"Is it? I had forgotten. Then I will go to-morrow."
"Where will you go, sir, to the Established Church or the Wesleyan
Chapel?"
"I will go to both, and hear what they have to say at both places."
The next day was gloriously fine. A cool breeze blew, and out at sea
"white horses" rode on the crests of the waves. Near the coast-line,
too, was a long streak of foam. The air was pure and invigorating. In
sheltered places it was warm and gracious.
I allowed myself plenty of time to reach St. Issey by eleven o'clock,
and, if the truth must be told, I was a little excited. I felt as though
I was going on a tour of exploration.
I had never been what is called a religious boy, and though I inherited
from my father a high code of honor, religion made no appeal to me. I
suppose that at the back of my mind I had an impression that there might
be a life other than this, and that some great Eternal Force, which
might or might not be personal, had created this and all other worlds.
As to whether this Eternal Force had any interest in created life I did
not trouble. The question was too remote, and, as far as I could see,
admitted of only a conjectural answer. After leaving Oxford, I was too
absorbed in my plans and ambitions to trouble about what seemed to me to
be something really apart from life.
I had never been a bad fellow. I had, as my acquaintances said of me,
gone straight. Not that I had been a recluse in any way. For two or
three years I went a good deal into society. I never had any serious
love affairs, although I am afraid I indulged in some mild flirtations.
I had a fair knowledge of current literature, and, although far from
being a scholar, I had at the same time scholarly instincts. I had
travelled on the Continent of Europe, had a fair knowledge of German and
French, and during a long visit to Italy had managed to pick up the
language of the people.
I had also visited the old churches on the Continent, but had never
troubled about what these churches stood for. As far as I could see, the
old, stately cathedrals represented something that might have been a
power at one time, but which had now passed away. They were interesting
from an architectural and from an historical point of view; but as for
anything deeper, it never came within the horizon of my vision. I was
young, and, as I thought, healthy, and death seemed a long way off.
Therefore, why should I trouble?
But now death had come near. I do not know that I was frightened, and I
was able calmly to face the prospect of annihilation. Nevertheless, that
prospect was grim. I longed for life, more life, the completion of life.
The life I had lived was, it seemed to me, fragmentary, incomplete, and,
to a certain extent, chaotic.
I do not know that I attached very much importance to my visit to the
little Wesleyan Chapel. All the same, I was curious. If there should be
anything beyond, if the man who got up to preach could tell me something
which had been hidden from me, I would like to hear what he had to say.
I walked very slowly and rejoiced in the glorious morning. As I drew
near the village I noted the quiet restfulness of everything. The Church
bells were ringing, and a few people were wending their way towards the
old time-honored building. Very few people seemed to be making for the
Wesleyan Chapel. Groups of youths were lounging around the lanes,
smoking cigarettes and passing rustic jokes. Women were gossiping with
each other from their cottage doors. There was no squalor anywhere, no
poverty visible. Every one seemed to have enough to eat and drink. Every
one seemed to be comfortably housed.
I entered the little Chapel--a square, plain building, capable of
seating perhaps three or four hundred people. It was five minutes to
eleven when I entered, and not a soul was there, except a man whom I
took to be the Chapel-keeper. He looked at me curiously. By eleven
o'clock there might be, all told, thirty people there, mostly elderly
men and women. Some young girls were there, and a few children; young
men were conspicuous by their absence. When eleven o'clock came perhaps
a dozen more came from some vestry, and entered what I took to be the
choir-seats. They were nearly all young women. Perhaps during the first
ten minutes of the service half a score more came into the Chapel. I am
giving these details because I want to tell exactly what I saw,
especially as I have discovered that from a religious standpoint St.
Issey village is typical of hundreds more all over the county. At about
three minutes after eleven a man entered the pulpit. As far as I could
judge he was a working man, or he might be a farmer, a carpenter, or a
tradesman of some sort.
Let it be understood that I came to this place of worship hungering to
know something of the deeper things of life. I wanted to be assured that
there was another life greater than this, a life which should be the
consummation and explanation of this.
The preacher commenced by announcing a hymn; a lad at the harmonium
played over the tune, and the people sang. Let me confess here that the
singing moved me. The Cornish people, whatever their defects or virtues,
possess the gift of song. They had sweet, musical voices, and they sang
heartily. The words, as I remember them, were of an emotional nature,
and were evidently written by some one who deeply believed in what he
wrote; but it was evident that very few of the congregation realized the
meaning of the words they were singing. There was no sense of reality,
no great assurance, no vision. It seemed to be a repetition of something
which had been, rather than the expression of something that was vital
to them then.
Still, I was interested. The hymn made me think of far-away things. At
any rate, while no mighty conviction possessed the singers, they
accepted the words as containing a kind of traditional truth. I
reflected that the hymn _had_ meant something, whatever it might mean
now.
While the last verse was being sung, I noticed that the congregation
turned round, as if some one of importance had entered. I also turned,
and saw a man and woman just making their way into a back pew. The man
was about fifty years of age, and was evidently a personality. At first
I did not know how to classify him. He might be the Squire of the
parish, but I was sure he was not. There was something lacking in him;
something positive, too, which did not suggest an old landed proprietor.
That he was prosperous and important there could be no doubt. He looked
like one accustomed to command, and suggested a big banking account.
His companion was, as I imagined, his daughter, a young woman of, say,
twenty-three or twenty-four years of age. I saw by her dress that she
did not belong to the class of which the rest of the congregation was
composed. Although by no means a connoisseur of such things, I knew
enough of woman's attire to be sure that her clothes had been made by an
artist, and probably came either from London or Paris. During the next
few minutes I gave furtive glances towards her, and was not impressed
favorably. She was good-looking, almost strikingly so; but she seemed to
me to have no soul. She looked around the building as though she had
come there under protest. She gave not the slightest evidence that the
service meant anything to her.
The man in the pulpit was, I suppose, of more intelligence than the
ordinary man of his class, and having said that, I have said all. I did
not want to be critical. I hungered for food, for light. I reflected
that Simpson had told me that congregations had fallen off and that
there seemed to be no eagerness about religion as there had been thirty
years before. I did not wonder at that if this man was a fair exponent
of it. By what right or by what authority he was there I do not know,
and how he dared to pretend to tell people about the deep things of life
I could not imagine. After he had been preaching a few minutes he
appeared to get, according to the phraseology which I have since heard,
"warmed to his subject." This meant that he shouted, and on two or three
occasions struck the Bible; but, taken as a whole, it was the
parrot-like utterance of an ignorant man. I am almost tempted to give a
detailed description of his discourse, but I will not do so. I am too
heart-sore at the thought of it. What help was there for me, a poor
wretch with his death-warrant signed? What help was there for the people
who sat stolidly in their pews? Why should the boys and girls of the
villages or the toil-worn laboring men and women go there? I could see
no reason.
As far as I could judge, the presence of the man and his daughter in the
back pew and I myself, the stranger who had taken up his abode in a
wooden hut, attended only by a man-servant, was of far more interest to
the people than what the man had to say.
I left with a heavy heart. At any rate, I received no assurance of any
life after death. I was no nearer conviction of anything which goes by
the name of spiritual. As I made my way to the door an old man came up
and spoke to me.
"Mornin', sir. Glad to see you."
"Thank you," I said.
"You bean't from these parts, be you?" he asked curiously.
"No," I replied.
"I hope you enjoyed the service," he ventured.
"I enjoyed the singing very much," was my reply.
The old man's eyes twinkled. I saw that he understood.
"You ded'n feel the presence of the Maaster, ded 'ee, then, sir?"
I was silent. He seemed to be on the point of saying something more, but
he refrained. Perhaps he thought he would be taking too great a liberty.
As I left the building and walked quietly away, I noticed that the man
and the girl whom I took to be his daughter were watching me. They
evidently wondered who I was.
I did not say anything to Simpson on my return about my experiences at
the Chapel, and he asked no questions.
When evening came I made my way to the Established Church. Somehow, the
memory of the old man's eyes when he spoke to me at the Chapel door
remained with me. I had a feeling that he knew more than the preacher.
Directly I entered the time-honored building, which had stood there
since pre-Reformation days, a feeling of restfulness came into my heart.
Architecture has always made a strong appeal to me, and this low-roofed,
many-pillared edifice, with its worm-eaten pews, its granite flooring
and its sense of age, brought a kind of balm to my troubled spirit. I
noticed that time had eaten away even the old gray granite of which the
pillars were composed, that the footsteps of many generations had worn
the hard Cornish granite slabs which floored the aisles. The evening
light was subdued as it shone through the stained-glass windows. The ivy
which grew outside, and partially covered some of the leaded lights,
somehow gave a feeling of restfulness to everything. I heard the birds
twittering in the tree-branches in the churchyard, while the bell which
called the people to Church was reminiscent of olden time. In my
imagination I saw people who lived hundreds of years before, with the
light of unquestioning faith in their eyes, coming to worship in the
Church of their fathers.
A few people entered, and my vision vanished. This old Church
represented only something that _had_ been; something that had had its
day, and was gone; something that was maintained because of its past,
and because nothing better had appeared to take its place.
A dozen choir-boys found their way into their stalls. The clergyman
assumed his appointed place. The congregation was very small. All
counted, I suppose there would not be forty people present, and most of
these looked to me like servant lads and girls.
I remembered the clergyman's name. Simpson had told me he was called
Trelaske. A good old Cornish name, and I reflected that, anyhow, he
would be a gentleman. I watched him closely, and I saw a fine,
aristocratic-looking man, with a clean-cut, almost classical face. He
conducted the service with dignity. He read the sentences of which the
Church service is composed correctly and with intelligence. While he
read in his natural voice, I was interested; when he intoned, a sense of
unreality possessed me.
As we went through the service a thousand memories flooded my mind. I
had heard these prayers, and read the Psalms a hundred times at Oxford
and at Winchester. Memories of old days came flashing back to me, and I
was a boy again in the school chapel, listening to old "Thunder and
Lightning," as we used to call him, preaching to us. Presently Mr.
Trelaske entered the pulpit and gave out his text: "If a man die, shall
he live again?"
"Now," I thought to myself, "I am going to get something. Here is a man
who is set apart to teach people the Christian faith, and he is going to
deal with that phase of his faith in which I am really interested."
I think he noticed me in his congregation, for he looked curiously
towards me more than once. I rather liked him, too. As I said, he was
evidently a gentleman, and doubtless had been to Oxford or Cambridge.
Possibly he had been at my own College.
In about ten minutes his homily was finished. When I try to remember
what he said, I am reminded of a story I have since heard. A popular
preacher came to Cornwall and preached to a crowded congregation. On the
following day this popular preacher saw an old miner, to whom he spoke
in a familiar fashion.
"Well, Tommy," he said, "what did you think about my sermon last night?"
"What ded I think about it?" repeated Tommy.
"Yes," said the popular preacher, "what did you think about it?"
"I ded'n think there was nothin' to think about," was Tommy's reply.
That was my summing-up of Mr. Trelaske's sermon. There was nothing to
think about. I had come to Church curious to know--ay, and more than
curious; I was longing to know if life promised anything beyond the
grave, but the Church gave no answer to my question. In place of burning
conviction, there were empty platitudes. In place of vision, there was
only the sound of a child crying in the night.
"In God's name," I asked myself as I went back to my little habitation,
"why should people go to Church or to Chapel? What is there for them but
boredom?"
I did not want argument, I did not want learning; but I wanted
conviction, light, vision--and there were none of these things.
When I got back to my house I found that Simpson had returned.
"Have you been to Chapel, Simpson?" I asked.
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir. People have been asking a lot of questions
about you, sir."
"Oh, indeed!"
"Yes, sir. Mr. Josiah Lethbridge asked me about you, sir. He lives in
that big house up by Trecarrel Lane. He is a great mine-owner and
ship-owner, sir."
"Indeed," I said. "Has he any children?"
"Yes, sir. One son and one daughter. Is that all you need, sir?" And
Simpson gave the finishing touches to his arrangement of my
supper-table.
Before I went to bed that night I stood under the veranda of my little
house and looked seaward. In the dying light of the day I could still
see the giant cliffs stretching away northward. I could also see the
long line of foam where the waves broke upon the shore. I heard the
sea-birds crying, too. "If a man die, shall he live again?" I said,
repeating the words of the text I had heard that night, but no answer
came. I went to bed wondering.
IV
THREE VISITORS
On the day following nothing happened, and excepting Simpson I did not
see a single person. Indeed, but for one occasion, when out of curiosity
I clambered down to the beach, I did not leave the house; but on the
Tuesday I had a regular influx of visitors. No less than three persons
came to see me, to say nothing of Mrs. Martha Bray, who, in fulfilment
of her promise to Simpson, came over to see whether her services were
further needed.
My first visitor was an entire stranger. He came ostensibly to ask for a
drink of milk, but really I believe out of curiosity, for when Simpson
had, at my request, supplied him with the milk, he showed no desire to
leave. Rather he appeared much interested in my reasons for coming to
St. Issey. He was a middle-aged man, say from forty-five to fifty, and
lived, he told me, at St. Eia. He proved a rather clever
conversationalist, too, for in spite of myself I found myself talking to
him freely. There were all sorts of rumors about Father Abraham, he told
me. Some had it that he was mad; some said that he was a refugee;
others, again, thought he had in the past committed some crime and was
hiding from justice, while more than once it had been whispered that his
end was the result of a kind of vendetta which was sworn against him
because of something he did in his young manhood.
"Have you any theories yourself, sir?" he asked.
"No," I replied, "I have no theories. I must confess, however, to being
a little interested. The old man evidently had a purpose in building the
house, and, I think, intended it to be a permanent residence. As you
see, although it is composed of wood, it is very carefully built, and
was intended to last. For the life of me, however, I can hardly believe
he was murdered. Of course, there was blood found upon the floor, but it
is not easy to dispose of a body even so near the sea. From what I can
hear no one has been washed up here, and but for the marks of struggle
and the blood no one would have thought he was murdered."
"Exactly," replied my visitor. "But many things are going on of which we
know nothing, and many people have purposes in life which they have no
desire to make known. What is your opinion of European politics?"
"I cannot say I have any very fixed ideas," I replied.
"A section of the Press," went on my visitor, "would have us believe
that we are on the verge of war, and certainly there have been
indications these last few years that we are standing on the brink of a
volcano. Do you believe in the stories told about Germany?"
"What stories?" I asked.
"Oh, that the Germans are preparing for war, and that they mean to go to
war with England."
To this I gave no answer.
"Have you read those articles in _The Daily_----?" he asked. "I mean
those articles which told us frightful stories of German preparations
for war, of their avowed determination to bring about war with England,
and of the toast which the military and naval people in Germany drink on
every great occasion."
"You mean the toast to 'Der Tag'? Of course, one has heard such stories,
but what do they amount to, after all?"
"That is my own attitude," was his answer, "and as far as stories about
German spies are concerned, I think they are worked up by the Press in
order to increase the circulation of the papers. By the way, have you
ever seen anything suspicious in this neighborhood? This," and he looked
towards the bay, "would be a splendid spot for German boats to land if
they wanted to do so."
"Why should they want to land in a remote corner of the world like
this?" I asked.
"Exactly," he replied, "only I was wondering whether you, who live here
alone, had ever seen or heard anything which aroused your suspicions?"
"No," I replied, not thinking it worth while to tell him anything about
the brooch I had found.
"You have seen nothing and heard nothing, then?" he persisted.
"I have only been here a short time," I replied. "Why do you ask?"
"I only wondered, that is all. The people over at St. Eia say that
foreigners have been sneaking around trying to pick up information, and
I wondered whether you had heard anything."
"No," I replied, "nothing at all."
"I suppose," he said, "that these cliffs here are honey-combed with
caves? Have you seen any of them?"
"Yes," I replied. "I saw one the day after I came here. I came upon it
suddenly, for the entrance to it is only a fissure in the rocks."
"Ah!" he cried. "Did you enter?"
"Yes," was my reply, "but it was not at all mysterious. I could see all
round it by the aid of a match, and it contained nothing. Of course, it
was very curious and very interesting."
"But you saw nothing suspicious?" he asked.
I shook my head.
My visitor did not remain long after this, and although for a time I
wondered why he should be so interested, I soon ceased to pay attention
to his questions.
Perhaps I should have thought more about him, but just before noon I had
another visitor. This was a young fellow about twenty-two years of age,
whom I knew to be an Oxford man before he had spoken a dozen words.
"My name is Lethbridge," he said. "My people live up at Trecarrel
yonder, and I came--well, I came really at my pater's request."
"Indeed," I said, looking at him curiously.
"Yes; you were at Chapel on Sunday morning, weren't you?"
"I was," I replied.
"Well, my pater and sister were there, and the pater wondered very much
who you were. In the evening, contrary to his usual custom, he went a
second time, and saw your servant, who told him who you were. Directly
the pater mentioned your name, I remembered hearing it in Oxford. You
are an Oxford man, aren't you?"
"Yes. I was at Balliol."
"So was I. I left last June. You are often spoken of by the men. Indeed,
I had your old rooms. You will excuse the liberty we took in talking
about you, won't you? but really we have very little to interest us in
this corner of the world."
"You are very kind to come," I replied.
"When I told my father who you were, he suggested that I should come
down and ask you to come up to dinner. You see, we had heard of some one
coming to live in old Father Abraham's hut, and when it turned out to be
you, we got interested. You will forgive this informal method of
procedure, won't you? But if you will come up and spend an evening with
us soon, we shall all be jolly glad."
"I am afraid I am too ill to come," I replied.
"You do look a bit seedy," was his response, "but the air down here is
ripping. It will soon set you up again."
"I am afraid I am too far gone for that," was my reply, "but if I am
well enough, I shall be only too glad to come."
"Say to-morrow night," he said.
"If you will leave it an open question," was my reply, "I will say yes,
but if I am too ill, you will understand the reason for my absence."
He looked at me closely.
"Is it as bad as that?"
"I am afraid it is," and I sighed when I spoke, for at that moment a
wave of desire for life rolled over me.
"May I smoke?" he asked, pulling out his pipe.
"Please forgive me," I said. "I will tell Simpson to bring some cigars."
"Oh no, thank you. A pipe for me, please. By the way, I did not know you
were of the Chapel-going order. The one reason I doubted it was you was
because my father said you were at the little Wesleyan Chapel."
"I went there out of curiosity, I am afraid. I was wondering whether
these people had anything to say to a man whose days were numbered."
"I go there twice a year," was his reply. "I used to go regularly when a
boy. Do you intend to stay long down here, by the way?"
"To the end, I expect," I said, shrugging my shoulders.
"Come, now, we will not talk like that. I am sorry to see you looking so
seedy. You were always spoken of in Oxford as an athlete. You got your
Blue, didn't you?"
"Yes," I replied; "but one never knows what germs of disease one has in
one's system. However, we will not talk about that. It is awfully good
of you to ask me to come up to your house."
"Rather it will be awfully good of you if you come," he replied. "What a
jolly fine view you have here. The old man who built this hut chose one
of the most beautiful positions on the whole coast. How did you find it
out?"
"Simpson, my man, did that for me," was my reply. "He was a boy down
here, he says, and when I told him I had to get away from London, he
came down here on spec. I consider myself very lucky."
"I am afraid you will find it a bit lonely in the winter, won't you? The
sea is all right when the sun is shining on it, but in winter, when the
clouds are black, I know of nothing more dismal. Besides, those black,
beetling cliffs are enough to strike terror into one's soul."
I must confess to liking young Lethbridge. He was an athletic,
healthy-looking young fellow, tanned by much exposure to the sun, and
his every look and movement suggested frankness and honesty. I did not
judge him to be very clever, but he was certainly likeable.
"You were doing very well at the Bar, weren't you?" he went on. "Our
chaps at Balliol spoke of you as one who would bring added lustre to the
old College."
"I was only just beginning to see light," was the reply. "I was lucky in
one of the cases I had, and won it by a fluke. That was why briefs were
beginning to come in. But I have got to the end of them now. What do you
do with yourself?"