Part 48 (1/2)
”You might let Jane Mucklow do it, or Uncle.”
”Susan Yellam is my paris.h.i.+oner. G.o.d's hand lies heavy on her--how heavy I am unable to determine. I have never felt, Pomfret, so conscious of my disabilities, of anaemic faith in such cases as this.”
The Squire stood confounded.
”I wish I had your faith, Hamlin.”
”What is faith?” asked Hamlin, almost fiercely. ”Is it merely a belief that satisfies and helps oneself? The faith that burned in the Apostles was more than that. It saved others. Virtue, at a touch, went out of the faithful into the faithless. If I could touch this poor old woman----!”
”You will,” said the Squire, with a.s.surance.
”No. And that is why I wish that I could be spared another--failure.”
Soon afterwards he left the Vicarage, and, pa.s.sing the church, paused a moment. He went in and stood near the Font, staring at the Christmas decorations and then at the Pomfret achievements emblazoned upon many of the windows. The decorations served to remind the smallest child in his congregation that another Child had been born into the world; the achievements reminded the more sophisticated of the Pomfrets who had died. The Child had been born to save others; the Pomfrets, many of them worthy, G.o.d-fearing persons, had been mainly concerned in preserving their own bodies and souls.
”He saved others; Himself He cannot save.”
The wonderful line came into his mind, as his thoughts dwelt upon the millions of seemingly righteous, respectable men and women bent on saving their own souls, with but little regard for the souls of others.
The Salvation Army, so derided and condemned by Church and State when he was a boy, had accomplished work which could not be ignored by priest and prelate, work undertaken by labourers with no outs.h.i.+ning qualifications except faith in their ability to convince others, others as humble in condition as themselves, who stood, for the most part, beyond the pale of organised charity and richly-endowed religious denominations.
Did this war, in relation to such thoughts, a.s.sume a new significance?
Could regeneration, reconstruction come from below, from the ma.s.ses, for example, out of which General Booth had enlisted his soldiers? Would a privilege, the n.o.blest in the world, the sacrosanct prerogative to touch others to finer issues, emanate from the unprivileged? Hamlin could not answer the question. Or, as seemed more likely, would light s.h.i.+ne from above, from a purified aristocracy, purged of self-interest by sacrifice, proud and eager to remove intolerable burdens from their less fortunate fellow-men? Or, a happier hypothesis than either, would the complex problem be solved by co-operation of ma.s.ses and cla.s.ses made one by sorrow and suffering, born anew through blood and tears? It might well be so.
He left the church, and walked through the village. Much rain had fallen. He noticed that the Avon was swollen, and ready to overflow its banks. The wind blew cold upon his cheeks. The sun moved behind heavy clouds ready to discharge vast acc.u.mulations of moisture. In short, a raw, drizzling day, one of the last of an unhappy year.
When Hamlin reached the cottage, a small girl, who came in during the morning to do house-work, the scrubbing and cleaning so dear to Susan, told the Parson that Mrs. Yellam was upstairs. She believed that Mrs.
Alfred had pa.s.sed a nice night. The baby was doing ”lovely.”
Susan appeared within a minute. A glance at Hamlin's face was enough for her. In silence he took her hand and pressed it.
”You has news of Alferd, sir?”
Her voice was perfectly calm, calmer than his.
”I have a letter from his Commanding Officer. Sit down, and read it.”
They were alone in the parlour. The antimaca.s.sars had been taken from the big Bible and replaced. But no fire burned in the grate. To Hamlin the room stood for all that he detested and a.s.sailed in English life and character. In its humble way, it positively exuded pretension. The carpet, a crudely-coloured body Brussels, the ornaments on the mantel-shelf, the enlarged photographs, the horse-hair and mahogany furniture, the prim bookcase, glazed and glaringly varnished, imprisoning, under lock and key, books that n.o.body read or could read, the mirror, the velveteen curtains with imitation lace under-curtains, all had been bought to impress neighbours! It was pathetic to reflect that Mrs. Yellam thought this hideous parlour a thing of beauty, whereas her kitchen, a joy to behold, was merely regarded as utilitarian. And yet the kitchen expressed sincerely all that was finest in Mrs. Yellam; the parlour set forth blatantly the defects of her strong personality.
She read the letter.
”May I keep it, sir?”
”Yes. Colonel Tring tells us, Mrs. Yellam, what we all know here. Alfred was a son to be proud of.”
Her face remained impa.s.sive. She agreed respectfully that it would be unwise to tell Fancy the truth till some measure of strength returned to her. Hamlin had thought out a score of simple sentences. He said none of them. In all his long life he had never realised so acutely the illimitable s.p.a.ce which may divide two human beings. At this moment Parson and Paris.h.i.+oner stood far apart as the poles. He had intended to allude to his own son. But she might fling in his teeth the cutting reminder that he had others and a daughter. And in this cold, ugly room, looking upon her frozen face, sympathy congealed at its source. He withheld condolence, because it must hurt instead of help. In silence he commended her soul to G.o.d, and went away.
Mrs. Yellam unlocked her bra.s.s-cornered desk, and placed the letter amongst other papers. Then, idly, she looked out of the window, which faced the road and river. Before Hamlin came, she had stood at the window upstairs, staring out upon the same familiar landscape. And she had asked for a sign. She had looked at the heavy clouds even as Fancy had looked at her cards. If light shone through them, she might believe that for her spring and summer would bloom again.