Where Highways Cross/Part 1/Chapter 5
CHAPTER V
THE VILLAGE CHAPEL
On the second Sunday after Elisabeth's arrival at the farm, Mally informed her that Mr. Hepworth was to preach at the chapel of the neighbouring village that afternoon, and invited her to be present.
"You didn't stir out o' t' house last Sunday," said Mally, "but you mun göa to-däay, my lass, for it'll do you good. T' maister's a varry high-larnt man, and I don't reckon to understand all 'at he says, mysen, but I'm sure it's good, 'cos he uses sich long words. I'll get all t' work done i' good time efter dinner and goa wi' you to hear him."
Accordingly Mally and Elisabeth set out for the village chapel early in the afternoon. The old servant was attired in her Sunday best, and was proud and pleased in consequence. She drew Elisabeth's attention to its gorgeousness as she aired each garment before the kitchen fire.
"I bowt this here gown piece," said Mally, "seven year agoöa at Cornchester fair, and I've kept it for best iver sin'. That theer jacket, now—I bowt that at t' best shop i' Sicaster when t' owd missis died. It hed crape trimmings then, but I tuke 'em off, and Polly Jones, 'at lives at Hornforth, an's larnin' t' dressmakin' at Sicaster, she's retrimmed it wi' black braid i' what she called t' milintary fashion—summat 'at t' sodgers weer, I reckon. I allus did believe i' bein' smart, you knaw. Now what do you think to my bonnet?—I've nobbut hed it fower year, so it's quite in t' fashion, as t' saying goes."
Elisabeth looked at the bonnet and said it was very nice. It was large and prodigal of design and colour, and Mally drew her attention to the fact that there were no less than eight sorts of flowers in it, to say nothing of a humming-bird perched at the top of an artificial spray of some tropical plant.
"It's a bit heavy, to be sewer," said Mally. "But Lord love ye, everybody knows 'at pride's painful. If ye want to be i' t' fashion you mun mak' up your mind to be a bit uncomfortable."
They then set out for the chapel along the road which Elisabeth had travelled with Hepworth as they returned from Sicaster after the statute-hiring fair. Mally carried a hymn-book in one hand and a clean pocket-handkerchief, scented with dried lavender, in the other. She informed Elisabeth that she had a paper of mint lozenges in her pocket, and that she never went to chapel without them.
"There's nowt like hevin' summat to suck at," she said. "When t' preycher's busy wi' his firstly and secondly I can bide, but when he comes to t' thirdly and lastly I mun hev' summat i' my mouth, or else I get fidgety. So if tha' wants a lozenge, lass, tha' mun nudge my elbow, and I'll gi' thi one."
The village chapel stood near the entrance to the long street of farmsteads and cottages, and upon a slight eminence, approached by a winding path, up which several persons were slowly climbing as Mally and Elisabeth drew near. It was a quaint, four-square erection of red brick, that had been worn to a deep colour by the rain and storm of nearly a century. Above its narrow doorway a tablet of sandstone had been cemented to the wall, apparently in readiness for an inscription which was never placed there. Before the door a tiny yard or enclosure, thickly carpeted with long grass, made an open-air vestibule to the chapel. Two or three ancient men, clad in antiquated garments of sombre hue, stood about the grass, and greeted the old servant with brotherly affection. They enquired if Mr. Hepworth was coming behind.
"He'll nooän be so long," said Mally. "I'll warrant him. Ye niver fun' him late, I know. He doesn't waste nöa time, doesn't t' maister, neyther at t' fore-end nor at t' back-end. There's some 'at comes sweeätin' an' fussin' at t' last minute, and there's some 'at's theer haäf-an-hour afore t' time, and he doesn't belong to eyther o' that lot. There's some on ye hings round this chapel-door for an hour afore t' meetin', same as if ye'd nowt to do. Why don't ye go inside and read t' hymns ower?"
With this admonition Mally passed into the chapel, followed by Elisabeth, who had never had such an experience before, and who was consequently interested in all that she heard and saw. She looked round her with curious eyes after they had taken their seats. She found herself in a square box, painted in a dull drab colour, and furnished with a hard, uncushioned seat, on which it was impossible to do otherwise than sit erect. Behind her rose four more lines of similar enclosures, with a gangway in the middle; before her lay the floor of the chapel, furnished with long, unbacked benches. Facing benches and pews stood the pulpit, a square box, approached by a short flight of stairs, and furnished with a scarlet cushion on which reposed a large Bible and a hymn-book. Everything was sombre and plain in outline and tint; the candle-sticks, socketed into the tops of the pews, were of unvarnished iron, and the candles were ordinary tallow.
The chapel was already half-filled with people, and Elisabeth regarded them with some curiosity. In the pews sat two or three men of the farmer class, in broadcloth and clean linen, with their wives and families ranged in order of precedence. Two or three old folks sat on the bench by the fire with their backs against the wall, a dozen children sat here and there on the unbacked benches; a group of shock-headed ploughboys occupied the seats under the pulpit. A little woman in a poke-bonnet and large spectacles sat amongst the children and kept them in order; her sharp eyes were now fixed through her spectacles upon her hymn-book and now over them at some delinquent who showed a disposition to misbehave. In the pews and on the benches there was a peculiar silence that seemed oppressive. Now and then somebody sighed—the long sigh of abstracted meditation. It seemed to Elisabeth that everybody had retired from the world to give themselves up in this quiet little place to reflection and dreamy thought.
Presently the old men who had been waiting his arrival at the door came in with Hepworth, followed by a number of people who had lingered outside until the hour of service was at hand. Hepworth took off his overcoat and ascended the pulpit-stairs. He gave out two lines of a hymn, and there was a rustling of hymn-books amongst the occupants of the pews. Amongst the people sitting on the benches rose an old man, one of those who had waited Hepworth's arrival at the door. He struck a tune in a high, quavering voice, and kept time to it with his hymn-book, and with swayings and contortions of his long, lean figure, that would have seemed ludicrous under other circumstances. All the folks joined in the singing, without regard to time or tune. Some of them got a bar or two in front, some lagged behind, but the old man persevered, rolling his eyes and waving his book until the final amen brought the performance to a close.
Elisabeth paid little attention to the devotional services which followed. The praying and the reading were constantly interrupted by ejaculations of praise and thanksgiving from the congregation; the hymns were sung after the fashion of the first. At last they were over, and Hepworth opened his Bible and gave out his text. Elisabeth forgot the high-backed, uncomfortable seat; she fixed her eyes on his face and wondered what he was going to say.
All that week Hepworth's mind had been fixed on one subject—the sure and inevitable detection of secret sin. There had come to his knowledge a case in which a man had committed grievous wrong against a fellow-being, whereby suffering had come to many people while the wrong-doer went free and unsuspected. Years had passed, and at length, when the wicked man thought himself safe, the bolt had fallen, and God's finger had pointed him out to the world with remorseless and clear indication of his guilt. That, said Hepworth, was justice. It was inevitable, nothing could prevent it. Men might sin, they might break law and commandment, and flatter themselves that no eye saw them and that no power could confound them, but their assurance was bound to come to naught. Sin meant death, righteousness meant life. In that there was comfort for those who had been wronged, and there was also warning for the evil-doer.
Hepworth's eyes, watching the faces of his congregation, suddenly caught sight of Elisabeth. She was leaning forward, her face betraying rapt attention, her eyes ablaze with new interest, her cheeks aglow with excitement. Hepworth paused, something in her eyes, meeting his for the moment, struck a new train of thought. He turned away from the denunciations which he had been uttering against the wicked, and began to plead for forgiveness for them, from those whom their wickedness had brought to sorrow or shame. It was, he said, the nature of man to sin, but it was his highest quality to forgive. He watched Elisabeth's face as he said this, it grew hard and cold, the light died away from it, the mouth became firm and rigid; it was evident that she was no longer interested or excited. But chancing to catch sight of her again as he wound up his exhortation by insisting on the sureness and certainty of punishment for the wicked, he saw that the eager look had returned, and that the interest was keen as before. He left the pulpit mystified. It seemed to him that for once at any rate he had preached to a soul which responded to more than half his thought.
Hepworth was to preach again at the evening service, and he remained in the village during the interval. Elisabeth and Mally returned home together, Mally full of quaint remarks as to her master's learning and the bad behaviour of the children on the benches, Elisabeth silent and thoughtful.
When Hepworth came home later in the evening he found Elisabeth laying his supper-table in the parlour. He sat down and watched her, and thought that he still perceived some signs in her face of the eagerness she had shown during the sermon in the afternoon. Presently the table preparations were completed, but Elisabeth lingered. She looked doubtfully at her master.
"I should like to ask you something, sir," she said diffidently. "It's been on my mind ever since this afternoon."
"What is it?" asked Hepworth.
"Do you believe all that you said this afternoon," she asked, regarding him with curiosity plainly shown in her eyes and face. "All of it?"
Hepworth looked at her and wondered.
"Yes, of course I do, Elisabeth," he answered. "All of it, every word."
"You are sure that all will be made plain in the end, some day, sooner or later?"
"Yes, I am sure."
Elisabeth shook her head.
"Don't you believe it?" he asked presently.
"No!" she said. "No, sir, I wish I could. I wish I could believe that those who work wickedness will be punished for it, as you say they will."
"They will," he answered. "It's sure and certain. It's a consequence—you can't have sin without punishment nor good without reward. Don't doubt it. But"—here he paused and remembered her changed expression of the afternoon—"we must forgive those who do wickedness against us."
The hard expression came into Elisabeth's face again. She shook her head decidedly.
"Good people may do that, sir," she said. "But if you had been tried—if you had seen wickedness, and felt yourself powerless to prevent it—if you saw the devil's hand in a thing, and God did nothing to stop him—what then?"
Before Hepworth could answer this question, Elisabeth picked up her tray and left the room. It seemed as though she had not so much wished for an answer as that he should reconsider his own position.