"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 in shoe 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 vain and futile was the learning of men when brought face to face with sorrow and loss. I did not feel it so much when the Vicar had come to me that morning. At the back of my mind I had felt that he, the Vicar of the parish, ought to have had means whereby he could obtain comfort. He was supposed to be the spiritual head of the parish, and professed to believe in shibboleths of Christianity; but everything was different in relation to this poor cottage woman. I felt that I, who had spent years at a seat of learning, who had pored over musty law-books and professed to know something of the ways of men, should have something to say, some message of hope to give her; but I had nothing.

"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 doc.u.ment 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 sh.e.l.ls 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d."

"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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d, '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 G.o.d! 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 superst.i.tious 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 G.o.d standing beside him, and telling him that the ship should be saved, and that in the story Paul said, 'I believe G.o.d.' 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 G.o.d answered Job out of the whirlwind? G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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-gla.s.s 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 a.s.surance 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.