The Passion for Life

"Oh, my deear Mr. Erskine," she said, "the 'and of the Lord is 'eavy upon 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 'ee read it, then?"

I took the letter and read it. I do not ever remember perusing a document with the same eagerness as I perused this letter sent from the trenches.

"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 would never say a word about religion when 'e was at 'ome; but now, do'ant 'ee see, 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 I could think of nothing better to say.

"I do'ant know, my deear. We was told that 'e was killed in action, and that 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 thought you 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 got no feears. 'E 'as gone straight to God, 'as Tom."

The Vicar stayed for perhaps ten minutes, and during that time he uttered no word about religion. He spoke quite naturally about Tom Rosewarn's death, and expressed deepest sympathy with the sorrowing mother.

"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 my prayers."

"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 time like this?" went on Mrs. Rosewarn. "I ain't ever been to Church in my life, 'cept to funerals and weddin's. I 'ave always been a Wesleyan, and somehow 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 woman persuaded me to stay a few minutes longer.

"Only think, sir," she said, when he had gone. "Why, he ain't ever been in my 'ouse before. 'E said that my 'usband was committing what he called 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 be gentle 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 a sanctuary, and I realized that this woman possessed a secret which was hidden from me. Her simple faith was greater and more profound than all the learned tomes in the libraries at Oxford, greater than all the scholarship of men. I wandered along the road aimlessly; I did not know where I was going, I did not care, but I had not gone far when I found the 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 with some of the village folk."

"I, who have been the Vicar of this parish for many years, have never been to that house before," he said. "I looked upon her husband as a Radical, as a Dissenter, and therefore a dangerous man. I have been angry with him for usurping offices which I did not think it right for him to hold; but, great God! how a thing like this shows us what fools we 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 last thing that I remember reading was the story of St. Paul's shipwreck. I could not help thinking then what a fine piece of literature it was; but it seemed a long way off. I thought of Paul as one who lived in a superstitious age, and one who saw miraculous interventions in what were only commonplaces. Somehow it strikes me differently now."

"How is that?" he asked.

"I remember that Paul said something about the Angel of God standing beside him, and telling him that the ship should be saved, and that in the story Paul said, 'I believe God.' It was very fine, very graphic."

"Yes," he replied. "It was more than fine, more than graphic. Paul possessed 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 seeming to notice my question.

"I have almost forgotten it," I replied. "I used to think in the old days 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 Job out 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 my little beliefs. Why, that woman – Good-day, Erskine."

He walked away as he spoke, and I watched him enter the churchyard gates and find his way into the Church. A kind of curiosity impelled me to follow him, and silently I found my way into the old stone building, which had been erected in this quiet village in pre-Reformation days – built by men long since dead, built before even Erasmus let in the light of learning upon our country, before Luther's voice shook the world. How quiet it was! Not a sound disturbed the silence. Not even the murmur of the sea reached me here.

At first, I thought the place was empty; that the Vicar had passed through it on his way to the Vicarage. But I was mistaken. Kneeling at his desk, I saw him in prayer. His eyes were fixed on the stained-glass window over the Communion table, but I am sure he did not see the figures of saints and prophets that were placed there. He was looking beyond. I turned and went silently away. It was not for me to disturb him.

On looking back now, it seemed to me that that day was a day of great events. Not that much had happened. News had come to me that two lads had been killed in the war, and that was all. But there was more than that. I had seen, as I had never seen before, into the hearts of two people – into that of the Vicar of the parish, and into the heart of a simple woman. They had both lost their sons.

I climbed over a stile which led to a footpath whereby I could, by a roundabout way, return to my cottage on the cliff. I was in a strange mood, I remember. My mind was bewildered by what I had seen and heard, and I felt impatient with the philosophies which had somehow caused material barriers to be placed around me. I wanted to overleap those barriers. I was impatient with what seemed to place weights upon the wings of the mind and the wings of that something which we call soul. I hungered, as I never hungered before, for some assurance that life was deeper, greater, diviner than that suggested by the theories of men. A few 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 pleasant friends and acquaintances. The possession of a good name and a respectable profession opened the doors of some of the best houses in England 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 the great war broke out, and life had become a maddening maze.

For some time now I had seen nothing of the Lethbridges. I had had two letters from Hugh, who told me he was well. He also sent me a photograph of himself, taken in his lieutenant's uniform. His letter, I remember, was a cheery epistle, intermingled with a tone of sadness. He asked me to visit his wife, and to try to cheer her; but there was no word either of his father or of his sister. Perhaps the thought of Hugh's letter made 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 a way, become almost sullenly resigned to the fact that, if Dr. Rhomboid were right, I had only three or four months longer to live, and yet, in a way for which I could not account, I constantly found myself thinking of Isabella Lethbridge. I told myself again and again that I did not love her, and I was sure I was right. Indeed, after my experiences with the Vicar and with Mrs. Rosewarn, I felt angry with her, angry with myself for constantly thinking about her; and while this feeling possessed me, I met her. She had come by a pathway from her home, and the two paths met just as we came in sight of each other. A kind of madness 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 to receive any letters from him."

"Surely that is a foolish command on his part," I said. "He cannot stop Hugh from writing, neither can he forbid the postman from bringing letters to your house."

"No," she said, with a laugh, "but my father has the key to the letter bag, and he can decide as to what letters reach us." She spoke, as I thought, flippantly, and as one who did not care.

Perhaps it was the tone of her voice and the look in her eyes which caused 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 evident liking for each other."

I felt how incongruous my words were, how utterly out of keeping with the scenes of sorrow I had witnessed that day; but, as I said, a spirit of 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 by women. But surely Mr. Barcroft is a happy man now if what rumor says is true."

"And what does rumor say?"

"That he is favored above all other men," I replied. "That Miss Lethbridge has consented to make him happy."

"Was it not Shakespeare who said that 'rumor was a lying jade'?" And again she laughed, as I thought, flippantly, heartlessly. "Poor man, I cannot help what he feels."

I felt that her words were those of a vulgar woman, and yet, as she stood there that day, with the early spring sunlight shining upon her, her face flushed with the hue of health, her eyes shining brightly, I had 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, somewhere near 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 in my 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 no right to tell you, but I am in a strange humor to-day. I have been talking with Mr. Trelaske, whose son has been killed in the war. I have also 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 has to 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 madness which possessed me, but I am setting down in this narrative what actually 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 to Cornwall 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 to possess your love. Had I not been a dying man, I would not have said this; 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 for my love, and that if I offered it you would decline it with thanks. I am in 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 same time, 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 a dying man. No, do not deny it, but you have. You have flashed looks of love at me. You have tried to make me think that you love me, and all the time you have not cared a straw about me. There have been times when I have been ready to worship you, but I could not do it, although, as I said, 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, Miss Lethbridge, 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 in Cornwall I have met three fellows whose lives you have blackened. You won their love, you made them think you cared for them. Why have you done it?"

Her face from rosy red became ashy pale, but her eyes gleamed with hot anger.

"Really, Mr. Erskine," she said quietly, "you mistook your profession. A burlesque actor is your role."

"Your retort is poor," I went on. "I am not acting, but am in sober earnest. Perhaps I have no right to think of such things, but there have been times when I became mad about you, would almost have sold my soul to possess you. Why, even now my heart cries out for you. I love you more than life or being, and yet it is not you I love at all; it is the woman 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 no word. Then she turned and walked away. Her head was erect, and she carried herself proudly.

I knew I had wounded her deeply.

XX

THE VICAR'S SERMON

On the following Sunday I went to Chapel in the morning, and to the Parish Church in the evening. As I wended my way thitherwards, I reflected how strange it was that I should make it almost a habit to go to a place of worship on a Sunday. Prior to coming to Cornwall, I had not been inside a Church of any sort for years; indeed, such a thing was alien to my life. I had no interest in it, neither did I see its utility. Indeed, even then I could have given no explanation for my action. Neither Church nor Chapel had given me an answer to things I wanted to know.

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

To speak quite frankly, I had, up to the present, received no benefit from either. Mostly the pulpit at the Chapel was occupied by some layman, who spoke in a language different from my own. These laymen had read no books expressing the thought of the age, neither did they at all understand the attitude of my mind. That they were simple, earnest men I did not doubt, and yet I often wondered at their daring to occupy the position of religious teachers. What distressed me, moreover, was the fact that most of them appeared very anxious to convince their congregation that they had prepared a fine discourse, rather than to help people. The note of deep experience was too often lacking; and yet almost Sunday by Sunday I found my way there, until my presence caused no remark whatever.

In spite of all this, however, I could not help reflecting that since I came to the little village of St. Issey a subtle change had come over the congregation. Not that the Chapel was very much more largely attended; but there seemed to me to be a spirit of yearning, a deep undertone of feeling among the worshippers. That morning especially did I realize this. The preacher was John Rosewarn, the father of the boy whose death had been recorded the previous week. I will not try to reproduce his sermon.

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

The congregation felt this too, and especially was it manifest during the singing of the hymns. One hymn, I remember, the people sang with great fervor. I had never heard it before, and from the standpoint of poetry it had nothing to recommend it, but as these people sang it, it was weighted with meaning.

"We know, by faith we knowIf this vile house of clay,This tabernacle sink belowIn ruinous decayWe have a house aboveNot made with mortal hands…"

I saw the tears rolling down the faces of the people as they sang, and I thought I noticed a note of triumph.

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

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

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

In the evening I found my way to the Parish Church. I saw at a glance that a larger congregation than usual had gathered. I noticed that old Squire Treherne was in the great square Treherne pew. Noticed, too, that Mr. Prideaux, father of young Prideaux, whose name I have mentioned, also several of the larger farmers who seldom came to Church of an evening, were present. What had drawn them there I could not tell, for it 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 the marks of suffering were plainly to be seen on his face. There was no change in the order of the service. The usual evening prayers were repeated, the Psalms were sung, and the village schoolmaster read the lessons as he was wont to do, and yet here, too, was a suggestion of a change. A deeper note was struck, a new meaning felt. I asked myself why it was so, and wondered if the change were in me or in the people around me. The Vicar conducted the service like a man who was very weary. There was no suggestion of triumph or even conviction in his tones. He seemed to be bearing a heavy burden. When presently the hymn before the sermon was 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 his sorrow brought him hope, faith?

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

"Has it struck you, brethren, that during this ghastly war, in spite of the fact that the greater part of the world is under arms, in spite of the fact that hellish deeds are being done, in spite of the welter of blood and the unutterable carnage, that we have heard no one deny the existence of God? I thought when the war first broke out and assumed such awful proportions, when I realized the misery it was causing, that people would have doubted God, that they would have said, like the enemies of the Psalmist of old, 'Where is now thy God?' I thought that atheism 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 allowed these things.' And yet worse things have happened than we, at the commencement of the war, thought possible, but I have heard no one deny the existence of God, neither have I heard any one seriously doubt His goodness. 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. Some of 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 a Church, 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 the usual formula at the conclusion of a sermon, but he went on.

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

Again he stopped, and the people breathlessly waited, as if wondering what he would say next. To me he seemed like a man in doubt as to whether 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 the Chapel people and the Chapel people have avoided the Church. I need not say why. I am sure we shall never settle our differences by arguments or by criticisms. There has been too much of that in the past. This is a time when we need to pray, and so I am asking all the people in the parish, whether they belong to Chapel or to Church, to meet in the village schoolroom to-morrow night, to pray – to pray that God will bless our soldiers and sailors, and all who are seeking to help us to destroy this awful scourge of war, to pray for broken hearts at home, to pray that God will lead us all into His light."