The Passion for Life
By JOSEPH HOCKING
_Author of "A Flame of Fire," "The Chariots of the Lord," "All for a
Scrap of Paper," "Dearer Than Life," etc._
NEW YORK CHICAGO
Fleming H. Revell Company
LONDON AND EDINBURGH
[Illustration: "Yes. I have an intense desire to live.... A passion for
life."]
Contents
I. THE DOCTOR'S SENTENCE 7
II. MY NEW HOME 18
III. THE CHURCHES' ANSWER 28
IV. THREE VISITORS 46
V. AN EMERGING MYSTERY 59
VI. THE LETHBRIDGE FAMILY 65
VII. ISABELLA LETHBRIDGE 81
VIII. MYSTERY 95
IX. AT THE VICARAGE 105
X. WIRELESS TELEGRAPHY 118
XI. MARY TRELEAVEN 131
XII. FIRST DAYS OF THE WAR 142
XIII. FATHER AND SON 156
XIV. THE RECRUITING MEETING 166
XV. HOW THE CHANGE BEGAN 179
XVI. NEWS FROM HUGH 192
XVII. THE PHANTOM BOATS 203
XVIII. FATHER ABRAHAM 213
XIX. GOD ANSWERED OUT OF THE WHIRLWIND 224
XX. THE VICAR'S SERMON 240
XXI. MISSING--DEAD 252
XXII. A DISCOVERY 263
XXIII. A CLUE TO THE MYSTERY 276
XXIV. PREPARATION 287
XXV. PREMONITIONS 299
XXVI. MIDNIGHT 308
XXVII. VISION 323
XXVIII. THE NEW LIFE 331
XXIX. CHRISTMAS, 1915 344
I
THE DOCTOR'S SENTENCE
I am in a restless mood to-night. There seems nothing to explain this,
except that perhaps I am growing tired of the life I am leading, or it
may be that there are influences at work of which I have no cognizance,
but which affect my nerves. As I look out of my window I can see
storm-clouds driven across the wild sky, while distant lights on the
heaving sea are suggestive of mystery. The wind howls around my little
wooden tenement, while above the roaring of the waves I can hear the
dismal screech of the sea-birds, which, for some reason or other, have
left their rocky resting-places. I do not know why it is, but the cry of
the sea-birds is always suggestive of the wail of lost souls as they fly
through the infinite spaces.
I did not mean to begin this way at all, for I want, as far as I can, to
put all sad thoughts behind me.
Let me begin again then, and, if possible, strike a more cheerful note.
I want something to interest me, and it has struck me that if during
these long, dark evenings when I have to be alone I can place on record
some of the events which have taken place since I have drifted to this
part of the country, I shall be able not only to forget the shadow which
hangs over my life, but to see streaks of blue sky amidst the
storm-clouds, and to catch the bright rays of the sun which are
constantly shining, even although the world says that we are living in a
dark time.
But I am writing this also because, as it seems to me, the happenings of
the last few months are of sufficient importance to record. Even
although I were sure no one would read what I am going to write, I
should still go on writing. Some one has said, I do not know who, that
the life of a village is the life of a nation in miniature; and even
although that may contain only a suggestion of the truth, certain am I
that if I can faithfully record the events which have taken place in the
little village of St. Issey, I shall have written something of the
history of the great world outside.
Now that I have started writing, however, I immediately realize that, if
I am to make my narrative comprehensible, I shall have to give some kind
of personal explanation. Who am I, where am I, and why am I here? I
promised just now that I would, as far as possible, avoid the sad things
of life and dwell on the sunshine rather than on the shadow. But why
should I? Life is made up of sunshine and shadow, and no one can give a
faithful account of life without dwelling on both. Besides, what are the
things we call sorrow and joy but contrasts? And life without contrasts
would be unbearable. I will tell my story just as it is, then: its light
and its shade; its hope and its despair.
* * * * *
"Simpson," I said to my one servant and factotum, who has been with me
for several years, and whom I regard more in the light of a friend and
counsellor than as a paid hireling, "the doctor tells me that I have at
most a year to live."
I was sitting in my chambers in London as I mentioned this interesting
piece of information. Simpson had just placed my coffee and bacon before
me. He stopped suddenly as I spoke, as though the news had startled him.
Then he went on with his work.
"I beg your pardon, sir."
I repeated the information.
"The doctor tells me I have at most a year to live. I may not last so
long. Possibly a month will see the end of me."
I thought Simpson's hand trembled, but he repeated the formula which had
almost become second nature to him:
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir," he said.
"I have been thinking, Simpson," I went on, "that as I have but such a
short time before me in this world I may as well spend it comfortably
and in a congenial place; indeed, the doctor insists that I should."
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir. Is there anything more you want, sir?"
"Simpson," I said, "you don't appear to believe I am serious. I am
simply telling you what Dr. Rhomboid told me last night. By the way, how
did he ever get the name of Rhomboid? A rhomboid has something to do
with mathematics, hasn't it?"
To this Simpson made no reply.
"How long did you say, sir, that the doctor gave you?" he asked
presently.
He seemed by this time to have quite recovered himself.
"He is of opinion that a year at the outside will see the end of me,"
was my reply, "but it may be that I shall only last a month or two.
There is something wrong with my inside. He gave it some sort of a name,
but I won't try to repeat it. I might pronounce it wrongly. But why do
you ask?"
"Well, sir, you have got an important case on, and I heard that it would
last a long time. It would be a pity if you didn't live to see the end
of it."
"I shall have to drop the case, Simpson," I said.
"What, Mr. Francis, drop the case? That would be a terrible pity, and
you having had to wait so long for cases, too."
"You seem more interested in the case than in the tenure of my
existence, Simpson," was my response.
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir," replied Simpson, after hesitating some
seconds.
"How long have you been with me, Simpson?" I asked.
"Ever since you went to Oxford, sir--eleven years ago last October."
"That is a long time, Simpson."
"Yes, Mr. Francis. Your father--that is, Mr. Erskine--made me promise
that I would stick to you. That was before he died, sir."
I may here remark that my father, John Erskine, died just as I left
Winchester. He did not make any fuss about dying. He simply called me to
his side and said, "Frank, I have sent you to a good school, and you
have done very well. I have left you enough money to go to Oxford, where
I want you to take a good law degree. After that, I want you to read for
the Bar, and, if possible, rise to be Lord Chancellor. There will not be
very much money left when you finish at Oxford--something over a
thousand pounds, I believe; but that should last you until your briefs
begin to come in. Simpson, our old servant, will go with you. I think
that is all, my boy."
The next day my father died, and I, as arranged, took Simpson to Oxford
with me. Simpson is not very handsome, but he is a very valuable friend,
and in his way has glimmerings of sense.
I toyed with my breakfast, for although I spoke calmly enough about it,
I was not altogether pleased at the idea of dying so soon. After all, I
was only just thirty, and, as Simpson had said, the briefs had only just
begun to come in.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Francis, but will you be leaving London soon?"
"I have decided to leave at once," I replied, "but the question with me
is, Where shall I go? I have been thinking a good deal about it during
the night, and I cannot decide. Where would you suggest?"
"Well, Mr. Francis," replied Simpson, "if you will forgive me for making
a suggestion, sir, I should say that, as yours is a Cornish family,
Cornwall would be a suitable place to----"
Here he stopped, and seemed in a difficulty as to how he should conclude
the sentence.
"That is, sir," he went on, "would it not be appropriate?"
"Exactly," was my answer. "Cornwall it shall be, then; but I don't know
Cornwall, although, as you say, I am of Cornish stock. You are also
Cornish, Simpson?"
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir."
"I have been looking through my accounts," I went on, "and I find that
by economy I can manage to pay my way for about a year. That fits in
exactly, as you see; but I am afraid it won't include you, Simpson. You
have rather a good appetite."
"My appetite can depend very much on the state of your funds, Mr.
Francis," he replied.
"That means you are inclined to go with me?"
"Certainly, sir; I could not think of leaving you alone."
I confess that I was somewhat relieved at this, because, although I
determined to put a brave face upon everything, the thought of spending
my last days alone was not pleasant.
"That is awfully good of you, Simpson," I remarked, "but if you come
with me, although, as you say, your appetite can be regulated, we shall
have to be careful. I like your idea of going to Cornwall, but I don't
know what part of the Delectable Duchy to go to. The doctor suggests
that, in order to extend my existence as long as possible, I ought to go
to some spot where the air is warm, yet bracing; that I must have no
excitement, but at the same time must have interesting and pleasant
companionship; that, while I ought to be out of the world, I must at the
same time be in it. This fellow with a mathematical name seems to be
intensely unreasonable."
"Excuse me, sir, but could you give me a short holiday?" asked Simpson.
"For how long?"
"Say four days, sir. I will arrange for you to be well cared for while I
am gone, sir."
I didn't ask Simpson why he wished to go away, or where he was going. I
am afraid at that moment I hadn't sufficient interest to inquire. Of
course, I gave my consent, and that same day Simpson packed up his bag
and left me. Here was I, then, Francis Erskine, aged thirty,
barrister-at-law, member of the Inner Temple, who, a week before, had
good prospects, alone, with my death-warrant signed. I hadn't felt very
well for some time, but had paid no heed to my ailments. For the past
twelve months I had been, for a young barrister, very busy. It so
happened that I had been engaged upon a case which appeared hopeless.
All my brothers at the Bar declared that my client had not the ghost of
a chance, and then, by what people called a stroke of genius on my part,
but which was really a pure fluke, I carried off the thing triumphantly.
From that time briefs came in fairly rapidly, and I was more than once
referred to as a rising young man of brilliant parts. Then came the
doctor's verdict, and there was an end to everything.
What I did during Simpson's absence I cannot remember. I tried to take a
philosophical view of the situation, and although the disease from which
I suffered was, the doctor declared, past all cure, and had made great
ravages upon my constitution, I went about as usual. After all, what was
the use of bothering about death?
At the end of four days Simpson came back. I thought he appeared
somewhat excited, but his manner was quiet and respectful as usual.
"Enjoyed your holiday, Simpson?" I asked.
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir. When will you be ready to start, sir?"
"My tenancy of these chambers expires in three days, Simpson."
"I hope Mrs. Blandy looked after you all right while I was away, sir?"
"I really don't remember," was my reply. "I dare say."
"Could you start to-morrow morning, sir? I can get everything ready by
that time."
"Where are we going, Simpson?" I asked.
He looked at me as if in surprise.
"To Cornwall, sir."
"You have made arrangements for me, then?"
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir."
I did not ask him any further questions. I did not think it worth while.
After all, when one came to reflect, nothing was worth while. If Simpson
had suggested the Highlands of Scotland or the Flats of Essex, I should
have made no demur. On the whole, however, I was pleased that we were
going to Cornwall. Both my father and mother were Cornish people, and
although I had never visited the country, it seemed less disagreeable to
me to go there and spend my few remaining days than to any other place.
I knew that Cornwall was a narrow strip of land at the extreme west of
the country, and I had heard vague reports about the fine coast-line and
beautiful air, but, beyond that, very little.
"Perhaps, sir," said Simpson, "we had better put off our journey until
the day after to-morrow."
"Why?" I asked.
"You will want to say good-bye to your friends, won't you, sir?"
"I think I have a remembrance of doing that, Simpson," I replied.
"You have a lot of friends here, haven't you? Excuse me for asking,
sir."
"I have a lot of acquaintances, Simpson," I replied, "but only two
friends--Bill Tremain and Tom Esmond. The rest don't count. I should not
be surprised if they came to see me when I am in Cornwall--that is, if
their wives will allow them. Have you ever reflected, Simpson, that
marriage is a tremendous hindrance to friendship? Wives always make it
difficult."
"Excuse me, sir, but what a pity it is you have not got a wife."
"I have never regarded the matter in that light, Simpson. Why do you say
so?"
"Women always save a man from brooding. They never give him a chance of
being quiet, sir," and Simpson shook his head impressively.
"You speak as one having authority. Have you ever been married?"
"Yes, sir," replied Simpson.
"I didn't know that. Why have you never told me? How long were you
married?"
"Two years, sir. I never talk about those two years, but I shall never
forget them."
I asked Simpson several questions, but his replies did not contain much
information.
"You don't seem to be very communicative with regard to your married
life."
"There's nothing to say, sir, besides what I told you. Women save a man
from brooding. You see, sir, they don't give him time to brood. I have
never noticed that you have paid much attention to young ladies."
"Not very much," I replied. "I don't seem to have had time. I have
always been too busy with my work."
"If you had married, sir--at least, if you had married the woman I
did--you would never have had any time for your work."
Next morning I found that all my bags were packed, while a taxi stood at
the door. I made no inquiries as to Simpson's intentions or plans. When
he went to the booking-office at Paddington I did not even ask him the
name of the station for which he was booking. I remember entering a
first-class carriage, where Simpson made me as comfortable as possible,
after which I saw him talking to the guard, and heard him tell that
worthy official that I must not be disturbed if it could possibly be
helped.
Of my journey to Cornwall I remember practically nothing. I think I
slept a great part of the distance. Towards evening we stopped at a
little wayside station, where Simpson appeared and told me I was to
alight.
"Have we come to our journey's end?" I asked.
"To the end of the railway journey," was his reply.
"I seem to smell the sea, Simpson," I said.
"Yes, sir, we are close to the sea."
He led the way to the station-yard, where a carriage stood, evidently
waiting for me. This I entered, while Simpson, after attending to the
luggage, and expressing the hope that he was not inconveniencing me,
took his seat by my side. Once in the carriage I began to take more
interest in my surroundings. I saw that we were in a beautifully wooded
country, while away in the distance rose giant hills and rocky tors. I
heard the roll of the waves, too, while the air was like some
life-giving elixir. Presently we entered a village, which nestled among
the trees.
"Simpson," I asked, "what is the name of this village?"
"This is St. Issey, sir."
"It is a very pretty place."
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir."
I saw a number of cottages, built in higgledy-piggledy fashion, each
surrounded by its own garden. I saw the villagers standing gossiping
with each other, heard the laughter of little children as they played in
the lane, smelt the sweetness and purity of the air. After all, it was
good to live.
"Is there no hotel here?" I asked.
"No, sir; no hotel, sir."
I did not ask him where we were going, or how I was to be accommodated.
After all, it was not worth while. One place was as good as another. We
passed some lodge gates, which evidently appertained to a big house, and
I noted the great granite pillars and the heavy palisading.
"The Squire of the parish lives there, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir, Squire Treherne. That, sir," pointing to a
comfortable-looking house which stood back from the road, "is the
Vicarage. Mr. Trelaske lives there. And that, sir, is the Wesleyan
Chapel. I am of the Wesleyan persuasion myself--at least, I was when I
was a boy."
"That is a long time ago, Simpson."
"I am fifty-five, sir, but it doesn't seem long since I was a boy--that
is, except for those two years when I was married; those seem very
long."
Simpson's face looked so comical that I could not help laughing. It was
the first time I had laughed since my interview with the doctor.
We passed by a great square tower and a low, many-gabled church, with
the churchyard around it. I turned my eyes away. The place was not
pleasant to me. Presently we began to descend a steep hill, and the
sound of the waves rolling upon a hard and sandy beach became more and
more clear. The carriage entered a narrow lane, which ended in a kind of
copse close to a rugged cliff. A little later I saw, built within a few
feet from the edge of the cliff, a wooden house. At the back of it a
steep and almost precipitous piece of country, covered with brushwood,
rose skyward. In front was the Atlantic. The house was in a bay looking
towards the sea. The cliffs on the right side were not very high, but on
the left they rose up almost perpendicular, rugged and imposing. I
noticed that the rocks of which the cliffs were composed were in one
place discolored, and I pointed it out.
"Yes, sir," replied Simpson. "When I was a boy there was a copper-mine
here. There's a level under the hill now--at least, I believe so, sir.
This is the house I have settled on, sir."
I alighted from the carriage and looked more closely at what was to be
my future dwelling. As I have said, it was a wooden erection, and was
evidently built with some care. All along the front was a veranda, the
floor of which was roughly paved with granite slabs. The few yards of
land between the veranda and the edge of the cliff had been cultivated,
and flowers grew in wild profusion. At the back of the house many kinds
of wild flowers bloomed. In the near distance, on the top of the cliffs,
the land was covered with furze bushes and heather. I stood and took a
deep breath and listened while the waves rolled on the golden sand
hundreds of feet down.
"Won't you come into the house, sir?" asked Simpson. "I have paid the
driver, and there is a man coming along with the luggage in a cart."
"Not yet," I replied. "I want to take my fill of this. This is
wonderful--simply wonderful. I want to live."
Simpson stood watching me. I thought I saw his lips tremble.
II
MY NEW HOME
I liked the house the moment I entered it. It was snug, cozy, and warm.
It had the feeling of home, too, and felt so quiet and restful that I
threw myself into an armchair with a sigh of relief.
"You spent your holiday in getting this, I suppose, Simpson?"
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir. I hope you like it, sir. It is not altogether
what I would like, sir, but directly I saw it I thought it would suit
you."
"To whom does it belong, Simpson?"
"Well, sir, I would rather not tell you, if you don't mind. You may rest
assured that I got it on favorable terms, and everything is in order."
"But I do mind," I said, for by this time I had quite an interest in my
surroundings. For days nothing had seemed to matter, but now I was quite
eager to know how Simpson had happened upon this quaint yet comfortable
place.
"You are sure you wish me to tell you, sir?" and Simpson looked at me
almost beseechingly.
"I insist on it," I replied.
"Well, sir, I am afraid it was built by a kind of madman who came down
to St. Issey about six years ago. Who he was I don't know. No one seems
to know. But he took a lease of this piece of ground from the Squire and
built the house with his own hands."
"He must have been a carpenter," I suggested. "It seems very well built.
But what has become of him?"
"He is dead, sir."
"Was he old or young?"
"Quite an old man, I think, sir. Anyhow, he built it himself and would
have no one near him. After it was built he lived here alone for several
years, speaking to no one but the village idiot, who went by the name of
Fever Lurgy, who bought all his food and did all his errands. No woman
was allowed near the place, sir."
"Then he cooked his own food and did his own house-work?" I asked.
"It would appear so, sir. He seems to have made himself very
comfortable, too. As you see, the furniture is not at all bad, and
nearly everything is just as he left it."
I must confess to being interested. The thought of a man coming to this
place and building a house for himself and living there without
companionship of any sort appealed to me. I wondered how he spent his
days and nights.
"Let me have a look around the place," I said, rising from the chair. "I
want to see what rooms it contains."
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir," was Simpson's reply.
The room in which I had been sitting was about fifteen feet square--it
might be a little more--and looked out upon the veranda, beyond which
stretched the great Atlantic. It was comfortably furnished, and
possessed an old-fashioned fireplace, evidently intended for logs of
wood, and revealed the fact that the builder was not only ingenious in
the matter of house-building, but that he possessed a good deal of
taste. The whole apartment was carefully match-boarded, and was, as I
said, snug and comfortable.
"This, sir, is the bedroom," said Simpson, opening the door at the end
of the living apartment.
It was much smaller than the other, but quite big enough for a single
bed, together with the simple necessities of a man living alone.
"And did he die here?" I asked.
"Yes, sir; no, sir--that is--I don't know, sir."
"What do you mean, Simpson?"
"Well, sir, that is why I didn't want to tell you about him; but there
are all sorts of stories afloat. You don't mind, do you, sir?"
"Not a bit," I replied. "Whatever my ailments are, nerves don't trouble
me."
"Well, sir," went on Simpson, "the fact that he lived here all alone
caused people to talk about him--especially the women. You know what
women are, sir, and people used to come and look from the hill above and
see what he was doing. One day two women were bold enough to come close
to the place, and they knocked at the door. There was no answer, sir.
They knocked again and again and made a great noise. Still there was no
answer. Then they rushed away to St. Issey and gave it as their opinion
that something had happened to him. They hadn't been back in the village
more than half an hour when Fever Lurgy came, pale as a ghost, and
trembling like a leaf. He had gone to inquire whether he was needed for
errands, and, on being unable to make any one hear, had burst open the
door. In this bedroom he found evidences of a great struggle. He found
blood, too, but the man was nowhere to be seen."
"That's interesting," I said. "What was the name by which this old
fellow was known?"
"Fever Lurgy called him Father Abraham," was Simpson's reply.
"Well, go on," I urged.
"There's nothing more to tell you, sir. From that day he has never been
seen. People believe, however, he was murdered here; that some tramps
came and found him alone, stole his money, killed him, and threw his
body over the cliff."
"And how long was this ago?"
"About four months, sir."
"And since that time no one has lived here?"
"No, sir, no one. Most people have been afraid to come near the place.
That is why none of the things have been touched; besides, the Squire,
as soon as he discovered what had taken place, told his men to keep an
eye on it."
"And so you thought, Simpson," I said, "that this was the sort of place
I would like to come to and end my days?"
"Well, Mr. Francis," was Simpson's response, "for one thing you told me
you wanted a place that was cheap, that you wanted a place that was out
of the world and yet in the world, and I immediately thought of St.
Issey. When I came down here, however, I found that any lodgings you
might like would be rather dear, and then, hearing of this place, I
determined to come and see it."
Here Simpson stopped.
"That's not quite answering my question, Simpson," I remarked.
"Well, sir, I have not lived with you going on for twelve years without
knowing something of the kind of gentleman you are. I have never known
you trouble once, sir, about ghosts or anything of that sort, while your
nerves have always been as steady as old time. Besides, I was able to
get it dirt cheap, sir--in fact, the Squire's steward was glad to have
it tenanted at any price. The place is very pretty, too, sir. There is
not a finer view along the coast of Cornwall, and that is saying a great
deal. It is out of the world, and it is only half a mile from the
village. Still, sir, if you don't like it, we can easily leave. Over at
St. Eia there's a nice cheap hotel where----"
"Hang the hotel," I interposed. "I am going to stay here."
"I think I ought to tell you, sir," went on Simpson imperturbably, "that
people say they have heard curious noises around here of a night, and it
is believed by many that the ghost of Father Abraham haunts the place."
Simpson looked so solemn as he said this that I laughed again. I don't
know why it was, but, in spite of his dreary story, my spirits rose
unaccountably.
"The ghost of Father Abraham doesn't trouble me a bit, Simpson," I said.
"This place suits me down to the ground. But this is not all? Surely
there must be a kitchen somewhere."
"Oh yes, sir. This way, sir," and Simpson spoke quite eagerly. Evidently
my approval of his choice removed a load from his mind.
Father Abraham had evidently determined to make himself comfortable, for
the kitchen, though small, seemed to have every requisite. As I entered
it, an old woman rose from her chair and curtsied in the old
time-honored way.
"This," said Simpson, "is Mrs. Martha Bray. I asked her to come in and
make everything spotlessly clean for you by the time you came."
"And Mrs. Martha Bray has obeyed orders," I remarked. "Everything is as
perfect as a new pin. But, Simpson," I continued, "where will you
sleep?"
"There's a little place here behind, sir, where I have made up a bed for
myself," replied Simpson. "It will be nice and handy for my work."
"Yes, sur, and plase, sur, I can come in an' help 'ee any time,"
remarked Martha Bray. "I do'ant live fur away, an' I can come 'cross the
fields in a few minutes."
"Excuse me, Martha," was Simpson's rejoinder, "but we shall need no one.
I can do all that is necessary for Mr. Francis."
"Oh, plase yerself," replied the old woman, "but it'll be ter'ble wisht
for 'ee doin' everything yerself without a woman to help 'ee. I do
always say that a man wethout a woman to do his chores for en es like
one side to a pair of scissors. I have got some tay ready, sur, and I
have toasted a piece of ham rasher. It's raal ham, too, not like the
stuff you buy in the shops. I do'ant hold with these new-fashioned
notions about feedin' pigs, and do always feed mine meself like my
mother and grandmother used to do before me. And you'll find, sur, that
tes deffrent from the ham you do buy in the shops. My b'lief, sur, es
that ef old Father Abram had had a woman to look after en, he wouldn't
be dead now."
Having delivered herself of this long speech, the old woman curtsied
once more, and prepared to take my meal into the little living-room.
"Excuse me, Martha, I will do that," said Simpson, "and there's no
reason why we should detain you any longer. Here are your wages, and
thank you for what you have done."
"All right," said Martha. "Ef you can do without me, I can do without
you. The tay is in the caddy up there. There's some bread in the
cupboard there, and the other things be in this drawer. Good-night, sur.
I will look over again to see whether there is anything I can do for
'ee."
I returned to the sitting-room, and sat while Simpson prepared my
evening meal.
"I want to wash, Simpson," I said, when he had nearly completed his
work. "Besides, it has struck me that there is no such thing as a
bathroom in the house. What are we going to do?"
"This way, sir," said Simpson, and I followed him out of the house
towards what I call the cliff end of the building. Here I found,
gurgling out of the hillside, a stream of the purest water I had ever
seen, which flowed into a pond.
The idea of outdoor ablutions appealed to me, and I almost forgot my
ailments as I bathed my hands and face in the pure spring water. A few
minutes later, I was eating the sweetest ham I had ever tasted.
"If this is the result of the old-fashioned way of feeding pigs," I
remarked to Simpson, "I shall make a closer acquaintance with Mrs.
Martha Bray, and shall buy all the hams she can dispose of."
The time was spring. To be exact, it was the 14th of May, and although
the evening air was somewhat chilly, the days had become long, and I
remembered standing a long time at the front of my little wooden hut,
looking at the giant cliffs at whose feet the waves of the broad
Atlantic rolled. When I had returned to the house, Simpson had lit a
lamp, while in the grate a wood fire burnt cheerfully.
"Do you think it will do, sir?" asked Simpson.
"Do!" I replied; "it's just perfect."
"Then, sir, if you don't mind, I will go to bed. I am a little tired,
sir. There's nothing more I can do for you, is there?"
"Nothing, thank you, Simpson. Good-night."
A few minutes later I judged, from the silence which prevailed in the
kitchen, that Simpson had retired, and that I was practically alone in
the little wooden hut.
I was still in utter ignorance of my whereabouts, beyond the fact that I
was somewhere in Cornwall on the edge of a cliff, and close to a little
village called St. Issey. Where St. Issey was situated I did not know.
Cornwall, I reflected, was a county nearly a hundred miles long, with
the main portion of it surrounded by the sea. I knew that I must be
somewhere in the vicinity of the main line of the Great Western Railway,
as I did not remember changing anywhere, but beyond that I had little or
no knowledge. Still, this did not trouble me. I reflected upon what
Simpson had told me concerning the cheapness of my place of residence,
and I had absolute trust in him concerning all arrangements for the
future.
The night was very quiet, I remember. Scarcely a breath of wind stirred,
although the air which came into my open window was pure and
exhilarating. The splash of the waves was still heard on the sandy
beach, although I judged the tide had receded somewhat. Now and then the
cry of a disturbed sea-bird reached me, but beyond that, nothing.
Somehow I could not make up my mind to turn in for the night. I had too
many things to think about, while my new surroundings drove away all
desire for sleep. I took one of the books I had brought with me from
London, and tried to read, but that was impossible. I could not scan a
dozen lines without my mind wandering from the printed pages. After all,
when one comes to think about it, my position was somewhat strange. It
is easy to talk about coming to a place to die; but when one has
actually heard the death sentence pronounced, and is told that, at the
most, he cannot live more than a year, it is not a pleasant experience,
and, in spite of all my endeavors, my thoughts were constantly reverting
to Dr. Rhomboid's verdict.
Presently I could bear my thoughts no longer, and, quietly opening the
door, I went out into the night. How still, how solemn it was! On my
left hand the great beetling, rugged cliffs rose, imposing and
awe-inspiring. Behind me, the hillside rose steep and high. In front was
the wide Atlantic. I could see the waves breaking into foam some little
distance from the shore. I could, in the pale light of the moon, see the
discolorment in one place in the rocks, which reminded me of the mine
which Simpson had told me was working there when he was a boy.
How long I stood there I do not know, but presently, in the silence of
the night, I heard a cry. It might be that of a sea-bird, although it
made me think of other things. A little later I heard what might be
described as a moan, although that does not truly convey the impression
it made upon me. In spite of myself, my mind reverted to the story which
Simpson had told me about the man who had built the house, and of his
supposed tragic end. Could it be, I wondered, that this man's spirit
visited the scene of his death, drawn there by some laws yet
undiscovered by the student of psychic phenomena?
I had no superstitious fears; indeed, I had no belief in a life beyond
this present existence. If ever I had believed in this, the belief had
died years before. In a vague kind of way I imagined that death was the
end of everything. Perhaps that was why the doctor's verdict was so grim
and forbidding.
I heard another cry, not loud, but quite distinct; and then I thought I
saw forms moving along at the base of the cliff some little distance
away, but the moon, which was on the wane, gave me insufficient light to
be certain. A cloud passed over the sky, and then I could see nothing.
"Surely I could not be mistaken," I said to myself, "yet who could be
crawling along at the base of the cliffs? No. It was all pure fancy."
As if in contradiction of my thoughts, however, I heard noises which
seemed to be directly under my feet. These noises seemed to continue for
three or four minutes, and then all was silence.
"Events have been too much for me," I reflected, "and in spite of all my
boasting about my nerves, they are playing me tricks."
I turned and looked at the little house, and I doubted whether, in spite
of all my brave words, I should be able to continue living there. To be
alone day after day and night after night, with no one to speak to me
and no one to care for me, save this unimaginative man, was, to say the
least of it, anything but exhilarating. Then I felt the gnawing, deadly
pain which had led me to visit Dr. Rhomboid.
"I must not be a fool," I reflected. "What has to be has to be, and I
must go through with it. Besides, one place is as good as another. I
will go to bed."
All the same, I made up my mind that I would not live like a hermit, and
that I would become acquainted with the life of this little village into
which I had been cast.
III
THE CHURCHES' ANSWER
I suppose my long journey must have tired me, for I slept soundly, and
on the following morning when I awoke the sun was shining through the
windows, while the splash of the waves sounded pleasantly to my ears. A
few minutes later I was up and dressed. Walking to the edge of the
cliff, I looked towards the spot where, the previous night, I fancied I
had seen dim forms moving; but in the light of the sun nothing was
visible. The shadows, too, of a few hours before had entirely passed
away. The fresh, pure spring air exhilarated me in spite of myself. I
almost forgot Dr. Rhomboid's verdict. Indeed, so far did I ignore his
instructions that I found my way to the highest point of the cliff and
looked seaward. Never in my whole life had I been so entranced as on
that morning. The blue sky was reflected in the water in such a way that
I felt I had never really seen the sea until then. To the right and to
the left of me stretched the giant cliffs until they were lost in the
horizon. At their feet rolled great waves. Landward, hill rose upon
hill, and the whole countryside was fast assuming its garments of summer
glory.
In a sense, Cornwall did not seem a beautiful county to me at all. At
least, it did not possess the beauty I had expected. Compared with
Surrey, it looked bare, and in some senses almost drear, and yet it
possessed a charm which I could associate with no other place. There was
something in the air one breathed, some strange charm, something in the
very essence of the county which differentiated it from the rest of the
world. Cornwall is as different from other counties as England is
different from Spain. I felt my blood tingle as I looked, and realized
that a mysterious hand had been laid upon me. Perhaps it was because
there was Cornish blood in my veins, and that for many generations my
ancestors had lived amidst associations similar to these. In any case,
my heart thrilled its recognition, and I knew that I was a part of what
I saw, that the spirit of my county was speaking to me, and that the
innermost depths of my being realized my homeland.
Years seemed to slip from me, and with a recrudescence of youth came a
passionate desire for life--more life. While I had been in London I
seemed to be largely indifferent to the doctor's pronouncement, even
although I was beginning to sip from the goblet of the world's success.
But a numbness had possessed my being, and I had been able to speculate
grimly upon my approaching demise. Now, however, it was different. The
world seemed wider, the sky higher, and life promised infinite things. I
could not formulate them into words; nevertheless, they surged up in my
being like a mighty torrent, and I longed to live. My whole soul
revolted against cessation of life, and all the time I knew that a dread
disease was slowly working within me.
But I would not think of it. By an effort I threw my forebodings from
me, and, seeing a precipitous pathway down to the beach, made my way
thitherward. I wanted to interest myself in the happenings of the world.
A little later I found my way to the base of the cliffs where, on the
previous night, I thought I had seen living beings. No marks of them
were evident. The hard, yellow sand was smooth and trackless. There was
a stretch of a hundred yards between the foot of the cliffs and the
foam-crested waves, and, calling to my mind my impressions of the
previous night, I determined to put them to test. Without avail,
however.
The great heap of débris caused by the working of the mine which Simpson
had mentioned had now become covered with verdure. I saw the green
stains on the cliff which Simpson had said betokened copper, but nowhere
could I see the level which he had mentioned. I peered curiously around,
but in vain.
Presently I saw a fissure in the rocks which ended in a cave. This I
entered and made my way for a few yards, peering curiously around me.
Nothing of importance struck my eye. I reflected that this might be
almost immediately under my house, and it was here, according to my
fancies, I had heard voices on the previous night. I fancied, too, that,
except in the case of very high tides, this cave would always be dry. I
lit a match, and, looking at the sand at my feet, discerned footmarks.
This struck me as somewhat curious, especially as these footprints were
apparently fresh, and some of them gave evidence that they had been made
by a woman. Still, there was nothing to wonder about. I had frequently
heard that the Cornish cliffs were honey-combed by caves, and that
pleasure-parties visited them out of pure curiosity.
Then something bright caught my eye, and, stooping down, I picked up a
woman's brooch. I went outside and examined it, and saw immediately that
it was apparently of value. It was quaintly formed, and suggested great
age. I concluded that it was composed of dull gold fashioned centuries
ago, while two stones of considerable value had been set in it. I
speculated a little to whom it might belong, and, thinking that I might
hear of some one who had lost such a valuable trinket, I placed it
carefully in my pocket so that I might be able to return it to its
owner.
The sun by this time had increased in power, and, as the place was warm
and sheltered, I sat on a great rock near, and gave myself up to fancy.
How long I sat there I have no conception, but presently I was awakened
to the fact that Simpson had become anxious about me.
"It's all right, Simpson," I shouted in reply to his call. "I will come
immediately."
"Breakfast is quite ready, sir," I heard him say, "and I have been
wondering where you had gone."
As I made my way towards the lower part of the cliffs, where I thought I
saw an easier way to my house than that by which I had descended, I
happened to look back, and there, seated in a crevice at nearly the
highest point of the cliff, I saw what seemed the form of a woman, and
that she appeared to be watching me. A few seconds later I was hidden
from her view by the copse into which I had entered. When I had
descended half-way towards my house I was able to catch another glimpse
of the place where she had been sitting, but she was no longer there.
"I hope you haven't been anxious about me, Simpson?" I said, when I
returned to the house.
"Well, sir, I was a bit worried. You see, the cliffs are dangerous, and
you didn't tell me you were going out. I am glad you are all right, sir.
Breakfast is quite ready, sir. I cooked some more of that ham, as you
seemed to like it so much last night, sir."
"That's all right, Simpson; but before I have breakfast I must have
another wash at the fountain." When I had taken off my coat I looked at
my arms, and was shocked at their thinness. I looked into the little
pond and saw the reflection of a tall, thin, attenuated man. I was
positively ghastly. When I had finished my toilet I again glanced in the
direction where I had seen the woman's form, but the place was hidden
from my view. Nearer to me, however, and swayed by the breeze, I saw
what I thought was like a woman's dress fluttering. It might be that she
was interested in my movements. "I expect the people of the village have
fears about me, as they had about Father Abraham," was my thought as I
entered the house.
No visitors called to see me, and I spent several days in absolute
quietness. Although I had at first made up my mind to do so, I paid no
visits to the village, and beyond the furtive watcher I have mentioned,
I saw no one but Simpson.
My first feelings of exhilaration had passed away, and I settled down,
in spite of my resolve, to a kind of hermit's life. I still rejoiced in
the beauty of the scene and took short walks in the neighborhood of my
little dwelling-place, but saw no one.
When I had been there a week a bad attack of my malady sent me to bed
for three days. Simpson urged me to send for the doctor, but this I
would not do. Rhomboid, who was at the head of his profession, had
warned me that I should be subject to these attacks, and that they would
come to me with increasing frequency until the end. He had also given me
general instructions as to what I must do. What was the use, then, of
calling in a local practitioner who would be utterly ignorant as to what
to do in such a case as mine?
At the end of three days I was better, and informed Simpson that I
intended getting up.
"Simpson," I said, as I sat in the comfortable chair which he had
prepared for me, "you told me on the night we came here that you had
been brought up a Wesleyan Methodist."
"Yes, sir," was Simpson's reply.
"Are you of that persuasion still?"
"Well, yes, sir; I suppose so, sir."
"Have you been to any of their chapels lately?"
"Not very often, sir."
"Is there a Wesleyan minister who lives at St. Issey?"
"No, sir. You see, St. Issey Chapel is only one of the little places in
the circuit. A minister, sir, lives five miles from here, and only comes
about twice a quarter. I have the circuit plan here, sir. Would you like
to see it?"
"It would be a curiosity, anyhow," I replied, and a little later Simpson
put a sheet of printed paper in my hand. This sheet informed me that St.
Issey was in the Lanhydrock Circuit, and, with twelve other chapels, was
supplied by two ministers and a number of other men called local
preachers.
"I see that the superintendent minister is called Mr. Bendle. Have you
ever met him?" I asked.
"No, sir; but I have heard that he is a very good man. When I was a boy,
sir, St. Issey Chapel was crowded; but people don't go to Chapel as they
used to."
"No? How is that?" I asked.
"Well, sir, it seems as though people have become very worldly, and many
have given up Chapel-going altogether."
"And the Parish Church--do many people go there?"
"Just a few, sir; but not many, I am afraid."
"I should like to know," I said.
"Indeed, sir?"
"Yes. The truth is, Simpson, seeing that the doctor tells me I have to
die very soon, I should like to know whether any one could tell me about
what happens after death."
"I have a Bible here, sir," said Simpson. "It tells you all about it
there."
"Indeed," I said, "I have not read the Bible for years. I don't think I
have looked inside one since I left Oxford. Do you read it, Simpson?"
"Yes, sir. I read a chapter every night before going to bed."
"Are you a Christian, Simpson?"
"I hope so, sir," and he looked at me curiously.
"Excuse me for asking," I said, "but as you are a Christian you will
have ideas about these things."
Simpson hesitated a few seconds, and then called to his aid his old
formula, "Yes, sir; thank you, sir."
"That being so, Simpson," I continued, "I want your opinion. Supposing I
were to die to-night, what would become of me?"
Simpson gave no answer. I think he wanted to be polite, but could not be
truthful at the same time.
"You see, Simpson," I interposed, "I have just had a severe shaking up,
and, as Rhomboid told me that these attacks would come with increasing
frequency and hasten the end, I have a natural curiosity as to what will
happen when the end comes. It is not pleasant to think of becoming
nothing, and as a belief in a future life is one of the tenets of the
Christian faith, and as you tell me you are a Christian, I want to know,
from your standpoint, what you think my destiny will be."
"Excuse me, sir," said Simpson, "but you will not be offended if I ask
something?"
"Oh, no," I said, "go on."
"Well, then, sir, have you ever been converted? Forgive me for asking,
sir; I know you have always been a well-conducted young gentleman, and
you have never gone wild like lots I know of, but all the same, sir, I
have been taught that there are two places to which people go when they
die--heaven and hell. The sheep which are on the right hand go straight
to Abraham's bosom, and the goats which are on the left go into outer
darkness, where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth. The question is,
sir, whether you belong to the sheep or the goats."
"Exactly," I said; "but what constitutes the sheep and what constitutes
the goats?"
"That is where the question of conversion comes in," replied Simpson.
"Except we become converted we cannot go to heaven."
"Then your opinion is, Simpson, that as I have not been converted I must
go to hell?"
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir. I don't mean to offend, sir."
"No, I am sure you don't, Simpson. Besides, I wanted a straight answer.
Just now, however, the question of heaven and hell does not trouble me
at all. It is rather a question as to whether there is anything at all
after the grave."
"Do you doubt it, sir?"
"I am afraid I have had no opinions about it in the past, Simpson. You
see, I have been so busy with my work that I have had no time to think
about it. Now, however, when death stares me in the face, I am--well, a
little bit curious. How do I know, and how do you know, that the
millions of people who are dying every week in this world do not die
just like flies? How can we prove that we are any better than they? Do
we not sport in the sunshine during a brief space and then cease to be?"
"Life would be a miserable one-sided business if it were so, sir.
Wouldn't it?"
"That is the question, Simpson. Did you ever read Omar Khayyam?"
"What is it, sir?"
"Ah, I see you have not read him. Omar Khayyam was an old Eastern poet
who, in his philosophy and poetry, taught that we are just a part of an
eternal round of things. We are born, we live, we propagate our species,
we die, and so the thing goes on. But it is not a very cheerful
doctrine, Simpson, and that was why I wondered if you, who profess to be
a Christian, could give me some information."
Simpson was silent.
"Ah! I see," I said with a sigh. "You have a sort of traditional hope
that there may be a sort of future life, and that you may get to what is
called heaven, but you are not sure about it."
"Well, sir, I am a very ignorant man on such matters," replied Simpson,
"and, to tell you the truth, religion doesn't seem to be the fashion
nowadays. All the same, it would be a grand thing if it were true."
"Just so," I said, and for the first time I realized the necessity for
some sort of faith which should be an anchor amid the storms of life.
"Are you better now, sir?" asked Simpson.
"Oh yes, considerably better," I replied. "I shall be able to walk about
for the next few weeks, I hope."
"Then, sir, may I advise you to go to Church or Chapel? The preachers
there might be able to tell you."
"A good idea," I cried. "I have not been to Church or Chapel since I
left Oxford, and while there I only went because I was obliged to. I did
enjoy the singing, though. Yes, Simpson, I will take your hint. I will
go to Church on Sunday."