There was life outside the Church. There was much that the
Church did not include. He thought of God, and of the whole blue
rotunda of the day. That was something great and free. He
thought of the ruins of the Grecian worship, and it seemed, a
temple was never perfectly a temple, till it was ruined and
mixed up with the winds and the sky and the herbs.
Still he loved the Church. As a symbol, he loved it. He
tended it for what it tried to represent, rather than for that
which it did represent. Still he loved it. The little church
across his garden-wall drew him, he gave it loving attention.
But he went to take charge of it, to preserve it. It was as an
old, sacred thing to him. He looked after the stone and
woodwork, mending the organ and restoring a piece of broken
carving, repairing the church furniture. Later, he became
choir-master also.
His life was shifting its centre, becoming more superficial.
He had failed to become really articulate, failed to find real
expression. He had to continue in the old form. But in spirit,
he was uncreated.
Anna was absorbed in the child now, she left her husband to
take his own way. She was willing now to postpone all adventure
into unknown realities. She had the child, her palpable and
immediate future was the child. If her soul had found no
utterance, her womb had.
The church that neighboured with his house became very
intimate and dear to him. He cherished it, he had it entirely in
his charge. If he could find no new activity, he would be happy
cherishing the old, dear form of worship. He knew this little,
whitewashed church. In its shadowy atmosphere he sank back into
being. He liked to sink himself in its hush as a stone sinks
into water.
He went across his garden, mounted the wall by the little
steps, and entered the hush and peace of the church. As the
heavy door clanged to behind him, his feet re-echoed in the
aisle, his heart re-echoed with a little passion of tenderness
and mystic peace. He was also slightly ashamed, like a man who
has failed, who lapses back for his fulfilment.
He loved to light the candles at the organ, and sitting there
alone in the little glow, practice the hymns and chants for the
service. The whitewashed arches retreated into darkness, the
sound of the organ and the organ-pedals died away upon the
unalterable stillness of the church, there were faint, ghostly
noises in the tower, and then the music swelled out again,
loudly, triumphantly.
He ceased to fret about his life. He relaxed his will, and
let everything go. What was between him and his wife was a great
thing, if it was not everything. She had conquered, really. Let
him wait, and abide, wait and abide. She and the baby and
himself, they were one. The organ rang out his protestation. His
soul lay in the darkness as he pressed the keys of the
organ.