PROBABLY, Eddy decided, after working for a week in Southwark, the thing to be was a clergyman. Clergymen get their teeth into something; they make things move; you can see results, which is so satisfactory. They can point to a man, or a society, and say, “Here you are; I made this. I found him a worm and no man, and left him a human being,” or, “I found them scattered and unmoral units, and left them a Band of Hope, or a Mothers’ Union.” It is a great work. Eddy caught the spirit of it, and threw himself vigorously into men’s clubs and lads’ brigades, and boy scouts, and all the other organisations that flourished in the parish of St. Gregory, under the Reverend Anthony Finch and his assistant clergy. Father Finch, as he was called in the parish, was a stout, bright man, shrewd, and merry, and genial, and full of an immense energy and power of animating the inanimate. He had set all kinds of people and institutions on their feet, and given them a push to start them and keep them in motion. So his parish was a live parish, in a state of healthy circulation. Father Finch was emphatically a worker. Dogma and ritual, though certainly essential to his view of life, did not occupy the prominent place given to them by, for instance, his senior curate, Hillier. Hillier was the supreme authority on ecclesiastical ceremonial. It was he who knew, without referring to a book, all the colours of all the festivals and vigils; and what cere-cloths and maniples were; it was he who decided how many candles were demanded at the festal evensong of each saint, and what vestments were suitable to be worn in procession, and all the other things that lay people are apt to think get done for themselves, but which really give a great deal of trouble and thought to some painstaking organiser.
Hillier had genial and sympathetic manners with the poor, was very popular in the parish, belonged to eight religious guilds, wore the badges of all of them on his watch-chain, and had been educated at a county school and a theological college. The junior curate, James Peters, was a jolly young cricketer of twenty-four, and had been at Marlborough and Cambridge with Eddy; he was, in fact, the man who had persuaded Eddy to come and help in St. Gregory’s.
There were several young laymen working in the parish. St. Gregory’s House, which was something between a clergy house and a settlement, spread wide nets to catch workers. Hither drifted bank clerks in their leisure hours, eager to help with clubs in the evenings and Sunday school classes on Sundays. Here also came undergraduates in the vacations, keen to plunge into the mêlée, and try their hands at social and philanthropic enterprises; some of them were going to take Orders later, some were not; some were stifling with ardent work troublesome doubts as to the object of the universe, others were not; all were full of the generous idealism of the first twenties. When Eddy went there, there were no undergraduates, but several visiting lay workers.
Between the senior and junior curates came the second curate, Bob Traherne, an ardent person who belonged to the Church Socialist League. Eddy joined this League at once. It is an interesting one to belong to, and has an exciting, though some think old-fashioned, programme. Seeing him inclined to join things, Hillier set before him, diplomatically, the merits of the various Leagues and Guilds and Fraternities whose badges he wore, and for which new recruits are so important.
“Anyone who cares for the principles of the Church,” he said, shyly eager, having asked Eddy into his room to smoke one Sunday evening after supper, “must support the objects of the G.S.C.” He explained what they were, and why. “You see, worship can’t be complete without it—not so much because it’s a beautiful thing in itself, and certainly not from the æsthetic or sensuous point of view, though of course there’s that appeal too, and particularly to the poor—but because it’s used in the other branches, and we must join up and come into line as far as we conscientiously can.”
“Quite,” said Eddy, seeing it. “Of course we must.”
“You’ll join the Guild, then?” said Hillier, and Eddy said, “Oh, yes, I’ll join,” and did so. So Hillier had great hopes for him, and told him about the F.I.S., and the L.M.G.
But Traherne said afterwards to Eddy, “Don’t you go joining Hillier’s little Fraternities and Incense Guilds. They won’t do you any good. Leave them to people like Robinson and Wilkes.” (Robinson and Wilkes were two young clerks who came to work in the parish and adored Hillier.) “They seem to find such things necessary to their souls; in fact, they tell me they are starved without them; so I suppose they must be allowed to have them. But you simply haven’t the time to spend.”
“Oh, I think it’s right, you know,” said Eddy, who never rejected anything or fell in with negations. That was where he drew his line—he went along with all points of view so long as they were positive: as soon as condemnation or rejection came in, he broke off.
Traherne puffed at his pipe rather scornfully.