CHAPTER XVIII.
The nearest Roman Catholic church was upwards of twenty miles away.Ivor, who was punctilious in his devotions, came down early to breakfastand had his car at the door, ready to start, by a quarter to ten. It wasa smart, expensive-looking machine, enamelled a pure lemon yellow andupholstered in emerald green leather. There were two seats--three if yousqueezed tightly enough--and their occupants were protected fromwind, dust, and weather by a glazed sedan that rose, an eleganteighteenth-century hump, from the midst of the body of the car.
Mary had never been to a Roman Catholic service, thought it would be aninteresting experience, and, when the car moved off through the greatgates of the courtyard, she was occupying the spare seat in the sedan.The sea-lion horn roared, faintlier, faintlier, and they were gone.
In the parish church of Crome Mr. Bodiham preached on 1 Kings vi. 18:"And the cedar of the house within was carved with knops"--a sermon ofimmediately local interest. For the past two years the problem of theWar Memorial had exercised the minds of all those in Crome who hadenough leisure, or mental energy, or party spirit to think of suchthings. Henry Wimbush was all for a library--a library of localliterature, stocked with county histories, old maps of the district,monographs on the local antiquities, dialect dictionaries, handbooksof the local geology and natural history. He liked to think of thevillagers, inspired by such reading, making up parties of a Sundayafternoon to look for fossils and flint arrow-heads. The villagersthemselves favoured the idea of a memorial reservoir and water supply.But the busiest and most articulate party followed Mr. Bodiham indemanding something religious in character--a second lich-gate, forexample, a stained-glass window, a monument of marble, or, if possible,all three. So far, however, nothing had been done, partly because thememorial committee had never been able to agree, partly for the morecogent reason that too little money had been subscribed to carry out anyof the proposed schemes. Every three or four months Mr. Bodiham preacheda sermon on the subject. His last had been delivered in March; it washigh time that his congregation had a fresh reminder.
"And the cedar of the house within was carved with knops."
Mr. Bodiham touched lightly on Solomon's temple. From thence he passedto temples and churches in general. What were the characteristics ofthese buildings dedicated to God? Obviously, the fact of their, froma human point of view, complete uselessness. They were unpracticalbuildings "carved with knops." Solomon might have built alibrary--indeed, what could be more to the taste of the world's wisestman? He might have dug a reservoir--what more useful in a parched citylike Jerusalem? He did neither; he built a house all carved with knops,useless and unpractical. Why? Because he was dedicating the work to God.There had been much talk in Crome about the proposed War Memorial. AWar Memorial was, in its very nature, a work dedicated to God. It was atoken of thankfulness that the first stage in the culminating world-warhad been crowned by the triumph of righteousness; it was at the sametime a visibly embodied supplication that God might not long delay theAdvent which alone could bring the final peace. A library, a reservoir?Mr. Bodiham scornfully and indignantly condemned the idea. These wereworks dedicated to man, not to God. As a War Memorial they were totallyunsuitable. A lich-gate had been suggested. This was an object whichanswered perfectly to the definition of a War Memorial: a useless workdedicated to God and carved with knops. One lich-gate, it was true,already existed. But nothing would be easier than to make a secondentrance into the churchyard; and a second entrance would need a secondgate. Other suggestions had been made. Stained-glass windows, a monumentof marble. Both these were admirable, especially the latter. It was hightime that the War Memorial was erected. It might soon be too late.At any moment, like a thief in the night, God might come. Meanwhile adifficulty stood in the way. Funds were inadequate. All should subscribeaccording to their means. Those who had lost relations in the war mightreasonably be expected to subscribe a sum equal to that which they wouldhave had to pay in funeral expenses if the relative had died while athome. Further delay was disastrous. The War Memorial must be built atonce. He appealed to the patriotism and the Christian sentiments of allhis hearers.
Henry Wimbush walked home thinking of the books he would present to theWar Memorial Library, if ever it came into existence. He took the paththrough the fields; it was pleasanter than the road. At the firststile a group of village boys, loutish young fellows all dressed in thehideous ill-fitting black which makes a funeral of every English Sundayand holiday, were assembled, drearily guffawing as they smoked theircigarettes. They made way for Henry Wimbush, touching their caps as hepassed. He returned their salute; his bowler and face were one in theirunruffled gravity.
In Sir Ferdinando's time, he reflected, in the time of his son, SirJulius, these young men would have had their Sunday diversions even atCrome, remote and rustic Crome. There would have been archery, skittles,dancing--social amusements in which they would have partaken as membersof a conscious community. Now they had nothing, nothing except Mr.Bodiham's forbidding Boys' Club and the rare dances and concertsorganised by himself. Boredom or the urban pleasures of the countymetropolis were the alternatives that presented themselves to these pooryouths. Country pleasures were no more; they had been stamped out by thePuritans.
In Manningham's Diary for 1600 there was a queer passage, he remembered,a very queer passage. Certain magistrates in Berkshire, Puritanmagistrates, had had wind of a scandal. One moonlit summer night theyhad ridden out with their posse and there, among the hills, they hadcome upon a company of men and women, dancing, stark naked, among thesheepcotes. The magistrates and their men had ridden their horses intothe crowd. How self-conscious the poor people must suddenly have felt,how helpless without their clothes against armed and booted horsemen!The dancers were arrested, whipped, gaoled, set in the stocks; themoonlight dance is never danced again. What old, earthy, Panic rite cameto extinction here? he wondered. Who knows?--perhaps their ancestors haddanced like this in the moonlight ages before Adam and Eve were so muchas thought of. He liked to think so. And now it was no more. These wearyyoung men, if they wanted to dance, would have to bicycle six miles tothe town. The country was desolate, without life of its own, withoutindigenous pleasures. The pious magistrates had snuffed out for ever alittle happy flame that had burned from the beginning of time.
"And as on Tullia's tomb one lamp burned clear, Unchanged for fifteenhundred year..."
He repeated the lines to himself, and was desolated to think of all themurdered past.