IX
Where the Road Led
Over the Hills
Next morning I was a wreck. Virginia and her sister were the same.
For a week past I had realised that I was in the last stage of mental and physical disrepair. The midnight committee was the final straw.
As a rule, I stick at work in town till nerves and brain refuse to hold out another day; then, flinging my tools down, and leaving both my office desk and my study table in a hopeless and bewildering state of piled-up letters, MSS. and proofs, I just fly—a goodly bale of arrears following me by next post.
I had had practically no holiday owing to the war, and had reached that forlorn and useless frame of mind when I declared I was far too busy to take one—a very mistaken notion for anyone to have, by the way; it is surprising how well most of us can be done without when we do at last take a little time off duty!
However, I had just one faint glimmer of common sense left me, and that told me to take the first train going west next morning, which I did, leaving Paddington (in company with Virginia and Ursula, who had a holiday due to her from the hospital) in a warm close fog that might imply a thunderstorm, or an early autumn, or merely the ordinary airless carbonic-acid gloom that is a distinguishing feature of London. Some eminent authority has said that the air in London hasn’t been changed for over a hundred years, and I can quite believe it!
We found the cottage bathed in the glow of the soft sunshine that is still summer, but that brings with it the first touch of regret for the good-bye that is near at hand. There had been some soaking rains after a dry spell, and everything in the garden was holding up bright, refreshed leaves, and glowing flowers, one and all assuring me that though they had a gasping time a few weeks before, and had wondered from day to day if they could manage to hold on till the evening, things had now taken a glorious turn for the better; and they were glad they hadn’t given up, since I was so pleased to see them.
Several apologised for ragged washed-out blossoms lower down their stem, but explained that it was due to the rain, and that they were sending up new ones to take the place of the shabby ones as quickly as ever they could.
The dear things seemed to look at me with such understanding sympathy; the pansies held up their bright little faces just like a bevy of inquiring children; the hollyhocks, I am sure, turned round to look in my direction; the last of the sweet peas threw out tender little fingers to touch my arm as I passed beside their hedge; the golden rod stretched its neck and tiptoed lest I should miss it at the back of the border.
Haven’t you noticed that most flowers seem to have faces? I don’t mean that you can trace a direct resemblance to human features in them as you can in the moon; but there is something in the flowers that looks at you—something that looks at you shyly, as the wild rose; or stares at you boldly, like the marigold; or twinkles at you gaily, like the cornflower and coreopsis; or appears slightly inclined to frivolity, like the larkspur and the ragged robin; or takes life with solid seriousness, like the Canterbury bell; or gives you the innocent look of a baby, like the primrose; or beams at you with large-hearted maternal kindness, like a big gloire de Dijon.
Most flowers, you will find, give you a look with some definite characteristic—at least, so it seems to me. Probably that is one reason why they are so comforting and companionable.
And I was wanting something comforting and companionable that day. I had overworked and generally neglected the rules of common sense, till I had got to that dismal pitch that simply asks of blank space, “What’s the good of anything?”
Then more questions began to worry me.
What had Christianity accomplished, seeing the way the Sermon on the Mount was being trampled under foot by the instigators of this war? After all, wasn’t might going to win, in spite of all one believed of the supremacy of right? Wasn’t the devil having things all his own way now? What were Christians doing? Had religion lost its power? What were the churches doing? Was anybody doing anything worth whiles?
Those who have let themselves run down physically, and have neglected to take proper meals, and have turned night into day, and have tried systematically to cram a fortnight’s work into every week, know exactly where one finds oneself at the end of a few months.
And it is only the very exceptional people who do not find their spiritual condition about as jaded as their nerves after a course of this sort of thing. We get to feel that we are ploughing a very lone furrow, and it is only a step further to the state of mind that says it isn’t worth ploughing at all.
Personal experience has taught me that there is only one cure for me when I get to this state of nervous wreckage; and that is to get away to the solitudes; to listen among the great silences of the hills for the still small Voice that has never failed those who wait for its Message.
God’s methods of restoring weary humanity are many and various. Sometimes He sees that first and foremost, like Elijah, His tired children need rest and food. And just as one of the greatest terrors that can befall the worn-out worker in a city is insomnia, so one of the greatest boons that Nature in her quietudes bestows is the ability to drop off into peaceful, brain-mending oblivion.
So He giveth His beloved sleep.
Or it may be that He sees His children need to be drawn away from the world for a while, in order to talk face to face with Him. Sometimes we have to be brought to a state of great weakness before we will listen to His plea: “Come ye yourselves apart and rest awhile.” We do not always heed it when we are well and strong. In the enforced quiet we can find time to turn to Him.
And a sojourn with our Lord in the desert has meant for many the feeding of five thousand on the morrow.
When I am badly in the depths, I know of no surer way to restore my mind than a long walk across the hills. Some people need human companionship; but, personally, I can do very well by myself under such circumstances (always provided that I don’t meet a cow likewise on a walking tour). I can pull myself together more quickly if I don’t have to spend time and energy striving to be amiable and politely attentive to someone.
I have often started out on a Sunday morning, and walked on till I came upon some unknown church that served as a useful end to my pilgrimage. On one occasion I remember discovering a small chapel hidden away among a few homesteads in a pretty valley I unexpectedly tumbled into. They were starting the first hymn as I entered. There were nine of us all told, including the preacher, the two ladies who raised two different tunes simultaneously, and the rugged-faced deacon or elder, who brought me a hymnbook and, later, took the collection.
The singing was not a marked success at first, owing partly to the divided opinion of the congregation as to which tune they were really singing; moreover, my entrance had momentarily diverted attention and seemed to make all concerned a trifle nervous. But at length the preacher himself started a third tune that we all knew and were able to join in; and a very sincere and devout service followed.
I gathered from information impressed upon us in the course of the sermon (probably for my special benefit, as the handful of cottagers assembled would assuredly know) that there was to be a special collection that day on behalf of some chapel fund.
When I told this to Ursula, who didn’t then know so much about our hill-people as she does now, she said, “Ah! I suppose that was why only nine came!”
But, in reality, nine was not at all a poor congregation for a tiny hamlet like this on a Sunday morning. The mothers are mostly at home getting dinner; the fathers are seeing to the stock, and don’t reckon to get themselves “cleaned up” till the afternoon. But in the evening—then the little building would be packed to the door.
In his final prayer the minister prayed so earnestly that we might all be induced to give with the greatest liberality, that I felt exceedingly sorry I had only put a half-crown into my glove when I started out, leaving my purse at home.
The rugged elder looked studiously in the opposite direction while I slipped the coin on to the plate; somehow I hoped he wouldn’t be too disappointed when he discovered that the respectable-looking stranger had not given more handsomely after the pleading of the preacher. But it was all I had.
After the service I lingered a moment to read a quaint old tombstone in the church precincts. The rest of the worshippers likewise lingered—respectful but curious—in the road outside the gate. The preacher had shaken hands with me at the door; my rugged friend had been immersed in the duties of his office as steward, treasurer, and church secretary combined. But now he came out of the door, looked anxiously about, and seeing me still there, made straight for me. I concluded that he, too, was going to shake hands, and possibly inquire if I was staying in the neighbourhood. But what he actually said was this—
“Excuse me, ma’am, but do you happen to know what you put into the plate?”
“A half-crown,” I faltered, wondering whether by any remote chance it was a bad one.
He nodded his head, and, opening his work-hardened hand, displayed the morning’s collection—seven pennies, three halfpennies, and my half-crown on top.
“That’s right,” he nodded. And then, lowering his voice, presumably to save my feelings, he added, “But if ’twas a mistake, and you didn’t mean to put in all that, you can have it back.”
Do you know, it made a lump come in my throat.
I told Ursula about it at dinner, remarking that it looked as though they hadn’t much faith even though they had specially prayed for generous giving.
Ursula said that in her opinion it looked as though it was high time I presented to the ragbag the hat I had worn that morning, since it had been for months past a dejected object of pity, though with her usual delicacy of feeling she had, up to the present, refrained from telling me so in plain English. But now, in all kindness such as only a dear friend can show, she had no hesitation in saying that she wasn’t at all surprised that they mistook me for an old age pensioner on the verge of bankruptcy.
But I’ve been wandering again. To return to that September day when I reached the cottage as weary of life and as downhearted about everything as any mortal could well be. The whole world seemed out of joint. Yet in my innermost soul I knew that religion was really all right, and that it was I who had gone wrong. But I refused to look at that aspect of it.
Next day I determined to give it all up, and just meditated on my own funeral. I tried to reckon up how many people I could really rely on to send wreaths; it didn’t make me feel any the less pessimistic when I decided there were only four who could be counted upon as certainties, and they included Virginia and Ursula!
And even one of these failed me; for when I mentioned the matter to the girls, they said: Surely I didn’t imagine they were going to be so wasteful as to send two wreaths, when one would do quite as well if both their names appeared on the card attached? But they did offer to make it a wreath of painted-white-tin flowers, under a glass shade (regardless of expense), if I preferred, suggesting that I might get longer pleasure out of a wreath of this kind.
Getting no more consolation from them than this, I said I would go for a walk. Virginia and Ursula anticipated my wishes and declined to accompany me. They had urgent work on hand that was far too important to postpone for a mere walk. It was the planting of onion seed.
The week before we had read in the papers how imperative it was that everybody should plant food crops in any available scrap of ground they might possess, to help keep starvation at bay.
We read the article eagerly.
I had several acres of land doing nothing in particular at the moment, that I was only too glad to use for a special crop of eatables against the time of national famine. Without finishing the article, we had started to discuss what would be best to lay down, taking into account the idiosyncrasies of our digestions.
“Green peas in the small field adjoining the orchard,” Ursula had decided for me; and then she proceeded: “Broad beans in half of the upper garden; scarlet runners at the back of the strawberry beds and along by the south wall; the potato garden can now have carrots, parsnips, turnips and beets; the west garden must have pickled cabbage (I mean the cabbage before it is pickled), shallots, spring onions and pickling onions, chives——”
“What are ‘chives’?” interrupted Virginia.
“I don’t know, but I’ve read the name somewhere. Don’t interrupt me.”
“And fennel—that will come in handy for fish—and leeks. In that piece of waste ground beyond the barn I think we ought to plant asparagus, because, after all, there is no need to dispense with luxuries if you can grow them for nothing, is there?
“And how would it be to plant maize all down that bed where you had the Shirley poppies? I should think the same aspect would suit the two, and some green corn would be very nice. I suppose, if you plant it now, it will be about right in January or February, wouldn’t it? Or you could sell it. It’s twopence halfpenny or threepence a cob at the Stores. So if you had, say, fifty plants, and if each produced—how many do they produce on a plant? . . . Oh, well, if you don’t know, let’s be on the safe side and say one each—that would be a clear profit of—well, at threepence each—let’s see, fifty pence is four and twopence, and three times would be—twelve and sixpence—say twelve shillings, allowing sixpence for seed. So that would be well worth trying, in case the moratorium never ends. Then there would have to be cabbages and suchlike. How about digging up the orchard, and——”
“Oh, yes,” said Virginia scornfully (she had picked up the paper and read to the end of the aforementioned article, which had proved very enlightening). “And I suppose you expect it all to grow under a couple of feet of snow. Let me tell you that it is now too late to plant anything but onions! He, she, or it, who wrote this article, says so.”
I myself had been going to tell her, when I could get a word in, that it was too late for most of the things she had named.
But Ursula, who had never done any vegetable gardening, was still sceptical. That was why I suggested that we should consult the obliging manager at Carter’s, in Queen Victoria Street, as we often did over our gardening woes.
Just ahead of us in the shop, when we got there, was an elderly gentleman who wanted some grass seed; he asked if they would tell him how to start a lawn next spring.
It was in the middle of the day—a very busy time for a shop of this kind, when city men are on their way to or from lunch, and seize a few extra minutes to buy their seeds. The shop was full—it looked as though every scrap of land within the twelve-mile radius was going to be put under cultivation—and the assistants had all their work to serve everyone as quickly as they wanted to be served.
The Elderly Gentleman was apparently the only one who was not in a hurry; so he asked the most minute questions, and the manager gave him copious directions, from preparing the ground at the start, right up to marking it off for tennis, when it was in its prime (though, judging by the small packet of seed the E. G. had bought, the lawn would never support a tennis-net).
Then by the time the shop was quite packed, and when everything that was possible appeared to have been said about planting and maintaining a lawn—including keeping it free from moss, the best way to trim the edges, the law with regard to trespassing fowls, and the careful tying of black cotton over the newly-planted seeds to keep off the birds—the E. G. asked what he should do when daisies came up? The manager said patiently that his firm’s grass seeds didn’t produce daisies; but as the E. G. seemed to worry about daisies, he was told how to get rid of daisies.
At last he really went, reluctantly, I admit; but the other customers—who had all become so engrossed in his lawn that they couldn’t remember what they had come in to buy for themselves—heaved a sigh of relief.
Slowly he made his way to the middle of the wide crossing just in front of the shop. You knew by his hesitating walk that there was another question he had meant to ask, but he couldn’t recall it for the moment.
Yes! He suddenly turned round briskly (and nearly ended the lawn under a taxi), the shop-door opened again, and an anxious voice inquired, “What ought I to do if the birds get at the seeds in spite of the black cotton and the bits of white rag tied to them?”
The manager passed his hand across what looked like an aching brow, and further braced himself to do his duty; but a gentleman customer came to the rescue by replying, “It is usual, in such a case, sir, to buy another packet of grass seed, and start all over again on exactly the same lines as before, only you plant an extra reel of black cotton this time.”
After this we were able to inquire of the manager what crops he would advise us to plant as our contribution to the nation’s larder, to say nothing of our own.
“Onions,” he said, so promptly that one would have thought others had asked the same question. And then added—“Giant Rocca.”
I am not sure how many pounds of seed Ursula immediately ordered; she proposed to make it a present to me, and naturally wished to be generous. Virginia says she believes she heard her say a half-a-hundredweight. Anyhow, the obliging manager asked, with a slight cough, how large a portion of ground we were intending to cultivate, as half an ounce would be sufficient for—I forget how many acres! So she reduced her order to half a pound. She said she didn’t want us to run short. (I don’t fancy we shall, either!) Besides, she rather liked the name “Giant Rocca.” It suggested something large and strengthening wherewith to combat the foe.
We hadn’t a moment’s rest after we arrived at the cottage until the onion seed was well underground. Ursula decided that it would be really a blessing if I would go out—she could then plant in peace.
The handy man being unable to “oblige” me by doing a little work just then, she had decided to plant the seeds herself.
At first she had made long troughs in which to place the seed, sprinkling it very finely with thumb and finger; but after half an hour of this spine-breaking work she straightened her back with difficulty, and decided that to “sow broadcast” was more in accordance with Nature herself, to say nothing of Biblical teaching. Hence we had it broadcast.
Here I may say that we eventually had Giant Roccas sown the length and breadth of the vegetable garden, in between the rows of spring greens, as well as in open spaces; also they are sending up their spears between rows of snapdragons; round standard rose-trees; in the beds usually devoted to Darwin tulips; down the narrow bed that has Persian irises in the centre and double daisies at the edge; in the rough bed of foxgloves at the back of the pigsty, along the edge of the borders where sweet alyssum bloomed in the summer; under the damson tree where the ground is bare; along by the south wall, where the sweet pea remains were pulled up to make room for them; among the raspberry canes; all over the potato-patch; along with the carnation cuttings in the cold frame; in little dibbles among the strawberry plants; and I even found a few pots, each with a bit of glass over the top, placed in the sunny scullery window, which also proved to be “Giant Roccas,” in case we should run short indoors.
When all these Roccas have attained to their gigantic proportions, I fancy we shall be able to scent that garden a mile or two away!
Still, the onions were only being planted the day I set out for a walk, wandering just where the road might chance to lead me. But you have to take yourself with you, if you go for a walk, and it is some time before you can get away from yourself—if you can make out what I mean by this.
I merely walked on and on, looking at the blackbirds gobbling down the red mountain ash berries, till one gasped at their stowing-away capacity; at the swallows practising their long sweeping flights preparatory to leaving us; at the ferns growing out of the shady side of the walls; at a great patch of rich purple in the corner of a field—that turned out to be a widespread tangle of flowering vetch; at the beautiful colour effect of massed heliotrope Michaelmas daisies against the grey-green background of a mossy fern-decked old stone wall; at the harebells swinging in the wind; at the late foxgloves, still poking beautiful spikes of colour through the hedges; at the blackberries trailing over everything; at the butterflies still flitting about, or resting motionless with outspread wings where they found a warm sunny stone, or gorging themselves to repletion on some over-ripe pears that had fallen by the roadside. There were several lovely creatures with blue-black wings marked with red, white and a little blue, who, like the wasps, were actually intoxicated with pear juice!
A fox slunk across the road right in front of me, and plunged into a wood; probably having the time of his life just now, with most of the hunt somewhere in France.
The springs were coming to life again, after the heavy rain, and water burbled along at the side of the lane, or tumbled out from the rocks at the roadside in tiny waterfalls.
The orchard trees were flecked all over with gold, or pale yellow, or bright crimson—surely we never had a more abundant apple year than this one.
It was such a wonderful afternoon: I was bound to go on wandering.
At last I came to the end of the lanes and found myself on an open hilltop. As the fresh bracing air met me full in the face, I began to feel hungry. I looked at my watch: it was five o’clock. I looked at the landscape, and realised that, though I didn’t know where I was, I was certainly miles away from any tea.
I paused and considered: Should I carefully retrace my steps? That always seems a poor-spirited way of getting home again, even though you are lost! On all sides stretched an expanse of hilly country, grey lichen-covered boulders, yellow-flowered gorse, wiry mauve and purple heather, and a wealth of green, and bronze, and golden tinted bracken, with occasional woods and larch plantations. There was a general hum of bees and insects in the air, and a pheasant rose from the ground close to me and flew with a whirr into a little coppice near by.
A sign-board was lying on the ground by the gate leading into the coppice. It was the worse for wind and weather, but one could still read the alarming warning, “Trespassers will be prosecuted!” Who would trespass, and who would prosecute, on that wild bit of moorland, I wonder? The only being in sight was a rabbit, sitting motionless close beside the prostrate notice and studying me silently with the air of a special constable! Yet even he went off and left me quite alone.
At that moment I caught sight of a chimney over the spur of the hill. I felt convinced it must be attached to a fireplace, and surely there would be a kettle on that fire. I made a bee-line for the place.
To the eye of the town-dweller, hill and moorland distances are apt to be deceptive; the house proved to be much farther off than I had at first imagined. But this gave added zest to expedition; I determined to reach it though I only arrived in time to put up there for the night. A nearer view showed the cottage to be the fag-end of a small hamlet lying snugly in the protecting hollow of the hills.
When I actually entered the village, there were so many pretty dwellings, and they all looked equally inviting, that I was undecided where to open an attack. However, I settled on one that had a couple of hollyhocks, some late pinks, and a black-currant bush growing out of the top of the garden wall, while a free-and-easy grape-vine, a tall monthly rose, and some clematis waved arms of welcome to me from the front of the cottage.
Just as I approached the gate, a pleasant-faced woman came out of the door and walked down the garden path between the French marigolds that edged the flower-beds. She was the only sign of life in the place (apart from a few belated hens, who, being averse to early rising, I suppose, had determined to take time by the forelock, and were catching the historic early worm overnight).
I felt that the good lady’s appearance was a distinct indication that Fate had decided I must have my tea there. Nevertheless, there were signs that she was bound on some important errand; instead of the ordinary sun-bonnet or battered hat that is the usual weekday headgear among our hills, she had donned a carefully-brushed though somewhat rusty black bonnet, and a black beaded mantle of unquestionable antiquity, both worn with the air of her Sunday best.
“Good evening,” I began. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but I wonder if you can tell me where——”
“Th’ chapel?” replied the woman before I could finish my sentence. “Why, of course you can’t find ’un. But you jes’ come ’long wi’ me. I’m going there meself, an’ though we’m a bit late, it don’t matter; my man’ll be keeping a seat fur me, and ther’ll be room, sure ’nough, for ’ee to squeeze in too. I do al’ays tell ’un our chapel didn’t oughter belong where ’tis. No place o’ worship was ever more hid out o’ road than ourn. Yet my man do say ’tis clear ’nough to see ’un if you’m comin’ ’long the lower road; for there ’tis all to once. But as I say to him, the folk don’t all a-come down ’long the lower road; an’ if you come up ’long, why, there’s no chapel to be seen, and then where’m you to? What I do say is, the way o’ salvation oughter be so plain that th’ wayfarin’ man, though a fool, can’t lose un. An’ now here be you to prove me very words!”
The good soul was all this time trotting energetically along what I concluded could not be the lower road, since no chapel was in view. I just followed, wondering what would happen next! Meanwhile my companion talked, with scarcely comma-pause for breath.
“But I’m glad I happen to be late, or you might ha’ been wanderin’ around till you’re all mizzy-mazed. Soon as I saw you comin’ up ’long, I said to father—I was jes’ settlin’ ’im comfor’ble for th’ night—‘Father,’ I said, ‘here’s a lady a-lookin’ fur the chapel, sure ’nough. I shuden wonder a bit but what she’s come to speak at th’ meeting. Like as not she’s a friend of the minister, an’ ’pears she’s lost.’ I suppose you belong to London, ma’am?” This with a glance all over me to make sure there was no local hall-mark.
“My home is in London,” I replied, “but just at present I’m staying at Woodacres.”
“You’ve walked all the way from Woodacres?” she exclaimed.
“Yes; and I’m terribly hungry,” I said, hurriedly seizing my chance.
At this the kind hospitable soul was most concerned, and insisted on our turning into a relative’s house which we were passing at the moment. The door stood open, though the place seemed to be deserted.
“Myra,” she called out. A girl came downstairs with some pocket-handkerchiefs in her hand which she appeared to be marking in red. There was a hurried whisper in a back room, and quickly she brought in a glass of milk and some bread and butter—for which I was truly thankful.
“The lady do look wisht,” my companion explained to the girl. “She’s walked from Woodacres to hear the minister from London. She lost her way, and so didn’t get in time for the tea-meeting.”
I was interested in this item of information about myself, but decided to let the unexpected situation develop as it pleased.
We were soon walking along the road again, my companion talking the whole time. Myra was her niece, going to Bristol next week to start in a draper’s shop. “She says ’tisn’t stylish nowadays to let folks think as you does your washing yourself, so she’s making sort o’ red oughts and crosses in the corner, that the other girls ’ll think as the washin’ was put out. Put out, indeed!”—with utter scorn of voice—“‘Isn’t it all put out?’ I asks her. How could they dry ’un else? I’ve no patience with such fangels—that I haven’t! And isn’t this war dreadful? I see in the paper I was a-readin’ to father that that Kayser do call it a righteous war. A righteous war—when he don’t even leave off a-fighting of a Sunday!”
Just then we turned a corner, and the maligned chapel certainly burst into view “all to once.”
The first thing to attract attention, as we neared the modest building, was a large board above the front entrance, displaying the words “Revival Meetings” in bold white letters pasted on a red turkey twill background.
A hymn was progressing when we entered; a seat had been reserved for the cottager by her husband, and had been left in charge of his hat (turned upside down and holding a red pocket-handkerchief covered with large white spots), while he himself distributed hymn books with backs all suffering from spinal complaint in a more or less acute form.
By dint of energetic compression on the part of the good-natured occupants of the pew, room was made for me as well as for my companion, the owner of the hat electing to stand in the aisle, as became a pillar of the church; the conspicuous crease adorning each trouser-leg and the back of his black coat proclaimed them his best clothes, and gave additional evidence that the meeting was of more than ordinary weekday importance.
The place was packed to its utmost capacity. I decided that I had never in my whole life heard a harmonium more asthmatically out of tune and at the same time I wished that the lamps (which were economically turned down, daylight being still visible) could only be raised, since the odour of paraffin was not a refreshing ingredient to add to the air of the already close room. For on our hills, as in other places where fresh air is most abundant, ventilation is the least among the virtues practised by the natives.
The congregation took some slight adjustment before all managed to wedge themselves into the seats after the hymn. The general shuffle and scuffle having subsided, a man on the platform addressed the assembly.
“I am sorry to say our brother has not yet arrived.”
The glow of expectancy on the faces of the people suddenly vanished.
“We think he has made a mistake over the time of commencement; possibly he imagines it is seven instead of six o’clock; but he is certainly coming, or he would have telegraphed——”
The disappointed ones looked hopeful again.
“Two friends have driven off to meet him”—many heads craned round in the direction of the door, though the honoured pair were now a couple of miles away—“and they will doubtless bring him along as quickly as possible. I think we may safely rely on him being here in about half an hour.” All eyes now scanned the face of the clock. “In the meanwhile, we will hold a short Testimony meeting; and perhaps Brother Wilson will first of all lead us in prayer.”
The man with the hymn-books, standing in the aisle, responded. Without a moment’s halt or hesitation he poured forth a torrent of mingled appeal, confession, praise and request. He touched on their week of services, on themselves as a church, on the village and (according to his view) its state of spiritual darkness; then he went further afield and dealt with the whole of England, the sailors on our warships, and the soldiers on the battlefields. This thought led him to mention the Colonies, the missionaries labouring in foreign lands; and then he prayed for the heathen who lived so far away that no missionary had yet reached them. He concluded with a plea for all backsliders and a pæan of gratitude for those who were saved.
The congregation followed the long prayer intently, punctuating every remark with “Amen,” and many other expressions of assent, uttered devoutly though fervently.
Then the one who presided asked all who had received a blessing that week to testify to the others of the great things that had befallen them. He sat down. After a pause of but half a minute, a woman rose, saying in a quiet voice—
“I feel I ought to take the earliest opportunity of telling how good God has been to me. I came to these meetings as hopeless as any human being could very well be; but God has lifted the load from my soul; and now, although I cannot see any light ahead, He has shown me He is near, and I am content to walk by faith. And I know the light will come soon.”
She sat down, and the only sound that broke the stillness was the voice of the chairman—
“Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in Him; and He shall bring it to pass.”
A decrepit old man next hobbled to his feet. His voice was feeble; but the peaceful look on his wrinkled face, and the light that shone in his eyes, carried wonderful conviction with them. He was somewhat diffuse, but dwelt on all the goodness that had fallen to his lot through life, and his eager anticipation of the call that should summon him Home.
When once the ice was broken, the people followed one another as fast as they could. An elderly woman sitting next to me rose to her feet, steadying herself by holding on to the pew in front with her work-worn hands, for she was trembling. She spoke in a hesitating manner; yet what she said had infinite pathos in it. Would they remember in their prayers the lads who were fighting so far away, some out of reach of any services like these, that they might not forget the God of their father and mother, and that they might be brought back safely to the old home again.
And the poor woman, who was evidently much overwrought, just sat down and hid her face in her handkerchief. I couldn’t help putting my hand over hers in sympathy.
There were many other bowed heads in the meeting by then—old, careworn women as well as younger ones, old men in plenty, but so few young fellows.
“Let us pray,” said the chairman. All eyes were closed. There was a slight pause, and then another voice full of wonderful restfulness sent up a prayer to the Great Comforter on behalf of all the mothers and fathers present, who night and day were longing for their sons’ return, and for the wives who with aching hearts were hungering for news of the absent loved ones. The prayer was very simple and unconventional, just the asking of a boon from a Friend. But the speaker understood the heartbreaks that were in those suppressed sobs, and his words brought comfort to many a lonely one that night.
When he ceased, the lamps were all raised, and there on the rostrum was one of the greatest—if not the greatest—of the preachers of our times.
“The minister from London” had arrived.
I was amazed when I saw him there—a man who preached every Sunday to congregations numbering several thousands; whose name was the most powerful attraction that could be found for a May meeting poster or a Convention programme; a theologian whose lectures and writings were followed with the closest attention by hundreds of students.
As he stood up in that small village chapel, the first thought that came into my mind was something like this: What a waste to have such a big man at a small meeting like this when he could easily fill Albert Hall; and in any case he will probably be right above their heads; he is far too scholarly for these simple-minded uneducated people. He will be quite lost on them.
What I forgot was the fact that after all it is the Message that counts in such a case.
The famous preacher had a Message for humanity; and he was great enough to be able to deliver it in a way that would be understood by anyone, rich or poor, educated or illiterate. And he was wise enough to know that he might be doing a big work in speaking to that handful of people in that remote corner of England, seeing that a chance visit had brought him into the vicinity; therefore, when they had asked him if he would speak at the revival meetings they were holding, he had consented at once; and I was not the only one who had reason to be grateful to God for the preacher’s words that night; mine was not the only heavy heart that had come into the little chapel badly in need of an uplift; I was not the only one who felt almost alone in a losing cause, with all the old-time beliefs tottering.
He read from Revelation vii. in the Revised Version:
After these things I saw, and behold, a great multitude, which no man could number, out of every nation, and of all tribes and peoples and tongues, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, arrayed in white robes, and palms in their hands; and they cry with a great voice, saying, Salvation unto our God which sitteth on the throne, and unto the Lamb. . . .
And one of the elders answered, saying unto me, These which are arrayed in the white robes, who are they, and whence came they? And I say unto him, My lord, thou knowest. And he said to me, These are they which come out of the great tribulation, and they washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. Therefore are they before the throne of God; and they serve Him day and night in His temple: and He that sitteth on the throne shall spread His tabernacle over them. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun strike upon them, nor any heat: for the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall be their Shepherd, and shall guide them unto fountains of waters of life: and God shall wipe away every tear from their eyes.
There was a moment’s silence as he closed his Bible. And then he began to talk to the little crowd before him—not about the war, but about much that the war is bringing, trouble, sorrow, suffering, anxiety—great tribulation indeed.
I am not going to make any attempt to give you his sermon: merely to take isolated sentences from a man’s address, and set them down in cold print, deprived of the added strength and meaning that voice and tone and emphasis and context convey, is usually most unsatisfactory.
But I wish you could have been there and seen the tense eager look on every face, as he took us quickly and concisely over the great crises that have befallen humanity in bygone ages, when it has seemed again and again as though Christianity has been dealt a staggering blow—and yet in every case the result has been the ultimate triumph of God, and the building up of His people.
He reminded us how the darkest day in the world’s history, when our Lord’s death seemed to end all hope, all promise of His Kingdom, was in reality the day of the greatest victory.
But I cannot give even a summary of his address; I can only tell you of the effect it had upon me, and I think there were many others to whom Light came in a strangely vivid manner that evening.
It seemed as though I was suddenly taken right out of my own small petty troubles, and shown a bigger view of the world than I had ever seen in my widest imaginings before. Things that had been perplexing, bewildering before, seemed to fit in quite naturally into a huge plan that was making for the ultimate good of humanity. But more than all this, there suddenly came that enheartening sense of being no longer a unit, no longer one of a small company fighting against overwhelming odds; I was now one of a huge army that had been marching on through all time, an army that will still be adding and adding to its numbers, so long as the world shall last.
I seemed to hear the trampling of the feet, the great surge of the voices as they sang the old yet ever new anthem—
“Salvation unto our God which sitteth on the throne, and unto the Lamb. Blessing, and glory, and wisdom, and thanksgiving, and honour, and power, and might, be unto our God for ever and ever.”
Here was no room for doubt; no question as to ultimate results; no misgivings; no apprehensions. The final victory did not rest with me; but I was privileged to take part in it if I was willing to endure any hardships or tribulation that might happen by the way. And even these seemed so slight, not to be mentioned beside the joy of the great triumph that was surely ahead.
The Vision comes to us all differently, at different times, in a different manner; but assuredly I had a glimpse then of the things that are outside our everyday ken. I knew for an absolute certainty that I was one of the greatest army that can ever be mustered; I knew for an absolute certainty that God is leading this army, and that with Him there is no possibility of failure, and that finally He will permit evil to be banished and Good will prevail. I realised that any afflictions we are called upon to bear here are but for a moment. Nothing can hinder the progress of the great multitude that no man can number—Christ’s followers through all the ages. In spite of all the tribulation—because of the tribulation—they reach His throne at last, and worship Him, while He wipes away the tears that may have gathered by the way.
My thoughts had journeyed far away from the little chapel and its earnest worshippers. I was recalled by the preacher’s voice reciting his closing sentence—
“And I saw, and I heard a voice of many angels round the throne . . . and the number of them was ten thousand times ten thousand, and thousands of thousands; saying, with a great voice, Worthy is the Lamb that hath been slain to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and might, and honour, and glory, and blessing.”
We stood up to sing the concluding hymn—one that has for long been a great favourite of mine—