The Passion for Life

by Joseph Hocking

  XX

  THE VICAR'S SERMON

  On the following Sunday I went to Chapel in the morning, and to theParish Church in the evening. As I wended my way thitherwards, Ireflected how strange it was that I should make it almost a habit to goto a place of worship on a Sunday. Prior to coming to Cornwall, I hadnot been inside a Church of any sort for years; indeed, such a thing wasalien to my life. I had no interest in it, neither did I see itsutility. Indeed, even then I could have given no explanation for myaction. Neither Church nor Chapel had given me an answer to things Iwanted to know.

  As I tried to analyze my reason for going, it seemed that something inthe atmosphere of Sunday in Cornwall made it natural. Besides, it gave akind of mild interest to my life. I had but few friends, and livingalone as I did, I grew tired of reading and thinking; thus, when Sundaycame, the ringing of the Church bells seemed to call me to a house ofprayer. I dare say that if I had been in a country where Mohammedanismor Buddhism was the established faith of the people, I should have goneto their mosques or temples just as I went to Church and Chapel inCornwall.

  To speak quite frankly, I had, up to the present, received no benefitfrom either. Mostly the pulpit at the Chapel was occupied by somelayman, who spoke in a language different from my own. These laymen hadread no books expressing the thought of the age, neither did they at allunderstand the attitude of my mind. That they were simple, earnest men Idid not doubt, and yet I often wondered at their daring to occupy theposition of religious teachers. What distressed me, moreover, was thefact that most of them appeared very anxious to convince theircongregation that they had prepared a fine discourse, rather than tohelp people. The note of deep experience was too often lacking; and yetalmost Sunday by Sunday I found my way there, until my presence causedno remark whatever.

  In spite of all this, however, I could not help reflecting that since Icame to the little village of St. Issey a subtle change had come overthe congregation. Not that the Chapel was very much more largelyattended; but there seemed to me to be a spirit of yearning, a deepundertone of feeling among the worshippers. That morning especially didI realize this. The preacher was John Rosewarn, the father of the boywhose death had been recorded the previous week. I will not try toreproduce his sermon.

  Intellectually, John Rosewarn had practically nothing to say to me, andyet my heart was moved strangely. The shadow of his loss was broodingover him, and although he had no great mental acumen, he seemed to befeeling his way to the heart of things. There was a deep tenderness inhis voice, a new light in his eyes. He made no mention of his son'sdeath, but the fact was felt throughout the whole Church. Many wondered,I myself included, how he could have conducted the service that day, yethe did; and although his message from an intellectual standpoint waspoor and unconvincing, there was a sense of reality which I had seldomfelt in the homely little building.

  The congregation felt this too, and especially was it manifest duringthe singing of the hymns. One hymn, I remember, the people sang withgreat fervor. I had never heard it before, and from the standpoint ofpoetry it had nothing to recommend it, but as these people sang it, itwas 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 Ithought I noticed a note of triumph.

  When the service was over, John Rosewarn came down from the pulpit intothe vestibule and spoke to me.

  "Thank you, sir, for calling at our house the other day," he said. "Itis a terrible loss, sir, but we shall see our boy again."

  I went back to my little house on the cliff thinking deeply. Yes, asubtle change had come over the little congregation. The firstexcitement of the war was over, but something, I could not define what,had created a new atmosphere. Personally, I was still as much in thedark as ever; and the faith, the suggestion of which I had realized thatmorning, seemed to rest on utterly insufficient foundations; but I couldnot deny its existence.

  In the evening I found my way to the Parish Church. I saw at a glancethat a larger congregation than usual had gathered. I noticed that oldSquire Treherne was in the great square Treherne pew. Noticed, too, thatMr. Prideaux, father of young Prideaux, whose name I have mentioned,also several of the larger farmers who seldom came to Church of anevening, were present. What had drawn them there I could not tell, forit 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 themarks of suffering were plainly to be seen on his face. There was nochange in the order of the service. The usual evening prayers wererepeated, the Psalms were sung, and the village schoolmaster read thelessons as he was wont to do, and yet here, too, was a suggestion of achange. A deeper note was struck, a new meaning felt. I asked myself whyit was so, and wondered if the change were in me or in the people aroundme. The Vicar conducted the service like a man who was very weary. Therewas no suggestion of triumph or even conviction in his tones. He seemedto be bearing a heavy burden. When presently the hymn before the sermonwas 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 hissorrow brought him hope, faith?

  He preached the shortest sermon, I think, I ever heard. Altogether, Iimagine it did not take more than five minutes in its delivery, but thepeople listened as they had never listened before during the time I hadbeen in St. Issey. He chose for his text a passage from the Psalms: "Thefool hath said in his heart, there is no God." When he had read thepassage, he waited for some seconds as if not knowing what to say.

  "Has it struck you, brethren, that during this ghastly war, in spite ofthe fact that the greater part of the world is under arms, in spite ofthe fact that hellish deeds are being done, in spite of the welter ofblood and the unutterable carnage, that we have heard no one deny theexistence of God? I thought when the war first broke out and assumedsuch awful proportions, when I realized the misery it was causing, thatpeople would have doubted God, that they would have said, like theenemies of the Psalmist of old, 'Where is now thy God?' I thought thatatheism 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 allowedthese things.' And yet worse things have happened than we, at thecommencement of the war, thought possible, but I have heard no one denythe existence of God, neither have I heard any one seriously doubt Hisgoodness. 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. Someof 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 aChurch, 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 theusual formula at the conclusion of a sermon, but he went on.

  "God is teaching us many lessons--teaching us how foolish we are, howpaltry have been our conceptions of Him; teaching us, too, our need ofHim. Will the Church, will religion ever be the same to us again? Ithink not."

  Again he stopped, and the people breathlessly waited, as if wonderingwhat he would say next. To me he seemed like a man in doubt as towhether 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 theChapel people and the Chapel people have avoided the Church. I need notsay why. I am sure we shall never settle our differences by arguments orby criticisms. There has been too much of that in the past. This is atime when
we need to pray, and so I am asking all the people in theparish, whether they belong to Chapel or to Church, to meet in thevillage schoolroom to-morrow night, to pray--to pray that God will blessour soldiers and sailors, and all who are seeking to help us to destroythis awful scourge of war, to pray for broken hearts at home, to praythat God will lead us all into His light."

  He made a long pause here, and we wondered what was to come next. Thensuddenly 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 allhonor, power, and dominion, world without end. Amen."

  The little service was at an end. Quietly we left the old building andfound our way into the churchyard. As I reached the gates, I felt a handupon 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 outto-night."

  "I am glad you did, anyhow," was the Squire's reply. "My word! thisbusiness is giving us a shaking up. Trelaske has never preached such asermon before in my hearing."

  I could not help smiling, for in truth he had not preached a sermon atall.

  "I see what you mean," said the old man. "For that matter Trelaske nevercould preach; and, mind you, I have been as bitter against dissent asany man, but--but he has done more for religion to-night than he hasdone 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 ajoke.

  "Yes," I said, "why not? That is, if--if you believe it has anymeaning."

  "Yes," he said, "why not? After all, why not? Are you sure you won'tcome up to supper?"

  "Quite sure, thank you."

  I wandered slowly back to my little house, thinking of what the Vicarhad said. Yes, he was quite right. Never, during the beginning of thewar, had I heard any one deny the existence of God. It might seem as ifthere were no God at all, when one remembered the deeds that had beendone; 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 judgedthat 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 Icould. "He sent me his photograph in his lieutenant's uniform. Have youseen 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 seeit."

  "I have just come from the Parish Church," I said. "The Vicar hasreceived 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 morethan you. He regards war only as a ghastly necessity. But would you,knowing all you know, realizing all our sufferings, and all we shallhave to suffer, have had us do differently?"

  "You mean----?"

  "I mean, would you have the Germans work their will, and dominate theworld by material forces? Would you have had them glorify militarism,and set a war-god upon a pinnacle to worship? Would you have Europeaccept the teaching of Treitschke and Nietzsche as the gospel of thefuture, while we did nothing?"

  At this he was silent.

  "I was at the Wesleyan Chapel this morning," I went on. "I did not seeyou there."

  "No, I did not go."

  "John Rosewarn was preaching," I went on. "John has lost his boy Tom."

  He hesitated for a few seconds and I thought he seemed on the point ofsaying something to me, then he held out his hand.

  "Good-night, Mr. Erskine," he said, and a few minutes later he was lostto my view.

  "That man is deeply troubled," I said to myself as he walked away. "Iwonder what he has on his mind."

  When I entered my cottage Simpson had not yet returned. He had asked mypermission before I went to Church that night if he might be out alittle later than usual, as some old friends of his had asked him tosupper. Of course I gave my consent, but when I found myself alone inthe house I felt almost sorry. What I should have done without himduring the hours of the long winter nights I do not know, for althoughhis conversation was not very illuminating, it was always a source ofcomfort to me to know that he was near.

  I sat down to the simple little meal that he had prepared, and then,throwing myself into an armchair, saw the previous day's newspaper lyingby my side. I picked it up almost listlessly, and a few seconds laterfound myself reading an article on the ravages which were being causedby German submarines. This article detailed the list of disasters causedby this method of warfare, then asked questions which had been troublingthe writer.

  This gentleman, who seemed to know what he was writing about, statedthat there must be secret stations along the British coast where theGermans could be supplied with fuel, therefore many traitors to theirown country must exist in England. He also insisted that although theshores were constantly watched, hour by hour, and every precautiontaken, the Germans had, by some means yet unknown to us, been suppliedby people in England with what was essential to their devilish work.

  "Has the Government," the article concluded, "been sufficientlystringent in their treatment of enemy aliens? Has it inquired withsufficient care into the means whereby our enemy has caused suchappalling losses?"

  I must confess, although everything seemed conjectural, that my interestwas aroused, and acting on impulse I opened the door and went out intothe night. It had now become very dark. Clouds hung heavily in the sky,there was no moon and not a star appeared. The night was not stormy,although a fairly strong breeze was blowing. The tide, I remember, washigh, and the sea swept upon the rocks at the base of the cliff on whichmy hut was situated. I peered into the darkness, calling to mind as Idid so the night on which I had seen, what seemed to me, phantom boatsappearing round the headland and then becoming lost to view. I waitedfor a few minutes and then found myself shivering with cold. When I gotback to the house Simpson had returned.

  "Have you heard the news, sir?"

  "What news?" I asked.

  "Another vessel sunk, sir, by the submarines. It was struck withoutwarning, and it is feared that every one on board has been lost."

  "Where did this happen?"

  "I don't know, sir, but some men in the village had got hold of a Sundaynewspaper and were talking about it. I heard too that two people, one anEnglish woman, and the other a German man, have been taken up as spies.It seems that they have been supplying the Germans with petrol."

  The man's words seemed almost a commentary on what I had been thinking,and I turned, almost unconsciously, to the newspaper I had been reading.

  "The Germans are too clever for us, sir, and there is no dirty trick ofwhich they are not capable. I am told they jeered at the people who weretrying to save themselves from drowning, and even shot at them. I am notvery proud of my county, sir."

  "Not proud of your county! Why?"

  "Why, sir, there are dozens of young fellows in St. Issey who won'tenlist, and I was told to-night of seven of them who are off toAmerica."

  "Off to America! Why?"

  "Why, it seems that the Squire has been at them and told them they arecowards to stay at home at a time like this. It seems, too, sir, thatpoor Tom Rosewarn's death, as well as that of the Vicar's son, hasroused some of the people terribly, and these young fellows have beencalled such names that they are ashamed to remain at home, but ratherthan join the Army, as they ought to do
, they are leaving for America. Ihave never been a believer in conscription, but the stories have verynearly converted me to that way of thinking."

  When Simpson had gone to bed, I put on a thick overcoat and again wentout into the night. I wondered whether the fancies that had been in mymind had any foundation of truth, and whether I ought not to go to theauthorities and make my suspicions known. There were a great many thingsagainst such a course of action, however. Local officials were not veryclever, and did not act with much finesse. The Germans would be preparedfor anything they might do, and if anything were done at all, it must bedone dexterously and secretly.

  By this time I knew, or at least thought I did, every inch of the cliffsaround my home. I had discovered, too, an opening through the busheswhich led far down towards the sea. Again acting on impulse, I foundthis little opening, and scrambled down the steep cliff-side until Icame, perhaps, within forty feet of the water. I was entirely hiddenfrom view, as at this part thick brushwood grew to within a few yards ofthe beach. Besides, it was very dark, and I knew that if I went fartherI should risk my life. Up above me the wind soughed its way through thelittle copse, and over the heights of the beetling cliffs which rosedarkly beyond. Out at sea I could hear the sad monotone of the waves.Now and then I heard the cry of a sea-bird, as though it were disturbedin its nest among the rocks.

  It was now perhaps eleven o'clock, and every one would, in allprobability, be abed, with perhaps the exception of the coast watcherswho patrolled the coast. I was on the point of returning to the housewhen I was startled by the sound of a human voice. I was at this pointsheltered from the wind, and my ears, having become accustomed to thenoise of the waves and the night winds, could hear plainly:

  "Is that the lot?"

  There was a reply to this, but what it was I could not say. How long Iwaited I could not say either. That something was taking place thatought not to take place I was sure. Else why should men be in thislonely cove at midnight on a Sunday? Presently I heard a grating sound,then above the sound of the waves was the splash of oars. I lookedintently, but could see nothing, and by and by when I had returned to myhouse I reflected that my vigils had been in vain. Yet not in vain, forI determined, whatever might be the danger accruing from my action, thatI would not rest until I had in daylight again examined every inch ofthe cliffs.

  Strange to say, I did not feel much worse for my night vigils, and whenI awoke on the following morning my brain was clear and every facultyalert. I was arranging to carry my resolutions of the previous nightinto effect when Simpson placed the morning paper on the table. The nextminute I had forgotten all I had intended to do.