides stretched an expanse of hilly country, grey

lichen-covered boulders, yellow-flowered gorse, wiry mauve and purple

heather, and a wealth of green, and bronze, and golden tinted bracken,

with occasional woods and larch plantations. There was a general hum of

bees and insects in the air, and a pheasant rose from the ground close

to me and flew with a _whirr_ into a little coppice near by.

A sign-board was lying on the ground by the gate leading into the

coppice. It was the worse for wind and weather, but one could still

read the alarming warning, “Trespassers will be prosecuted!” Who would

trespass, and who would prosecute, on that wild bit of moorland, I

wonder? The only being in sight was a rabbit, sitting motionless close

beside the prostrate notice and studying me silently with the air of a

special constable! Yet even he went off and left me quite alone.

At that moment I caught sight of a chimney over the spur of the hill.

I felt convinced it must be attached to a fireplace, and surely there

would be a kettle on that fire. I made a bee-line for the place.

* * * * *

To the eye of the town-dweller, hill and moorland distances are apt to

be deceptive; the house proved to be much farther off than I had at

first imagined. But this gave added zest to expedition; I determined to

reach it though I only arrived in time to put up there for the night.

A nearer view showed the cottage to be the fag-end of a small hamlet

lying snugly in the protecting hollow of the hills.

When I actually entered the village, there were so many pretty

dwellings, and they all looked equally inviting, that I was undecided

where to open an attack. However, I settled on one that had a couple of

hollyhocks, some late pinks, and a black-currant bush growing out of

the top of the garden wall, while a free-and-easy grape-vine, a tall

monthly rose, and some clematis waved arms of welcome to me from the

front of the cottage.

Just as I approached the gate, a pleasant-faced woman came out of the

door and walked down the garden path between the French marigolds that

edged the flower-beds. She was the only sign of life in the place

(apart from a few belated hens, who, being averse to early rising, I

suppose, had determined to take time by the forelock, and were catching

the historic early worm overnight).

I felt that the good lady’s appearance was a distinct indication that

Fate had decided I must have my tea there. Nevertheless, there were

signs that she was bound on some important errand; instead of the

ordinary sun-bonnet or battered hat that is the usual weekday headgear

among our hills, she had donned a carefully-brushed though somewhat

rusty black bonnet, and a black beaded mantle of unquestionable

antiquity, both worn with the air of her Sunday best.

“Good evening,” I began. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but I wonder if you

can tell me where——”

“Th’ chapel?” replied the woman before I could finish my sentence.

“Why, of course you can’t find ’un. But you jes’ come ’long wi’ me. I’m

going there meself, an’ though we’m a bit late, it don’t matter; my

man’ll be keeping a seat fur me, and ther’ll be room, sure ’nough, for

’ee to squeeze in too. I do al’ays tell ’un our chapel didn’t oughter

belong where ’tis. No place o’ worship was ever more hid out o’ road

than ourn. Yet my man do say ’tis clear ’nough to see ’un if you’m

comin’ ’long the _lower_ road; for there ’tis all to once. But as I say

to him, the folk don’t all a-come down ’long the lower road; an’ if you

come _up_ ’long, why, there’s no chapel to be seen, and then where’m

you to? What I do say is, the way o’ salvation oughter be so plain that

th’ wayfarin’ man, though a _fool_, can’t lose un. An’ now here be you

to prove me very words!”

The good soul was all this time trotting energetically along what I

concluded could not be the lower road, since no chapel was in view. I

just followed, wondering what would happen next! Meanwhile my companion

talked, with scarcely comma-pause for breath.

“But I’m glad I happen to be late, or you might ha’ been wanderin’

around till you’re all mizzy-mazed. Soon as I saw you comin’ up

’long, I said to father—I was jes’ settlin’ ’im comfor’ble for th’

night—‘Father,’ I said, ‘here’s a lady a-lookin’ fur the chapel, sure

’nough. I shuden wonder a bit but what she’s come to speak at th’

meeting. Like as not she’s a friend of the minister, an’ ’pears she’s

lost.’ I suppose you belong to London, ma’am?” This with a glance all

over me to make sure there was no local hall-mark.

“My home is in London,” I replied, “but just at present I’m staying at

Woodacres.”

“You’ve walked all the way from Woodacres?” she exclaimed.

“Yes; and I’m terribly hungry,” I said, hurriedly seizing my chance.

At this the kind hospitable soul was most concerned, and insisted

on our turning into a relative’s house which we were passing at the

moment. The door stood open, though the place seemed to be deserted.

“Myra,” she called out. A girl came downstairs with some

pocket-handkerchiefs in her hand which she appeared to be marking

in red. There was a hurried whisper in a back room, and quickly she

brought in a glass of milk and some bread and butter—for which I was

truly thankful.

“The lady do look wisht,” my companion explained to the girl. “She’s

walked from Woodacres to hear the minister from London. She lost her

way, and so didn’t get in time for the tea-meeting.”

I was interested in this item of information about myself, but decided

to let the unexpected situation develop as it pleased.

We were soon walking along the road again, my companion talking the

whole time. Myra was her niece, going to Bristol next week to start

in a draper’s shop. “She says ’tisn’t stylish nowadays to let folks

think as you does your washing yourself, so she’s making sort o’ red

oughts and crosses in the corner, that the other girls ’ll think as

the washin’ was put out. _Put out_, indeed!”—with utter scorn of

voice—“‘Isn’t it all _put out_?’ I asks her. How could they dry ’un

else? I’ve no patience with such fangels—_that_ I haven’t! And isn’t

this war dreadful? I see in the paper I was a-readin’ to father that

that Kayser do call it a righteous war. _A righteous war_—when he don’t

even leave off a-fighting of a Sunday!”

Just then we turned a corner, and the maligned chapel certainly burst

into view “all to once.”

* * * * *

The first thing to attract attention, as we neared the modest building,

was a large board above the front entrance, displaying the words

“Revival Meetings” in bold white letters pasted on a red turkey twill

background.

A hymn was progressing when we entered; a seat had been reserved for

the cottager by her husband, and had been left in charge of his hat

(turned upside down and holding a red pocket-handkerchief covered with

large white spots), while he himself distributed hymn books with backs

all suffering from spinal complaint in a more or less acute form.

By dint of energetic compression on the part of the good-natured

occupants of the pew, room was made for me as well as for my companion,

the owner of the hat electing to stand in the aisle, as became a pillar

of the church; the conspicuous crease adorning each trouser-leg and

the back of his black coat proclaimed them his best clothes, and gave

additional evidence that the meeting was of more than ordinary weekday

importance.

The place was packed to its utmost capacity. I decided that I had never

in my whole life heard a harmonium more asthmatically out of tune and

at the same time I wished that the lamps (which were economically

turned down, daylight being still visible) could only be raised, since

the odour of paraffin was not a refreshing ingredient to add to the air

of the already close room. For on our hills, as in other places where

fresh air is most abundant, ventilation is the least among the virtues

practised by the natives.

The congregation took some slight adjustment before all managed to

wedge themselves into the seats after the hymn. The general shuffle and

scuffle having subsided, a man on the platform addressed the assembly.

“I am sorry to say our brother has not yet arrived.”

The glow of expectancy on the faces of the people suddenly vanished.

“We think he has made a mistake over the time of commencement;

possibly he imagines it is seven instead of six o’clock; but he is

certainly coming, or he would have telegraphed——”

The disappointed ones looked hopeful again.

“Two friends have driven off to meet him”—many heads craned round in

the direction of the door, though the honoured pair were now a couple

of miles away—“and they will doubtless bring him along as quickly as

possible. I think we may safely rely on him being here in about half an

hour.” All eyes now scanned the face of the clock. “In the meanwhile,

we will hold a short Testimony meeting; and perhaps Brother Wilson will

first of all lead us in prayer.”

The man with the hymn-books, standing in the aisle, responded. Without

a moment’s halt or hesitation he poured forth a torrent of mingled

appeal, confession, praise and request. He touched on their week of

services, on themselves as a church, on the village and (according to

his view) its state of spiritual darkness; then he went further afield

and dealt with the whole of England, the sailors on our warships, and

the soldiers on the battlefields. This thought led him to mention the

Colonies, the missionaries labouring in foreign lands; and then he

prayed for the heathen who lived so far away that no missionary had yet

reached them. He concluded with a plea for all backsliders and a pæan

of gratitude for those who were saved.

The congregation followed the long prayer intently, punctuating every

remark with “Amen,” and many other expressions of assent, uttered

devoutly though fervently.

Then the one who presided asked all who had received a blessing that

week to testify to the others of the great things that had befallen

them. He sat down. After a pause of but half a minute, a woman rose,

saying in a quiet voice—

“I feel I ought to take the earliest opportunity of telling how good

God has been to me. I came to these meetings as hopeless as any human

being could very well be; but God has lifted the load from my soul; and

now, although I cannot see any light ahead, He has shown me He is near,

and I am content to walk by faith. And I know the light will come soon.”

She sat down, and the only sound that broke the stillness was the voice

of the chairman—

“Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in Him; and He shall bring it

to pass.”

A decrepit old man next hobbled to his feet. His voice was feeble; but

the peaceful look on his wrinkled face, and the light that shone in his

eyes, carried wonderful conviction with them. He was somewhat diffuse,

but dwelt on all the goodness that had fallen to his lot through life,

and his eager anticipation of the call that should summon him Home.

When once the ice was broken, the people followed one another as fast

as they could. An elderly woman sitting next to me rose to her feet,

steadying herself by holding on to the pew in front with her work-worn

hands, for she was trembling. She spoke in a hesitating manner; yet

what she said had infinite pathos in it. Would they remember in their

prayers the lads who were fighting so far away, some out of reach of

any services like these, that they might not forget the God of their

father and mother, and that they might be brought back safely to the

old home again.

And the poor woman, who was evidently much overwrought, just sat down

and hid her face in her handkerchief. I couldn’t help putting my hand

over hers in sympathy.

There were many other bowed heads in the meeting by then—old, careworn

women as well as younger ones, old men in plenty, but so few young

fellows.

“Let us pray,” said the chairman. All eyes were closed. There was a

slight pause, and then another voice full of wonderful restfulness sent

up a prayer to the Great Comforter on behalf of all the mothers and

fathers present, who night and day were longing for their sons’ return,

and for the wives who with aching hearts were hungering for news of the

absent loved ones. The prayer was very simple and unconventional, just

the asking of a boon from a Friend. But the speaker understood the

heartbreaks that were in those suppressed sobs, and his words brought

comfort to many a lonely one that night.

When he ceased, the lamps were all raised, and there on the rostrum was

one of the greatest—if not _the_ greatest—of the preachers of our times.

“The minister from London” had arrived.

* * * * *

I was amazed when I saw him there—a man who preached every Sunday to

congregations numbering several thousands; whose name was the most

powerful attraction that could be found for a May meeting poster or a

Convention programme; a theologian whose lectures and writings were

followed with the closest attention by hundreds of students.

As he stood up in that small village chapel, the first thought that

came into my mind was something like this: What a waste to have such a

big man at a small meeting like this when he could easily fill Albert

Hall; and in any case he will probably be right above their heads; he

is far too scholarly for these simple-minded uneducated people. He will

be quite lost on them.

What I forgot was the fact that after all it is the Message that counts

in such a case.

The famous preacher had a Message for humanity; and he was great

enough to be able to deliver it in a way that would be understood by

anyone, rich or poor, educated or illiterate. And he was wise enough to

know that he might be doing a big work in speaking to that handful of

people in that remote corner of England, seeing that a chance visit had

brought him into the vicinity; therefore, when they had asked him if he

would speak at the revival meetings they were holding, he had consented

at once; and I was not the only one who had reason to be grateful to

God for the preacher’s words that night; mine was not the only heavy

heart that had come into the little chapel badly in need of an uplift;

I was not the only one who felt almost alone in a losing cause, with

all the old-time beliefs tottering.

* * * * *

He read from Revelation vii. in the Revised Version:

After these things I saw, and behold, a great

multitude, which no man could number, out of every

nation, and of all tribes and peoples and tongues,

standing before the throne and before the Lamb, arrayed

in white robes, and palms in their hands; and they cry

with a great voice, saying, Salvation unto our God

which sitteth on the throne, and unto the Lamb....

And one of the elders answered, saying unto me, These

which are arrayed in the white robes, who are they, and

whence came they? And I say unto him, My lord, thou

knowest. And he said to me, These are they which come

out of the great tribulation, and they washed their

robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.

Therefore are they before the throne of God; and they

serve Him day and night in His temple: and He that

sitteth on the throne shall spread His tabernacle over

them. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any

more; neither shall the sun strike upon them, nor any

heat: for the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne

shall be their Shepherd, and shall guide them unto

fountains of waters of life: and God shall wipe away

every tear from their eyes.

There was a moment’s silence as he closed his Bible. And then he

began to talk to the little crowd before him—not about the war, but

about much that the war is bringing, trouble, sorrow, suffering,

anxiety—great tribulation indeed.

I am not going to make any attempt to give you his sermon: merely to

take isolated sentences from a man’s address, and set them down in cold

print, deprived of the added strength and meaning that voice and tone

and emphasis and context convey, is usually most unsatisfactory.

But I wish you could have been there and seen the tense eager look on

every face, as he took us quickly and concisely over the great crises

that have befallen humanity in bygone ages, when it has seemed again

and again as though Christianity has been dealt a staggering blow—and

yet in every case the result has been the ultimate triumph of God, and

the building up of His people.

He reminded us how the darkest day in the world’s history, when our

Lord’s death seemed to end all hope, all promise of His Kingdom, was

in reality the day of the greatest victory.

* * * * *

But I cannot give even a summary of his address; I can only tell you of

the effect it had upon me, and I think there were many others to whom

Light came in a strangely vivid manner that evening.

It seemed as though I was suddenly taken right out of my own small

petty troubles, and shown a bigger view of the world than I had ever

seen in my widest imaginings before. Things that had been perplexing,

bewildering before, seemed to fit in quite naturally into a huge plan

that was making for the ultimate good of humanity. But more than all

this, there suddenly came that enheartening sense of being no longer a

unit, no longer one of a small company fighting against overwhelming

odds; I was now one of a huge army that had been marching on through

all time, an army that will still be adding and adding to its numbers,

so long as the world shall last.

I seemed to hear the trampling of the feet, the great surge of the

voices as they sang the old yet ever new anthem—

“Salvation unto our God which sitteth on the throne, and unto the Lamb.

Blessing, and glory, and wisdom, and thanksgiving, and honour, and

power, and might, be unto our God for ever and ever.”

Here was no room for doubt; no question as to ultimate results; no

misgivings; no apprehensions. The final victory did not rest with me;

but I was privileged to take part in it if I was willing to endure any

hardships or tribulation that might happen by the way. And even these

seemed so slight, not to be mentioned beside the joy of the great

triumph that was surely ahead.

The Vision comes to us all differently, at different times, in a

different manner; but assuredly I had a glimpse then of the things

that are outside our everyday ken. I knew for an absolute certainty

that I was one of the greatest army that can ever be mustered; I knew

for an absolute certainty that God is leading this army, and that

with Him there is no possibility of failure, and that finally He will

permit evil to be banished and Good will prevail. I realised that any

afflictions we are called upon to bear here are but for a moment.

Nothing can hinder the progress of the great multitude that no man can

number—Christ’s followers through all the ages. In spite of all the

tribulation—_because_ of the tribulation—they reach His throne at last,

and worship Him, while He wipes away the tears that may have gathered

by the way.

* * * * *

My thoughts had journeyed far away from the little chapel and its

earnest worshippers. I was recalled by the preacher’s voice reciting

his closing sentence—

“And I saw, and I heard a voice of many angels round the throne ... and

the number of them was ten thousand times ten thousand, and thousands

of thousands; saying, with a great voice, Worthy is the Lamb that hath

been slain to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and might, and

honour, and glory, and blessing.”

* * * * *

We stood up to sing the concluding hymn—one that has for long been a

great favourite of mine—