wanted me to go in for the Law, and then try for Parliament. He has an
idea that I ought to represent one of the Cornish constituencies, but I
am not cut out for that sort of thing."
"What would you like to be?" I asked.
"Oh, a farmer," he replied. "If, instead of spending all the money he
has spent in sending me to Oxford, the pater had bought a thousand acres
of land and set me up farming, I should be as happy as a king, but law
books are just Sanskrit to me. I love an open-air life, and I love
horses and animals generally. The pater won't see things in my light,
however; that is why I am doing nothing. I wish you would tell him when
you come up that none but brainy men can do anything at the Bar. Well,
it is close upon lunch-time, and I must go. But you will be sure to
come, won't you? Look here, let's have an understanding. I will send the
motor down to the end of the lane to-morrow evening at seven o'clock,
and then, if you cannot come, you can send your man out to tell the
chauffeur. But be sure to come, if you can."
When he had gone I somehow felt better. His very presence was healthful,
and I looked forward with pleasure to meeting him again.
"You have been quite busy this morning, sir," said Simpson when he came
in to lay the table for my lunch. "Two visitors in one day in a
neighborhood like this is something wonderful."
"Yes," I replied, "and I like young Lethbridge."
"I hear he is a great trouble to his father, sir."
I did not reply to this.
"You see, sir, old Mr. Lethbridge wants him to marry into a county
family. The truth is, when I was a boy down here he was only a poor lad.
How he has got on in the way he has is a mystery to every one. Somehow
or other everything he touched turned to money, and now he is richer
than Mr. Treherne, the Squire. He is very ambitious, too, and wants to
get in with the county people. That is why people wonder at his sticking
to the Wesleyan Chapel."
"But how has young Lethbridge caused him trouble?" I asked.
"Well, sir, it is said that he's in love with a farmer's daughter, and
that the old gentleman says he will cut him off with a shilling if he
doesn't make up to Miss Treherne. Of course, people will talk, and maybe
it is only gossip."
I felt more interested than ever in young Lethbridge after this,
although I was rather annoyed with myself that I had listened to
servants' gossip. All the same, I believed there might be some truth in
what I had heard. There was a look in the young fellow's eyes which
suggested that the deepest longings in his heart were unsatisfied.
Before the day was over, the old adage which says that it never rains
but it pours was fulfilled in my case. Simpson had only just brought my
tea when he came to me with an important look on his face.
"Mr. Trelaske, the Vicar, has called to see you, sir."
"Good!" I replied. "Show him in."
"I hope you will forgive the liberty I am taking," said the Vicar on
entering, "but, as you are one of my parishioners, and I was told you
were at Church on Sunday evening, I thought I might call."
"It is very kind of you," I said. "You have just come in time for tea,
too. Won't you sit down?"
Mr. Trelaske did not look so imposing, as he sat in my little room, as
when wearing his clerical robes in Church. He seemed a smaller man, not
simply physically--his personality seemed less as he drew a chair up to
the table and took a cup of tea from Simpson.
"I suppose you know that you are the subject of a great deal of
discussion in St. Issey?" he said presently.
"I'm very flattered," was my reply.
"Well, for a man to come to St. Issey with a man-servant, and take up
his abode in old Father Abraham's cottage, has set all the gossips in
the village working overtime."
"Mrs. Grundy lives here, then?"
"Well, you know what we country people are. St. Issey is out of the
beaten track of tourists, although there isn't a prettier spot in
England, and no healthier for that matter. As for the coast scenery
round here, it is, in my opinion, the most beautiful in the whole
country. Anyhow, a stranger attracts a great deal of notice. Then, you
see, this hut is a mystery."
"Yes, I have heard all about that," I replied, "but I dare say a great
deal of the mystery has been magnified. Anyhow, it suits me entirely; it
is situated in one of the most lovely spots in the vicinity. It is
utterly quiet, and yet it is not altogether out of the world."
"Might one ask, Mr. Erskine," he said, turning to me suddenly, "why you
came to this part of the world?"
"I came here to die," I replied.
He stared at me curiously.
"To die, Mr. Erskine?" he said.
"Yes," I replied. "I have been given a year to live--at the outside. It
may be that I shall only last a month or two. When I told my man Simpson
about it, and said I wanted to die in the most pleasant place possible,
and to do it rather cheaply, he came down here and took this house."
"Y-you do look rather seedy," he stammered. "But surely it is not so bad
as that?"
"Dr. Rhomboid, who is at the head of his profession, examined me very
carefully, and that was the verdict he passed. That was why I went to
Church last Sunday night."
"I don't think I quite understand you," and the Vicar looked at me as
though he doubted my sanity.
"You are an Oxford man, aren't you?" he went on. "At least, that is what
I have heard; and you were a barrister, and have won some repute in that
direction?"
"With the exception of your last sentence, you have been correctly
informed," was my reply. "What I have told you is quite true,
nevertheless. It is also true that I went to Church last Sunday night
because of what Dr. Rhomboid told me," and I looked at his face
curiously, because I wanted to see how he would take it.
"No," I continued, "I am not an illustration of the old rhyme:
"The devil was sick, the devil a monk would be,
The devil was well, and the devil a monk was he!
It is not that at all; but do you know, Mr. Trelaske, when a man is
suddenly told that he has only a year to live, and may possibly die in a
few weeks, he is, to say the least of it, somewhat curious to know what
will happen after he is dead. I repeat, that is why I went to Church
last Sunday night."
"Yes, yes, certainly," and I thought he seemed a little bit uneasy.
"Mr. Trelaske," I said, "what happens to a man after he is dead?"
He was silent for a few seconds, and again he looked at me as if he
doubted my sanity.
"I am not joking," I persisted. "After all, it is a matter of some
interest to me, and as you are a clergyman, and as a belief in a future
life is one of the articles of the faith you preach, I thought I would
ask your opinion about it."
"But surely, Mr. Erskine," he said, "you are not a heathen. You are an
old 'Varsity man. You took an arts degree, and would, to say the least
of it, have had to study the Greek Testament. You know what is taught
there."
"Excuse me," was my reply, "but that doesn't quite meet the situation.
It is quite true, as you say, that I had to study the New Testament at
Oxford, and also while at school at Winchester I was in a Confirmation
Class; but all that kind of thing is a long way off. It is simply
traditional, and when a man comes down to the depths of life traditions
don't count. It is true that I have not read the New Testament lately,
not, indeed, since I left Oxford. I am like thousands of other fellows,
who, on going out into the world, give these things the go-by. Years ago
I suppose I held to the traditional faith, although I have troubled very
little about it; but now, as things are, I am interested--I am more than
interested. What will happen to me a few months hence, when I am dead?
Anything?"
I could quite see that he was surprised at the course the conversation
was taking, and that he had no expectation of being asked such
questions; but now that I had spoken, I meant to know all that he could
tell me.
"Our state in the future," was his reply, "depends on the life we have
lived here."
"Isn't that rather begging the question?" I asked. "You are assuming
something which, as it seems to me, is a matter of doubt. No, do not
mistake me, I haven't lived a bad life. I have not descended to the
vulgar vices which are supposed to be so common to men in these days. I
have, as my acquaintances say of me, 'gone straight.' I listened very
attentively to your sermon on Sunday night. You see, I was more than
ordinarily interested. Your text was, 'If a man die, shall he live
again?' Will he, Mr. Trelaske?"
"Of course," was his reply.
"Are you _sure_?" I asked, emphasizing the word.
"Hasn't it been the teaching of the Church from its earliest history?"
and he looked a little indignant.
"Excuse me, but if you will forgive me for saying so, the teaching of
the Church is the very thing in question. As you may imagine, I do not
ask the question out of idle curiosity; I am deeply interested, vitally
interested. Mr. Trelaske, are you sure, if I were to die to-night, that
there would be anything after? Mind you, I do not ask for a mere
opinion; we all have those, but is it a matter of certainty with you?"
"As I said on Sunday night," he replied, after some silence, "spiritual
things are spiritually discerned; and immortality is a matter of the
spirit, isn't it?"
"I am afraid I don't follow you," I replied. "As you said just now, I am
a lawyer, and my business for several years has been to test evidence.
After I have tested the evidence that has been brought in support of any
particular case, it has been my business to convince the jury that the
evidence is conclusive. If I don't convince the jury, of course I fail
to win my case. Your answer suggests that I lack the qualities to
understand the proofs in support of the doctrine you taught on Sunday
night. Perhaps you are right; probably I have so neglected what you call
the spiritual part of me that it has become atrophied. I will put it in
another way, then, and, believe me, it is furthest from my desire to be
impertinent. Supposing you were to die to-night--you, an ordained
clergyman--are you _sure_ there is a life beyond?"
Mr. Trelaske was silent.
"Forgive my asking you," I said. "I am afraid I have been frightfully
rude; but you see, living here alone, with the doctor's verdict
constantly before me, I am curious to know."
"Not at all, not at all," he said hastily, "I am very glad you asked me;
but the question is so sudden. I do not think that during the whole time
I have lived in St. Issey any one has asked me such a thing before, at
least not in the same way."
"I was wrong," I said; "please forgive me."
I could see that I had made him miserable. The look in his eyes told me
that. As I said before, Mr. Trelaske was evidently a gentleman, and he
wanted to be absolutely honest with me. All the same, his silence made
my heart heavy.
Although I had, in a way, made up my mind that there was nothing after
death, the thought of becoming nothing was grim and repellent.
"Look here, Mr. Erskine," he said, after a somewhat painful silence,
"you must come to the Vicarage and see me. I will think over what you
have said, and then perhaps I shall be better prepared to meet the
situation."
From that time the conversation drifted to general matters, and when the
Vicar left me, it was on the understanding that I should, at an early
date, spend an evening with him.
V
AN EMERGING MYSTERY
After the Vicar had gone I suffered a slight reaction. My mind was
almost abnormally active, but physically I felt utterly languid and
depressed. I could see that Simpson was watching me closely, and when I
did not do justice to the dinner he had provided he was almost as
depressed as I.
"I could not help hearing what you and the Vicar were talking about,
sir," he said presently. "I tried not to listen, but some things came to
me in spite of myself."
"You heard nothing very edifying, Simpson."
"No, sir; all the same, I was sorry for you."
"Sorry for me! Why?"
"Well, sir, I think I understand how you feel. I am only a poor,
ignorant man, sir, but I think I should feel something the same myself.
Mr. Trelaske did not help you much, did he?"
"Well, he did not seem any more sure than you did, Simpson."
"Yes, sir; I cannot understand it. I was at the death-bed of my father,
sir; he was what you would call an old-fashioned Methodist. He was not
clever or learned, or anything of that sort; but he was very sure, sir."
"Sure of what, Simpson?"
"Sure that he was going to heaven; sure that this life was only a school
for a greater life, sir. I am afraid I have not put it very well, but he
was what the Vicar says he isn't--sure. What I can't understand, sir, is
that religion seems to have no meaning nowadays. I was hoping that when
I got down here I should find things the same as they were when I left
home forty years ago. Then, sir, religion meant something; it doesn't
now. They say the same words at Chapel as they used to say, but they do
not mean the same things."
"You mean that religion is dead altogether, then, Simpson?"
"I don't mean that, sir. I only mean that people seem to have lost it.
It seems a terrible thing, doesn't it, sir, that when a young gentleman
like you wants to know something, and you go to Chapel, and to Church,
to learn the thing they ought to be able to tell you, you find out that
they know no more than you do? However, sir, it isn't for me to
criticize. Is there anything more I can do for you, sir?"
"No, nothing at present, Simpson;" and I turned to the book-shelves that
he had fitted up, hoping to find a book that would interest me. In this,
however, I utterly failed. I turned from volume to volume, but could
fasten my mind on nothing. Books which a few months ago would have
enabled me to pass a pleasant evening seemed meaningless and absurd. I
turned from one writer to another, but always with the same result. What
they had to say meant nothing. Of course, my mind was in an abnormal
condition, but that was not my fault. Here was I, face to face with
death, hungering for reality, hungering for truths that were vital. My
law books repelled me. What did I care about old Acts of Parliament,
passed hundreds of years before? Of what interest to me were the
decisions of old judges, long since dead? They affected only some nice
points of law, which, as far as I could see, mattered nothing. They
never touched the depths of life at all. Then there were novels, many of
them written by men and women I knew personally. But they had nothing to
say to me. I did not care a fig about paltry intrigues, neither was I in
the slightest degree interested in _risqué_ situations.
I went to the door, and looked out into the silent night. Daylight had
just gone, and that kind of atmosphere which can only be felt just after
sunset and just before sunrise, pervaded everything. The air was full of
mystery. The wondrous depths of the sky, the wide sweep of the Atlantic,
the cry of the sea-birds, and that deep hush which accompanies the dying
day, aroused infinite longings. What was life, its meaning, its mystery,
its destiny?
Simpson came to my side.
"I beg your pardon, sir, but you are not going out, are you?"
I had not thought of it, but his words caused me to determine to go for
a walk.
"Yes, Simpson, I am," I replied.
"Shall I go with you, sir?"
"No, thank you, Simpson, I will go alone."
"Excuse me, sir, but are you not foolish? Walking in the night might do
you harm, sir; it might shorten your days."
"What does that matter?" I asked. "As the end is so near, of what
consequence are a few days, or, for that matter, weeks? The sooner I
die, the sooner I shall solve the great mystery of the Beyond, if there
is a Beyond; if there isn't, what have I to live for here?"
"I beg your pardon, sir, I am very sorry." And Simpson sighed.
I put on a light overcoat, and made my way to the highest point of the
cliffs. Beneath me, far down, perhaps three or four hundred feet, the
waves rolled on the black, rugged rocks. As I looked seaward, the water,
as it seemed to me, became darker and darker. The lines of foam, which
stretched along by the coast, became more and more distinct. Night had
now fallen. The sky was star-spangled. I had never seen such a sky in
England before. Once or twice down by the Mediterranean I had seen
something similar, but never in my own country. I felt as though
invisible presences were near me, as though they were trying to speak to
me; but I could not understand the language.
Unmindful of consequences, I sat down on the heather, and gave myself up
to fancy. I tried to pierce the veil which hung between me and the
Beyond. I tried to understand the meaning of the far-off voices which
were wafted to me by the night breezes. I wanted to read the riddle of
Life and Death.
Then, suddenly, I heard voices, and I was brought back from things
intangible and mysterious to things mundane.
"You are sure he knows nothing?" It was a woman's voice I heard.
"Perfectly sure. I questioned him closely this morning. I so framed my
questions that he could have no suspicion--but always with the same
result."
"But why should he choose a place like this? Surely, if he is ill,
dying, he would never come to a madman's hut, in a place where murder
was supposed to be committed."
"I tell you that there is no need for fear; he suspects nothing--he is
just what he seems to be."
The voices died away. The man and woman whom I had heard talking, and
whom I had dimly seen, descended the hill, and were lost in the
darkness. Then it was that, in spite of myself, I became interested in
things mundane. Why they should do so I could not imagine, but I felt
that they had been talking about me. But why should they? What was the
purport of their conversation? How had I become mixed up in the plans of
people of whom I knew nothing? I felt myself at the centre of a mystery,
and my interest in that mystery caused the greater mystery of Life and
Death to lose its hold on me.
I recognized the voice of the man. He had been to see me soon after my
arrival; but who was the woman? What interest could my movements have to
her? She spoke like one having authority, and it was evident that she
feared I should discover something.
I forgot my ailments, forgot the tragedy of my life, in trying to solve
this new riddle. I could not help connecting it with the old-fashioned
brooch I had picked up in the cave accidentally the day I had come to
Cornwall. The activities and interests in this life again became
paramount.
"I will get to the bottom of this, anyway," I said to myself as I made
my way back to my hut. "It will be better for me, too, than to be
forever brooding about myself. And, after all, while I am alive I will
live, and I will keep my eyes and ears open until I have discovered what
this means."
When I reached my little room again, Simpson awaited me eagerly.
"Please, sir," he said, "I have had visitors."
"More visitors, Simpson?"
"Yes, sir, a gentleman and a lady."
"Do you know who they are?"
"No, sir; they are both complete strangers. They came and asked to see
you, and I told them you were not to be seen, sir. They asked a good
many questions about you, but I told them nothing."
"And then, Simpson?"
"The gentleman gave me his card, with his compliments, sir."
I took the card and read the address:
MR. JOHN LIDDICOAT,
THE HILL TOP,
ST. EIA.
"All right, Simpson," I said. "I shan't want you any more to-night."
"Please, sir," said Simpson, "I have some books here which I think might
interest you."
"Hang books!" I replied. "I don't feel like reading." Then, feeling
ashamed of myself for not appreciating Simpson's kindness, I added,
"It's awfully good of you, Simpson, and I might like them after all.
What is it you have got?"
"John Wesley's _Journal_, sir. He came to this part of Cornwall, and I
thought you might like to read about it. Not that I should advise you to
read to-night, sir, if I might take such a liberty, but perhaps
to-morrow. Good-night, sir." And he left me.
I was just on the point of going to bed, when, on opening one of the
volumes he had placed on the table, I came upon a passage which
interested me. I saw that the name of St. Issey was mentioned, and a
description given of this very neighborhood. In a few minutes I had
become utterly absorbed. Hitherto John Wesley had only been a name to
me. I had had no interest either in his life or work. I had looked upon
him as somewhat of a fanatic, who had appealed to the fears of a
superstitious people, and had founded a sect. Now, however, he revealed
himself to me in a new light. This diary was the work of a thoughtful
man, and a cultured man, too, who had lived his life to the full, and
who faced its issues squarely.
My word, religion had meant something to him! It was not a mere name, a
tradition, a set of dogmas, a respectable institution. It was something
real, vital, pulsating with life. To him the Founder of Christianity was
not a mere mystic and social reformer, who lived nineteen hundred years
ago on a little strip of land on the Eastern Coast of the Mediterranean,
but a Divine Person, Who lived now. This John Wesley, who was an
educated man and a thoughtful man, spoke like one who knew, and because
of it he had authority and power.
I went on reading page after page, until, looking at my watch, I found
it was past midnight.
VI
THE LETHBRIDGE FAMILY
We had adjourned to the smoke-room, and for my own part, I was feeling
better than I had felt for some time. Opposite me sat Mr. Lethbridge,
while by my side sat young Hugh Lethbridge, who had been to see me the
day before. I had eaten a good dinner, and felt inclined to take a
bright view of everything. Mr. Lethbridge had played the part of host
perfectly, and had done his best to make me feel welcome, not only as a
visitor in the neighborhood, but in his house. I had the opportunity,
moreover, of making the acquaintance of his wife and daughter.
The former was a well-meaning lady, whose _métier_ was to manage other
people's affairs. While we were at dinner she gave her husband a great
deal of information as to how he should manage his men, how he should
work the mines he owned, and how the vessels he controlled should be
utilized. She also informed her son how he should spend his time, what
his amusements and avocations should be. She greatly amused us all by
describing what she would do if she were a girl again. She had opinions
about everything in heaven above and on earth beneath. I found that she
knew intimately the history of every family in the neighborhood, and she
took it upon herself to manage the affairs of those families. She might
be rather a tiresome person to live with, but for my own part I found
her vastly entertaining.
Young Hugh Lethbridge told her that he intended writing to the Prime
Minister, offering her services as general adviser to the Government,
while her daughter laughingly remarked that she would wear herself out
in attending to the affairs of people who had a distinct preference for
attending to their own business. Mrs. Lethbridge took it all in a good
humor, however, and seemed to regard it as her chief business to be a
universal helper. She even went so far as to instruct me how I might
deal with Simpson, and gave me a great deal of valuable advice on
housekeeping.
I found that Isabella Lethbridge was entirely different from her mother.
On the whole she puzzled me. That she was intelligent there could be no
doubt whatever. In many ways she was attractive, but on the whole I did
not like her. For one thing, I thought she showed bad taste in holding
up her mother to ridicule, while more than once I thought she revealed
an almost sullen disposition. Still, she was interesting. She was more
than ordinarily good-looking, and at times became quite animated.
The family, as a whole, did not strike me as ideal. They seemed to be at
cross-purposes with each other. I could see that Mr. Lethbridge did not
at all understand his son, and resented any difference of opinion which
might exist between them. He apparently regarded Hugh as a boy who
should unquestioningly obey his father's behests without regard to his
own feelings and opinions; and yet he seemed to be angry with him for
not being something in the world which would give him a position among
his fellow-men.