"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 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 pa.s.sage from the Psalms: "The fool hath said in his heart, there is no G.o.d." When he had read the pa.s.sage, 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 h.e.l.lish 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 G.o.d? I thought when the war first broke out and a.s.sumed such awful proportions, when I realized the misery it was causing, that people would have doubted G.o.d, that they would have said, like the enemies of the Psalmist of old, 'Where is now thy G.o.d?' I thought that atheism would have lifted its head again and uttered its desolating cry; that men would have said, 'If there is a G.o.d, 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d. 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.

"G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d will lead us all into His light."

He made a long pause here, and we wondered what was to come next. Then suddenly turning his face, as was his custom, he repeated the formula:

"And now to G.o.d the Father, G.o.d the Son, and G.o.d the Holy Ghost, be all honor, power, and dominion, world without end. Amen."

The little service was at an end. Quietly we left the old building and found our way into the churchyard. As I reached the gates, I felt a hand upon 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 out to-night."

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

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

"I see what you mean," said the old man. "For that matter Trelaske never could preach; and, mind you, I have been as bitter against dissent as any man, but--but he has done more for religion to-night than he has done 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 a joke.

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

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

"Quite sure, thank you."

I wandered slowly back to my little house, thinking of what the Vicar had said. Yes, he was quite right. Never, during the beginning of the war, had I heard any one deny the existence of G.o.d. It might seem as if there were no G.o.d at all, when one remembered the deeds that had been done; yet no one seemed to doubt that G.o.d 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 judged that 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 I could. "He sent me his photograph in his lieutenant's uniform. Have you seen 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 see it."

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

"You mean----?"

"I mean, would you have the Germans work their will, and dominate the world by material forces? Would you have had them glorify militarism, and set a war-G.o.d upon a pinnacle to worship? Would you have Europe accept the teaching of Treitschke and Nietzsche as the gospel of the future, while we did nothing?"

At this he was silent.

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

"No, I did not go."