"You are a good fellow, Hamlin, sound at core. I have often misjudged you in the past. Forgive me! The past, as we knew it, is dead. We will work together in the present."
Hamlin rose quickly, grasping the outstretched hand. After discussing practical details concerning the lecture, they separated. The Squire strode on to the village, much heartened. The Parson sat down at his desk to write the Sunday morning sermon. For a time, he put no pen to paper. He leaned head upon hand, thinking deeply. Out of the dump-heap which was left of his pet theories, he tried to piece together some sort of mosaic pavement upon which he could stand. It was difficult to realise the change in himself, more difficult to realise the change in the Squire. But the change had taken place. What would be the effect on his parishioners? Who would help? Who would hinder? If this war meant the regeneration and reconstruction of the world, all were involved. He thought of the dead Pope, who had passed away without exciting a ripple of excitement outside the Vatican. What part would his successor play? Would the Church of England grasp a tremendous opportunity? Would the Nonconformists gird up their loins for the spiritual battle?
Consider Armageddon how he might and did, from every point of view which presented itself to an active and prescient brain,—the material outlook of diplomatists struggling to adjust the balance of European powers, of monarchs gazing at tottering thrones, of politicians still grabbing loaves and fishes, of business men thinking of their tills, of the rank and file in all countries working apathetically for their daily bread,—this thought rose up and dominated others. To him and men like him, ardently concerned with the potentialities of souls, ordained teachers of God's Word, called upon to interpret, so far as they could, the mysterious designs of Omnipotence, the issues shone clearly forth. Evil was arrayed against Good. The pomps and vanities of the world were marshalled against the powers of the Spirit.
And, in the end, the Spirit would triumph.
He began his sermon.
The Squire, meanwhile, was approaching the Sir John Barleycorn tavern, intending to have a word with William Saint, and, later on, with Susan Yellam and others, whom he regarded as aides-de-camp. Not being a very judicious reader of character, indolently disposed (because he was so busy himself) to accept his own people as they appeared to be, he regarded William Saint as a respectable, intelligent publican, who had been an excellent servant as first footman at the Court. He counted upon William as a likely "whipper-in" in the hunt for recruits. The Boniface of the Pomfret Arms, the larger of the two Nether-Applewhite taverns, happened to be stout and scant o' breath. He seldom stirred out of his snug bar-parlour. William Saint scoured the countryside, a very energetic, enterprising fellow.
"Morning, William."
"Good morning, Sir Geoffrey."
The Squire removed his hat and wiped an ample brow. He had found Saint in the sanded tap-room, overhauling supplies. He noted the man's drab complexion, and wondered whether he consumed too much of his own beer. The publican asked his old master deferentially if he would drink a glass of ale. Time was when the Squire never refused such invitations. To-day, he declined the ale, saying trenchantly:
"No, no. We shall have to tighten our belts, William. Take my word for it. You must reckon with being hit. We shall all be hit in our purses and our stomachs."