Small wonder that he could not write poetry. Poetry! There was no meaning in life if God were not—no reasonable end, no conceivable beginning, nothing worth while. Arnold might grub about with his science; Paul sought the spirit of things. And when he turned to Tressor, the don utterly failed him.
It was odd, Paul thought, how entirely he failed him. Paul was coming daily to love more and more this kindly pleasant man, but he was beginning to see joints in his harness. The three of them would talk of an evening, for Paul could not do otherwise, and he would drag a somewhat unwilling Manning into it; but Tressor answered the younger man not at all. He clung to a refuge that was not yet, at any rate, storm-proof for Paul. Logic, said Tressor, failed at a point. The heart of man universally had need of God, and it would not crave if there was nothing to crave for. Tressor relied on intuition and instinct. Instinct and intuition, said Manning, were the result of training and environment. Psychology could dissect and label both, almost as easily as physiology the bones and muscles of a man. There was mystery before and behind, said Tressor, but God was fatherly, and in the end the weary soul would fall back upon His heart and rest.
"Sir," Manning cried one evening, goaded for once out of his habitual calm, "if your principles had been applied in science, man would be still in the Stone Age!"
Tressor had flicked an eyelid and looked hurt. He had shortly gone off to his study, and Manning had as shortly gone after him to apologise. He had returned a little flushed. "He's a jolly good chap," he said to Paul. "It's beastly of me to hurt his feelings."
Feelings! As if, Paul thought, feelings mattered. He walked bareheaded in the avenue and stood on the edge of the sleeping lake, and he cried out of the depths of his tortured soul to God. One syllable of an answer, one solitary sign out of the still night, one resolute conviction even, if God preferred that secret way, among the changing shifting doubts that racked his soul, and he would be ready to drink any kind of cup and be baptized with any baptism.
(5)
Tacked on to the very house, was a peculiar feature of the place. The parish church was also the private chapel. The parish had dwindled all but to the inhabitants of the park and grounds, and one clergyman served Fordham and held as well the living of the considerable village that lay beyond; but, occasionally, once a month for each service, Communion was celebrated, Evensong sung, so near to them that it was difficult even for unsympathetic guests not to go. Besides, Tressor liked one to go, and that was enough for Manning and Paul.
The last Sunday in the month, then, Paul went to Evensong. All the servants were there: dear old Mrs. Bird in a bonnet that tinkled with jet, with service-books the treasured gifts of her master; Timothy, for the most part crouched in his pew, expressionless; Rider, precise and understanding; the maids, strange in Sunday outdoor garments. The three friends occupied a pew discreetly not in the front, flatteringly not too far behind. And Mr. Prideaux took the service and preached.
There had, it appeared, but lately been a serious controversy in the Church. A dean had preached at Westminster on the earlier chapters of Genesis, had depreciated their historic value, and had welcomed the teachings of Professor Darwin. A bishop had retorted in the Guardian, and Catholic-minded clergy taken the matter up in the Church Times. The Record had said that it had long told the public that this would be the result of ... And so on.
Mr. Prideaux, an able, energetic, zealous man, preached upon the subject. He believed in dealing with subjects of current interest, besides (though he did not say so), unless you are very High Church, the month of August is singularly desert in regard to festivals. He may also have thought that here his small select congregation did at any rate contain a proportion of listeners who would be more interested in such matters than the average villager. And he was quite right in a sense.