suggested, a strong, capable man, and fully bore out what I had heard
concerning him. He could never have been a nonentity, wherever he was
placed, and whatever he took in hand he would do with such
conscientiousness and thoroughness as to make it succeed. Consequently,
it was no wonder that he had risen from a poor lad to be a man of wealth
and of eminence in the county. That he was exceedingly ambitious there
could be no doubt, and I judged that he was a little bit sore that all
his ambitions had not been realized. He seemed composed of contradictory
elements. On one hand, he seemed a man of the Napoleonic order, who
would make everything and every person yield to his desires. On the
other, I judged him to be a man who wanted to be strictly honest and
conscientious, a man who would not give up one iota of his convictions,
even if by so doing he could gain the things he desired.
Although no plain statement was made at the dinner-table to that effect,
I gathered that he had suffered socially because of his adherence to
what he termed his Nonconformist principles, and that he would have
taken his position among the county families had he not remained true to
the Chapel he had attended as a boy. On the other hand, however, that
same Chapel, as it seemed to me, was a fetish rather than something
which vitally affected his life.
I am spending some time in recording my impressions about this family,
because I was brought into close contact with it in later days, and also
because the various members of it affected me considerably.
"Yes," said Mr. Lethbridge, as we sat in the smoke-room, "I am an
old-fashioned man, Mr. Erskine. I do not believe in giving up my early
convictions simply because they are not popular."
"What are your early convictions?" asked Hugh.
"I mean my Nonconformist principles. See what Methodism has done for
Cornwall, see what it has done for the whole country for that matter."
"Yes, what has it done?" asked Hugh.
"It has changed Cornwall from being drunken and godless into the most
sober and God-fearing part of the country."
"Admitted," replied the son. "But who cares anything about Methodism
now?"
"I am surprised and ashamed of you, Hugh, talking like that," said the
father. "What is your opinion about it, Mr. Erskine?"
"My opinion about what?" I asked.
"Don't you think a man should stand by his principles?"
"His principles, certainly," was my reply, "especially if, after having
tested them, they proved to be vital; but I am rather interested in what
your son says. I have been reading John Wesley's _Journal_, and I cannot
help realizing the tremendous influence he wielded over a hundred years
ago in this very county; but what troubles me is that it seems to mean
comparatively little now."
"I don't understand you," he said, rather brusquely.
"What I want to know," I said, "is this. Does Methodism, or for that
matter, does religion of any sort, vitally affect the lives and outlook
of people now? If it does, why is it that its hold seems to be weakening
day by day? I am told that your Chapel used to be crowded, and that
while the people were ignorant, Methodism vitally influenced their
lives; but now it seems a kind of corpse. It has a name to live, but is
dead. This afternoon, Simpson, my man, brought me a book which belonged
to his father. That book describes what the people used to do for their
faith. Even the women worked to bring stones to build the chapels, while
the men toiled hours after their ordinary work was over, as a labor of
love, in order to erect the buildings which their children and their
children's children neglect and often despise. Everything seems
stereotyped. Most of the people seem to care little or nothing about
what their forbears would die for, and those that do care seem to regard
it in a half-hearted way, and talk about it as something that has been
rather than something that is."
"Yes," said Mr. Lethbridge, with a sigh, "I am afraid you are right. The
old fire has gone, faith has largely died out, real earnestness seems a
thing of the past; and yet what can one do?"
"I am afraid I am not the one to ask," I replied. "You see, I am a rank
outsider so far as that kind of thing is concerned."
"For that matter the Church of England is no better," said Mr.
Lethbridge.
"Should that console one?" I asked. "Cornwall, as I understand, used to
be the home of religious activity, of unquestioning faith, of devoted
fervor; but to-day people are careless, materialistic. Faiths which at
one time were held tenaciously, doctrines which were believed in
unquestioningly, are now apparently a dead letter."
"I suppose you are a Churchman, Mr. Erskine," said Mr. Lethbridge.
"I am afraid I am nothing," I replied. "For several years I did not put
my foot inside a Church of any sort."
"Indeed, how is that?"
"I suppose I had no interest," I said. "That was why going to Church on
Sunday was something new to me. I felt like a man witnessing a strange
thing, and trying to understand something which was unfamiliar."
"Yes, and how did it impress you?"
"Everything was so unconvincing," I replied. "The note of reality was
never struck at all."
"But surely," said Mr. Lethbridge, "you are not an atheist?"
"I am nothing," was my answer. "I wish I were. I suppose you know why I
came here?"
"Yes, I have heard," he replied, "and I am very, very sorry for you, and
you such a young man too, and life opening up all sorts of
possibilities. Perhaps, however, it is not as bad as you think; the
doctor may have made a mistake."
"I am afraid there is no hope of that," was my reply. "The man who
examined me has the reputation of being the most eminent diagnostician
in his profession; but if you religious people are right, it does not
matter. If John Wesley, whose diary I have been reading, is right, what
we call life, that is, life here, is a very small matter; it is only a
fragment of life. Death, according to him, is only an episode; but the
worst of it is that here, in a county where he is so largely
represented, and in a village where he has visited, his power is gone.
The old words are used, but the old convictions are gone--that is why
such a man as I am left stranded. But really, I am ashamed of myself,
talking like this. Believe me, I am not in the habit of boring people
with my ailments and foolish speculations."
We joined the ladies shortly after, and our conversation, I am afraid,
was of a very uninteresting nature. I noticed all the time we were
talking, too, that Mr. Lethbridge was paying no attention whatever. He
seemed to be thinking deeply about something else. Presently, while his
wife was engaged in a long harangue about the inferiority of girls,
comparing them with what she used to be when she was a girl, Mr.
Lethbridge broke in suddenly.
"Yes, Mr. Erskine," he said, "you may be right in what you were
saying--that is, up to a point--but you don't go deep enough."
"I am afraid I never do go very deep," was my reply. "The deeper one
goes, as a rule, the greater the muddle."
"Not in this case," and he spoke quite eagerly. "Why, the whole life of
the county is what John Wesley and Methodism have made it. People, as a
whole, may seem to have discarded his teachings, but they are in the
very air we breathe; the people's thoughts, the people's lives, are what
they are to-day because of the work he did."
"I dare say," I replied, for, to tell the truth, I was anxious to avoid
anything like a theological discussion.
"Yes, don't you see? In the background of people's minds there is the
impress of his work; his influence is felt everywhere. Even the people
who never enter a place of worship have been shaped and moulded by
Methodism."
"In what way?" asked Hugh.
"Well, take such a question as war," replied Mr. Lethbridge. "John
Wesley killed the very possibility of war."
"I wish I could see it," I could not help exclaiming.
"It is plain enough," he replied. "Methodism and war cannot go together.
The love of peace has entered into the very essence of people's lives.
Is not that something to be thankful for?"
"I am not so sure," replied Isabella Lethbridge. "May not war be a very
good thing?"
"A good thing!" cried her father--"a good thing! Why, it's hellish! I
would rather see a son of mine dead than a soldier! And that is the
feeling Methodism has created throughout the county. You scarcely ever
find a conscientious Methodist becoming a soldier. A soldier in this
county is looked upon as a kind of legalized murderer."
"Surely," I said, "it is not so bad as that?"
"It amounts to that," was his reply. "For my own part, I have an utter
abhorrence of anything which savors of militarism, and I know it is
because of the impressions I received as a boy."
"But supposing war were to break out?" I said.
"War break out!" he interrupted. "How can it break out, unless some of
our so-called statesmen make asses of themselves? No one wants war."
"No," I said--"that is, as far as the general feeling in the country is
concerned; but supposing war were thrust upon us?"
"Who would thrust it upon us?" he asked, almost angrily.
"Germany, for example," was my reply.
"Impossible!"
"Not so impossible, I am afraid," I could not help replying. "Why,
during the last few years we have twice been on the brink of war with
Germany, and, unless I am mistaken, a war with that country is bound to
come, sooner or later." This, I am afraid, I said rather for the sake of
argument than because I really believed it. "Take that Agadir incident.
We were within an ace of war then. Indeed, had Germany been as ready as
she is now it would doubtless have come off."
"I do not believe it," was his reply. "The people of England would have
refused; the whole nation would have risen up in protest against it, and
not even the Government could have forced the country into a war which
it detested."
"Not if we were attacked?" was my answer.
"I do not believe in the possibility of it at all," he replied. "We are
essentially a peace-loving people."
"That may be, but even a peace-loving people may be obliged to defend
itself."
"But we shall never be called upon to defend ourselves."
"I am not at all sure," was my answer. "Germany is just spoiling for
war. Ever since she beat France she has been longing for expansion, and
the military party in Germany maintain that the English people keep them
from occupying their rightful place in the world."
"Yes, the military party," he said; "a negligible section of the
country."
"Excuse me," was my answer, "but the military party in Germany is
practically the nation. It is true there are a few Socialists who
disclaim war, and profess to be at enmity with the military party;
nevertheless, that party rules the nation, and if war should break out
every Socialist would be obliged to fight for his country--and Germany
means that it shall break out."
"And what then?" he asked.
"Then," I replied, "the power and solidarity of the British Empire will
be tested as it has never been tested before. There will be such a
struggle as has never been known in the history of the world. Every
ounce of power that we have will be requisitioned; every able-bodied man
in the country will be called to arms."
"But the country will refuse to respond," was his reply.
"If you are right, and the men of England refuse to respond, England
will cease to be. There will be no England, and Germany will rule the
destinies of the world."
"You seem to be very sure of what Germany will do," he said, rather
impatiently.
"No one can travel in Germany, or read German literature, without
knowing it. It is a nation under arms. The love of war is bred in the
people. Militarism is glorified. They have such an army as was never
known before, and they have utilized all their discoveries in science to
make their army a perfect fighting machine. They have huge factories
devoted to the making of air-ships and guns, and all that appertains to
guns, and I tell you that if war breaks out between Germany and England,
our country will be tried as it was never tried before. Do you mean to
say that England would stand still while Germany sought to destroy us?"
"I mean that we are not a military people, and never will be." It was at
this point that young Lethbridge sprang to his feet, like a man angry.
"I do not believe that you are right, pater," he said. "If England were
in danger the young men of England would fight to the last man."
"No, they would not," replied the father, "because war is a devilish
thing. It is opposed to the teaching of Christianity."
"But where would our Christianity be, where would everything we hold
dear be, if Germany dominated the world?" protested Hugh. "Why, if I had
a hundred lives I would give them for the defense of my country."
"Then patriotism would be more than your religion?"
"I cannot argue the matter from that standpoint," replied young
Lethbridge. "I only know that I am an Englishman--every drop of my blood
is English. God made me English, and if I have a love for my country,
God gave me that love, and if there were a call for men I would
respond."
"You would be no son of mine if you did," replied the father.
"But he would," cried Isabella Lethbridge. "Why, father, you are a
fighter; you know you are, and I should be ashamed of Hugh if his
country called him and he held back. There doesn't seem to be much in
life worth being interested in, but if anything would arouse me, it
would be the thought of England in danger."
"And would you believe in war, even if we were in the wrong?" asked her
father.
"I cannot conceive of our being in the wrong," was her reply. "Besides,
it can never be wrong to defend one's native land." The girl's eyes
flashed as she made this reply, and I saw possibilities in her nature
which I had not recognized before. Her lips quivered, and her features
became animated with a kind of new life.
"But do you really believe, Mr. Erskine, that Germany means to force war
on England?" she went on.
"No one who has been to Germany, and has studied the life there, can
help knowing that they have been preparing for war for forty years, and
no one can help realizing that the Germans hate the English with a
deadly hatred. It may be only because of their jealousy, or it may be,
as they say, that our Navy keeps them from realizing their rightful
position. Anyhow, the fact remains. Our statesmen are doing their best
to put off the evil day, but it is a recognized fact among those in high
places that Europe at this moment is sitting on a powder magazine; and,
mark you, if war does come it will not be a picnic."
"I tell you the people of England will never allow such a thing," urged
Mr. Lethbridge doggedly; "we are a peace-loving people. Besides, we
cannot go to war; we have no army worth calling an army, and I, for one,
thank God for it."
"Of course there will be no war," said Mrs. Lethbridge confidently; "the
Powers would not allow it, my dears."
"Are we sure that we have yet realized what Germany is, or what her
people mean to do?" I asked. "During the last thirty years she has
simply forced herself upon the life of the world; her commerce has
progressed by leaps and bounds; she has placed her foot everywhere.
Before Bismarck's days she had practically no voice in the counsels of
the nations. To-day her voice is a dominant one, her commerce is still
increasing; she has succeeded, in spite of our protests, in building a
navy second to none but our own. Why did she build that navy? She can
command an army of, perhaps, eight or ten million men, more perfectly
equipped than any other army known in history. She has munitions,
implements of war, which can practically laugh at those of any other
nation."
"That shows her foolishness," said Mr. Lethbridge.
"How?"
"Because she does not know what other countries possess."
"Is not that where you make a mistake? Germany has a Secret Intelligence
Service, which enables her to know the strength of every army and navy
in the world. England at this time, for example, is simply riddled with
spies. Germany knows the strength of our Navy to a nicety. She knows our
every port, every harbor, every fortress; she has made it her business
to do so, and Germany means war. Do you think that when the time comes
England will sit idly by?"
"No! by heavens, no!" cried Hugh Lethbridge. "I doubt whether what you
say is true, Erskine, but if England is ever in danger, Englishmen will
be true to their name and their country."
"Yes, and Englishwomen too," cried Isabella Lethbridge. "I tell you
nothing can destroy the old fighting instinct, which will protect home
and Motherland. Dad," and she turned to her father almost fiercely, "do
you mean to say that if we were in danger you would advise us to do
nothing?"
Mr. Lethbridge laughed scornfully. "How can there be any danger?" he
asked. "War cannot come about in these days, as it did in the old times.
War depends now on the whole of the people; the democracy rules--not a
few men in high places."
"Democracy does not rule," cried the girl, "and never will. Democracy is
a mob which is forever calling out for leaders. No Government is
democratic, it is always autocratic."
"You are talking nonsense, child," said her father. "You can do nothing
to-day against the voice of the people, and the voice of the people is
against anything like war. I repeat what I said just now--I would rather
see a son of mine dead than that he should be a soldier! But there,
there! There is no chance of it. Whatever England has been, she is
to-day at peace, and as far as Cornwall is concerned, as I said just
now, John Wesley has killed militarism."
He left the room as he spoke, while Hugh Lethbridge looked meaningly
towards his sister.
"I am afraid I shall have to be going," I said, looking at my watch. "I
have stayed too long already."
"No, no!" protested Hugh. "Stay a little longer. Do you know, Erskine,
it is like a fresh breeze from the mountains to hear what you have been
saying to-night. We live a starved, narrow life down here, and--and I'm
sick of it. I almost wish war would break out."
"For shame, Hugh!" said his mother. "What good would you be as a
soldier? No one can be an officer in an army unless he is trained; and
as for your becoming a private, why, think how ridiculous you would look
in a private's uniform."
"I am afraid I must be going," I persisted, moving towards the door.
"I will have the car out and drive you home," said Hugh Lethbridge.
"No," I said, "it is a beautiful night, and I think I would rather
walk."
"But in your state of health, Mr. Erskine, it would be very foolish,"
said Mrs. Lethbridge. "Really, we cannot allow you."
"I would rather walk," I persisted. Whereupon Hugh announced his
intention of accompanying me.
When Mr. Lethbridge bade me good-night he had quite recovered his
equanimity, and expressed the hope that I would soon come to see them
again.
"I feel like a toad in a hole," said Hugh, after we had walked some
minutes in silence together.
"How is that?" I asked.
"What has life to offer a fellow? The pater insisted upon my going to
the University and reading for the Bar. I am not fit for it--I know I am
not fit. Then, although he pretends to be a man of the people, he is
also socially ambitious. You would not believe it, would you? I know it
is wrong for me to talk in this way, but somehow I cannot help it. You
know, Erskine, as my father said just now, he was a poor man, and made
money rapidly, and he is disappointed that the doors of the county
people are not open to us. I do not care a fig about the county people
myself; do you?"
"Some of them are very nice," I replied.
"You will not take it amiss of me if I tell you something, will you?
And, of course, you will regard it as a confidence? It is something
which means a lot to me."
"Do you think you know me well enough to tell me?" I replied. "After
all, we have only met twice."
"I must tell you," he persisted. "As you say, I have only met you twice,
but I seem to have known you all my life. Besides, a fellow must tell
his thoughts to some one. I am in love, Erskine."
"That is interesting."
"Yes, but don't you see, everything is at cross-purposes. Old Treherne,
down here, has a daughter several years older than I am. You have heard
of Treherne, haven't you? He is the Squire."
"Yes, I have heard of Mr. Treherne."
"His daughter is on the shelf--has been for several years. He is as poor
as a church mouse, is the Squire; but then, he is one of the big people
in the county, and the pater has an idea that if I were to marry her ...
well, you can see, can't you?"
"The lady might not be willing," I suggested.
"Quite possible, of course; but the pater seems sure she would be. You
see, she's thirty, if she's a day, and as ugly as they make 'em, and the
pater wants me to sell my soul and marry her. By so doing, old Treherne
would be able to pay off the mortgages on the estate, and I, in time,
would become the Squire. Just think of it!"
"I thought he wanted you to read for the Bar?" I interposed.
"Yes, he does, but that is only one of his many schemes. He wants me to
marry Treherne's daughter. Celia, they call her--Celia Treherne. Good,
isn't it?"
"Why, isn't she an estimable lady?"
"Estimable! Estimable enough. But, as I told you just now, I am in love
with a farmer's daughter, one of the class my family really belongs to,
and the pater--well, I need scarcely tell you what he says."
"And this farmer's daughter's name?" I queried.
"I wish you would let me introduce you to her," he cried eagerly. "A
sweeter girl never lived. I used to think of her as a sweetheart ten
years ago, when the pater was poorer than he is now. I fought several
boys about her. Mary Treleaven is her name. Do you think that you could
persuade the governor? You see, he refuses to countenance it, and,
without him, I haven't a penny with which to bless myself."
"My dear fellow," I said, "if you care anything about the girl you will
make yourself independent of your father."
"Yes, but what am I fit for--what can I do? He professes to have
democratic notions, and yet he has given me the education of a
gentleman; sent me to a public school, where no one learns anything of
any use, and then to Oxford, where I just scraped through, and got a
pass degree. What is the good of all that to me? There is not a single
thing I care anything about, except farming, and that needs capital.
What would you advise me to do?"
"I am afraid I can't advise anything just now. You see, I know so little
about either of you. Perhaps when I have been here a little longer I may
be able to help." By this time we had reached the little wooded lane
which led to my hut.
"You will come and see us again soon?" he pleaded.
"You are very kind," I replied. "If I am well enough, I will."
"I cannot believe you are so ill as you think," he said eagerly.
I did not answer him. Of what use was it for me to tell him of the
gnawing pain which I could feel just then--pain which told me that my
very life was being eaten away?
"Won't you come in?" I asked.
"No, I mustn't. Besides, you will be tired. I say! what is that?" and he
pointed towards the highest part of the cliff, the base of which pushed
itself out into the sea. I looked, and in the dim light saw what I felt
sure to be a boat approaching the shore.
"Some fishermen, I expect," I replied.
"No, fishermen do not hang so close to the rocks as that," was his
answer. "Besides, the boat is making directly for us. No one was ever
known to land a fishing-boat on this beach. Fishing-boats go direct to
the harbor at St. Eia."
We listened intently, and heard the steady splash of the oars, and
presently I thought I heard low, murmuring voices, but I was not sure.
VII
ISABELLA LETHBRIDGE
During the next few days nothing happened, and, if the truth must be
told, I am afraid I got very lonely and depressed. Simpson did his best
to interest me, but failed. My books, too, seemed dull and colorless. I
suppose it was natural. I was passing through a phase in my life which
was the inevitable consequence of what had hitherto taken place. The
malady from which I was suffering was taking rather an acute form just
then, and I had neither the strength nor inclination for exercise. Thus,
although the weather was glorious and the air pure and bracing, I found
that sitting day after day amid the same surroundings was anything but
exhilarating. Moreover, although I cannot explain it, a sense of dread
possessed me. I felt sure that something was going to happen, and that I
was going to be at the centre of some untoward event.
I expect I felt all the more irritable because my desire to live became
stronger and stronger. It appeared to me that I had nothing to live for,
and yet I hung on to life, and the hope of life, grimly.
"Simpson," I said one day, "you told me when we came here that an idiot
lad, who went by the name of Fever Lurgy, waited on old Father Abraham
and did his errands. What has become of him?"
"Don't know, sir."