XIX
GOD ANSWERED OUT OF THE WHIRLWIND
Nothing happened for some days. At first I kept close to the house, andwas constantly on the alert lest some evil thing should befall me. Iwatched vigilantly too. Remembering all that had been reported in thenewspapers, my mind was filled with suspicions concerning thepossibility of the enemy pursuing his work in this part of the country.Especially did I watch the cliffs around the little bay; but in no waywas I rewarded. I began to think that I was the victim of a hoax, orthat Father Abraham was little better than a madman obsessed with madfancies. Thus it came about that after a few days I became careless ofthe warnings given me, and pursued my old course of life.
At that time, I remember, the black cloud of war hung especially heavyon our land. The Prime Minister had stated in the House of Commons thenumber of killed and wounded in our Army and Navy, and the appallingfigures which he gave were added to daily by the lists given in thepapers. The village of St. Issey had not suffered greatly. It is truethat three men had come home wounded, but their wounds were not serious,and as they had been bright and cheerful during their stay, we had beenled to hope that we should escape lightly. Then, suddenly, the horror ofthe whole business came home to us. Two of our lads were killed at sea.Then we heard that others had been taken prisoners and lay suffering ina German prison camp. Others still were lying wounded in the hospitalsin France.
One morning--it was some days after Father Abraham's visit--I found onopening my newspapers that among the killed was one Edward Trelaske, whodied in action. The name struck me, first because it was Cornish, andsecond because it was the name of our Vicar. I saw too that he was acaptain in one of the battalions belonging to the D.C.L.I., and Iwondered whether he were in any way associated with St. Issey.
Scarcely had I read this than a knock came to the door, and I saw theVicar enter the room. He looked ten years older than when I had firstseen him. I think I said, when describing our first meeting, that he wasa hale and handsome man, ruddy and inclined to stoutness. Now his facewas haggard and bloodless, the flesh hung loosely on his cheeks, and Ijudged from his eyes that he was a stranger to sleep. Immediately Iconnected his appearance with what I had just read. I did not speak aword, I thought it best not to; but I held out my hand, which he grippedalmost convulsively. Almost unconsciously I looked at the newspaper.
"Yes," he said, "it is there."
"It was your son, then?" I said.
"Yes, my eldest son; both were in the Army. One is still alive, thankGod; but Ned, my boy Ned----" Then for a moment he broke down, his wholebody trembling violently. He recovered himself in a few seconds,however.
"I do not complain," he said. "In a way I am proud."
"I think I understand," was my reply.
"I shall never be the same man again," he went on. "It seems as though apart of my life is buried with him, away in that little French cemetery;but at this moment there is no prouder man in England than I. My son, myeldest son, has given his life for honor, for truth, for God."
He spoke like a man inspired. Every word was weighted with a newmeaning.
"I don't know why I came to you," he went on. "I received the news daysago, and ever since, ever since...." Then he stopped. There was afar-away look in his eyes.
"You have my deepest sympathy, Mr. Trelaske," I said. "Words are poor ata time like this----"
"No," he interrupted, "words are not poor, when they convey what theheart feels. I rather resented it when my son expressed the desire to gointo the Army. I fully expected it of Harry, my second son, and had hadhim educated with that object in view; but it has always been atradition in our family for generations that one of the sons should gointo the Church. But he would not fall in with my wishes; he was notfit, he said, and he wanted to be a soldier. The living here belongs toour family, has belonged to it for more than a hundred years. Now I knowit ought not to have belonged to us."
"Why?" I asked.
"The Church," he replied, "has been but little more than a name to me,the vocation of a clergyman I have regarded as little more than aprofession; that is why--why...." He stopped, as if unable to expressthe thought in his mind. "'What is the use of my becoming a parson?'said Ned to me. 'I have nothing to say to the people. How can I tell thechaps whom I have fought with, shot with, played cards with, about theirsouls, about God and about heaven?' I argued with him. I told him thatwhen a man was ordained a priest his ordination gave him priestlyrights. But he would have none of it, and insisted upon going into theArmy. As I said, I was grieved and angry; but now I know that he servedhis God more truly than I, for what I have done has lacked a greatconviction. I have looked upon my profession as--as a profession; buthe, he gave his life for his country, and for truth, and for God.Perhaps he did not say so in so many words, perhaps he did not eventhink of it, but that is what he did; and I am proud--oh, I am proud. Hedied a hero, too."
"How?" I asked. "Tell me."
"He was wounded, not badly, but his arm was broken. He made light of it,however, and among the German prisoners taken was a German officer, amajor who was badly hurt. He asked for water. My son, although he was ingreat pain, fetched water and gave it to him, and while he was giving itto him the German got out his revolver and shot him through the heart."
"What happened then?" I asked.
"You may guess what happened," he replied. "Some of our men saw it. Itwas terrible--wasn't it? But how could I wish my son to die a noblerdeath, even although that fiend shot him? Did he not die as a Christian,trying to bring succor to his enemy?"
There was a note of earnestness in his voice which I had never heardbefore.
"And you got this news days ago?" I said.
"Yes," he replied, "and I have been to see no one since it came untilnow. I haven't even been to see my old friend Treherne. At first, allthe foundations of my life seemed to be broken up. I could notunderstand it. I thought I should never be able to bear it. Why shouldI, a man past my prime, with my work nearly over, be alive while my son,a lad of twenty-seven, should be killed?
"I revolted against it.
"I told God He was hard.
"By and by, however, my mind became clearer; I began to understand. Notthat I could put my thoughts into words; I cannot now. Presently I beganto pray. I do not think I had really prayed for years. I had read theprayers at Church, I had done my work as a clergyman, but I had missedthe great reality of it all. But then I prayed. This morning I felt Imust come to see you. You remember what you asked me when I came herefirst?"
"Yes, I remember," I said; "but please do not trouble about that now.You have your own sorrow to think of."
"I am ashamed," he went on. "I, a clergyman, set apart to give help,comfort, to those who might come to me, and yet when you asked me one ofthe greatest of all questions, I had no answer to give. I was dumb."
I waited in silence. I longed to know what was in the man's mind, but Ifelt it would be sacrilege to ask him questions then. I could see thathe had been passing through deep waters, that the billows had gone overhis head. He was no longer the ecclesiastic, no longer the man he hadbelieved himself, set apart simply because a bishop's hands had beenlaid upon his head. He had seen beneath the mere conventions of hisfaith, he had got to the heart of things, or, at least, he had tried toget there.
"I am ashamed," he went on, "that I had no answer to give you. Even yetI have none to give. I am still in the dark, and yet--yet...."
He seemed like a man who saw something from afar, one who was stretchingout lame hands of faith.
"I understand as I never understood before," he went on. "Do youremember that story of David standing by the gates of Jerusalem, waitingfor news of his son, and who, when the news came, cried out, 'Oh,Absalom, my son, my son, would God that I had died for thee, oh,Absalom, my son!' I understand that now. I think I understand somethingmore; I am not certain yet, but I feel as though--as though...."
And again there was a far-away look in his eyes. He rose and held outhis hand.
"You will wonder why I came," he said. "I do too, except that I couldnot help coming. Do you remember what our Lord said about blind leadersof the blind? No, I am not blind, but I am like the man who was cured ofhis blindness by our Lord, who said he saw men as trees walking. It is astrange story, isn't it? But oh, man, what fools we are! What blindfools! And how God Almighty opens our eyes and shows us ourfoolishness!"
I longed to be able to utter some words of comfort, but I was in thedark myself. I had been asking questions ever since I came to Cornwall,but had received no answer. I would have given anything at that time tohave been able to say something which would have been balm to thefather's bleeding heart. But I could not. I could only tell him howsorry I was, and that seemed such a little thing.
That same afternoon, the weather being fine, I found my way into St.Issey. I had practically forgotten Father Abraham's warning, and longingto see human faces, and to get away from the questions which haunted me,I turned towards the village. I had, by this time, learnt to know agreat many of the people. I was no longer simply the stranger who had afew months before come to live in Father Abraham's hut. I had now beenliving in the neighborhood for several months, and was regarded by manyof the people as a friend. I had also got into the habit of droppinginto the cottages and talking with the simple folk. I had barely enteredthe village when I saw a woman standing by her cottage door.
"Oh, Mr. Erskine," she said. "Will 'ee come in a minute? I 'avesomethin' to tell 'ee."
"What is it, Mrs. Rosewarn?" I had seen her once or twice at the Chapel,and knew that her husband was a local preacher.
"Ain't 'ee heered, my deear?"
"Heard what?" I asked.
"About my deear boy. He's killed, my deear."
"Killed?" I said.
"Yes, my deear. They Germans 'ave killed 'im."
Never did I hear such pathos in a human voice. There was no bitterness,no anger, no suggestion of vengeance in her voice, but there was pathos,deep unutterable pathos.
"'E was a deear, deear boy," she went on. "No better boy ever stepped inshoe leather. 'Is father were ter'ble against 'is goin' as a sojer, but'e would go, and now 'e is dead."
What could I say? What comfort could I give to this poor bruised,breaking heart? Never did I realize, as I did at that moment, how vainand futile was the learning of men when brought face to face with sorrowand loss. I did not feel it so much when the Vicar had come to me thatmorning. At the back of my mind I had felt that he, the Vicar of theparish, ought to have had means whereby he could obtain comfort. He wassupposed to be the spiritual head of the parish, and professed tobelieve in shibboleths of Christianity; but everything was different inrelation to this poor cottage woman. I felt that I, who had spent yearsat a seat of learning, who had pored over musty law-books and professedto know something of the ways of men, should have something to say, somemessage of hope to give her; but I had nothing.
"Oh, my deear Mr. Erskine," she said, "the 'and of the Lord is 'eavyupon me, but I am not as those who sorrow without hope."
"No," I said. "What hope have you?"
"Oh, my deear, 'e was a good boy. 'Ere is 'is last letter, sir. Will 'eeread it, then?"
I took the letter and read it. I do not ever remember perusing adocument with the same eagerness as I perused this letter sent from thetrenches.
"DEAR MOTHER AND FATHER,"--I read,--"I have just got a few minutes to write to you, so I am just sending you these few lines to tell you that I am well and happy. While I write I can hear the booming of the guns, the sound of shrapnel, and the awful noise of shells which are shrieking above me; but I am safe here. The trenches are so made that even the German guns cannot hurt us. We are doing very well, and although it will take us a long time, we are going to lick the Germans right enough. I wish the war was over and that I was home among you once again. I expect you will be in Chapel now, or just going home, for it is half-past seven on Sunday night. If ever I live to go home again, I shall go to Chapel more regularly than I did. An hour ago some of us met here and had a prayer-meeting. Lots of the fellows came who never thought of going to a prayer-meeting at home. Somehow war makes us think of things differently. I never dared to pray in the meetings at home, but I did to-night, and you would have been surprised at some of the chaps that did pray, and hear what they said. It was very funny, but they meant it all right, and God understood. Well, I must stop now, for I have to go on duty. Love to you both.--Your affectionate son,
"TOM."
"Ed'n it wonderful?" she said to me, with streaming eyes. "Tom wouldnever say a word about religion when 'e was at 'ome; but now, do'ant 'eesee, my deear Mr. Erskine? I know that Tom is saafe with his God."
"How did he die?" I asked. I felt the question to be out of place, but Icould think of nothing better to say.
"I do'ant know, my deear. We was told that 'e was killed in action, andthat is all. But I ain't got no feears, Tom was a good boy."
At that moment there was a knock at the door, and the next moment Mr.Trelaske entered.
"I ... I have just heard that Tom is killed," he said, "and I thoughtyou would not take it amiss if I dropped in."
"Bless 'ee, sir, I be glad to see 'ee," replied the woman. "Mr. Erskine'ere was just readin' Tom's last letter. Would 'ee like to read it?"
I passed him the letter without a word, and the Vicar read it carefully.
"Oh, yes, sir," said Mrs. Rosewarn, "Tom was a good boy, and I ain't gotno feears. 'E 'as gone straight to God, 'as Tom."
The Vicar stayed for perhaps ten minutes, and during that time heuttered no word about religion. He spoke quite naturally about TomRosewarn's death, and expressed deepest sympathy with the sorrowingmother.
"Yes, sir," said Mrs. Rosewarn, "we 'ave to comfort each other now. I'eerd about poor Mr. Edward, and I ain't forgot you, sir, in myprayers."
"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 timelike this?" went on Mrs. Rosewarn. "I ain't ever been to Church in mylife, 'cept to funerals and weddin's. I 'ave always been a Wesleyan, andsomehow 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 womanpersuaded me to stay a few minutes longer.
"Only think, sir," she said, when he had gone. "Why, he ain't ever beenin my 'ouse before. 'E said that my 'usband was committing what hecalled 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 begentle 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 asanctuary, and I realized that this woman possessed a secret which washidden from me. Her simple faith was greater and more profound than allthe learned tomes in the libraries at Oxford, greater than all thescholarship of men. I wandered along the road aimlessly; I did not knowwhere I was going, I did not care, but I had not gone far when I foundthe 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 withsome of the village folk."
"I, who have been the Vicar of this parish for many years, have neverbeen to that house before," he said. "I looked upon her husband as aRadical, as a Dissenter, and therefore a dangerous man. I have beenangry with him for usurping offices which I did not think it right forhim to hold; but, great God! how a thing like this shows us what foolswe 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 lastthing that I remember reading was the story of St. Paul's shipwreck. Icould not help thinking t
hen what a fine piece of literature it was; butit seemed a long way off. I thought of Paul as one who lived in asuperstitious age, and one who saw miraculous interventions in what wereonly commonplaces. Somehow it strikes me differently now."
"How is that?" he asked.
"I remember that Paul said something about the Angel of God standingbeside him, and telling him that the ship should be saved, and that inthe story Paul said, 'I believe God.' It was very fine, very graphic."
"Yes," he replied. "It was more than fine, more than graphic. Paulpossessed 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 seemingto notice my question.
"I have almost forgotten it," I replied. "I used to think in the olddays 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 Jobout 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 mylittle beliefs. Why, that woman----Good-day, Erskine."
He walked away as he spoke, and I watched him enter the churchyard gatesand find his way into the Church. A kind of curiosity impelled me tofollow him, and silently I found my way into the old stone building,which had been erected in this quiet village in pre-Reformationdays--built by men long since dead, built before even Erasmus let in thelight of learning upon our country, before Luther's voice shook theworld. How quiet it was! Not a sound disturbed the silence. Not even themurmur of the sea reached me here.
At first, I thought the place was empty; that the Vicar had passedthrough it on his way to the Vicarage. But I was mistaken. Kneeling athis desk, I saw him in prayer. His eyes were fixed on the stained-glasswindow over the Communion table, but I am sure he did not see thefigures of saints and prophets that were placed there. He was lookingbeyond. I turned and went silently away. It was not for me to disturbhim.
On looking back now, it seemed to me that that day was a day of greatevents. Not that much had happened. News had come to me that two ladshad been killed in the war, and that was all. But there was more thanthat. I had seen, as I had never seen before, into the hearts of twopeople--into that of the Vicar of the parish, and into the heart of asimple woman. They had both lost their sons.
I climbed over a stile which led to a footpath whereby I could, by aroundabout way, return to my cottage on the cliff. I was in a strangemood, I remember. My mind was bewildered by what I had seen and heard,and I felt impatient with the philosophies which had somehow causedmaterial barriers to be placed around me. I wanted to overleap thosebarriers. I was impatient with what seemed to place weights upon thewings of the mind and the wings of that something which we call soul. Ihungered, as I never hungered before, for some assurance that life wasdeeper, greater, diviner than that suggested by the theories of men. Afew 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 pleasantfriends and acquaintances. The possession of a good name and arespectable profession opened the doors of some of the best houses inEngland 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 thegreat war broke out, and life had become a maddening maze.
For some time now I had seen nothing of the Lethbridges. I had had twoletters from Hugh, who told me he was well. He also sent me a photographof himself, taken in his lieutenant's uniform. His letter, I remember,was a cheery epistle, intermingled with a tone of sadness. He asked meto visit his wife, and to try to cheer her; but there was no word eitherof his father or of his sister. Perhaps the thought of Hugh's lettermade 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 away, become almost sullenly resigned to the fact that, if Dr. Rhomboidwere right, I had only three or four months longer to live, and yet, ina way for which I could not account, I constantly found myself thinkingof Isabella Lethbridge. I told myself again and again that I did notlove her, and I was sure I was right. Indeed, after my experiences withthe Vicar and with Mrs. Rosewarn, I felt angry with her, angry withmyself for constantly thinking about her; and while this feelingpossessed me, I met her. She had come by a pathway from her home, andthe two paths met just as we came in sight of each other. A kind ofmadness 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 toreceive any letters from him."
"Surely that is a foolish command on his part," I said. "He cannot stopHugh from writing, neither can he forbid the postman from bringingletters to your house."
"No," she said, with a laugh, "but my father has the key to the letterbag, and he can decide as to what letters reach us." She spoke, as Ithought, flippantly, and as one who did not care.
Perhaps it was the tone of her voice and the look in her eyes whichcaused 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 evidentliking for each other."
I felt how incongruous my words were, how utterly out of keeping withthe scenes of sorrow I had witnessed that day; but, as I said, a spiritof 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 bywomen. But surely Mr. Barcroft is a happy man now if what rumor says istrue."
"And what does rumor say?"
"That he is favored above all other men," I replied. "That MissLethbridge has consented to make him happy."
"Was it not Shakespeare who said that 'rumor was a lying jade'?" Andagain she laughed, as I thought, flippantly, heartlessly. "Poor man, Icannot help what he feels."
I felt that her words were those of a vulgar woman, and yet, as shestood there that day, with the early spring sunlight shining upon her,her face flushed with the hue of health, her eyes shining brightly, Ihad 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, somewherenear 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 inmy 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 noright to tell you, but I am in a strange humor to-day. I have beentalking with Mr. Trelaske, whose son has been killed in the war. I havealso 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 hasto 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 madnesswhich possessed me, but I am setting down in this narrative whatactually 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 toCornwall 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 topossess your love. Had I not been a dying man, I would not have saidthis; 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 formy love, and that if I offered it you would decline it with thanks. I amin 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 sametime, 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 adying man. No, do not deny it, but you have. You have flashed looks oflove at me. You have tried to make me think that you love me, and allthe time you have not cared a straw about me. There have been times whenI have been ready to worship you, but I could not do it, although, as Isaid, 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, MissLethbridge, 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 inCornwall I have met three fellows whose lives you have blackened. Youwon their love, you made them think you cared for them. Why have youdone it?"
Her face from rosy red became ashy pale, but her eyes gleamed with hotanger.
"Really, Mr. Erskine," she said quietly, "you mistook your profession. Aburlesque actor is your role."
"Your retort is poor," I went on. "I am not acting, but am in soberearnest. Perhaps I have no right to think of such things, but there havebeen times when I became mad about you, would almost have sold my soulto possess you. Why, even now my heart cries out for you. I love youmore than life or being, and yet it is not you I love at all; it is thewoman 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 noword. Then she turned and walked away. Her head was erect, and shecarried herself proudly.
I knew I had wounded her deeply.
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