"Oh, Mr. Erskine," she said. "Will 'ee come in a minute? I 'ave somethin' to tell 'ee."
"What is it, Mrs. Rosewarn?" I had seen her once or twice at the Chapel, and knew that her husband was a local preacher.
"Ain't 'ee heered, my deear?"
"Heard what?" I asked.
"About my deear boy. He's killed, my deear."
"Killed?" I said.
"Yes, my deear. They Germans 'ave killed 'im."
Never did I hear such pathos in a human voice. There was no bitterness, no anger, no suggestion of vengeance in her voice, but there was pathos, deep unutterable pathos.
"'E was a deear, deear boy," she went on. "No better boy ever stepped in shoe leather. 'Is father were ter'ble against 'is goin' as a sojer, but 'e would go, and now 'e is dead."
What could I say? What comfort could I give to this poor bruised, breaking heart? Never did I realize, as I did at that moment, how vain and futile was the learning of men when brought face to face with sorrow and loss. I did not feel it so much when the Vicar had come to me that morning. At the back of my mind I had felt that he, the Vicar of the parish, ought to have had means whereby he could obtain comfort. He was supposed to be the spiritual head of the parish, and professed to believe in shibboleths of Christianity; but everything was different in relation to this poor cottage woman. I felt that I, who had spent years at a seat of learning, who had pored over musty law-books and professed to know something of the ways of men, should have something to say, some message of hope to give her; but I had nothing.