"Don't know at all, sir."
"It seems strange, doesn't it, that this lad, who was the first to tell
of what had happened to the old man, should not have come here when he
heard that the house was occupied again?"
"I did hear something of his running away, because he was afraid; but I
know nothing."
"Afraid? Afraid of what?"
"You know what these idiot boys are, sir. I suppose he almost worshipped
old Father Abraham, and when he knew his master was killed he feared to
stay in the same neighborhood."
"Is that your conclusion too, Simpson?" I asked.
"I never thought of it before, sir."
That day I went out for a walk. Somehow the lethargy which had possessed
me for a long time was gone, and my body for the time was instinct with
a new life. My fancies about Fever Lurgy had laid hold of me, and I
began asking myself all sorts of questions. I found my way into the
village, and, seeing a group of men standing by the pump, joined them. I
found them very willing to talk with me, and while at first they showed
no desire to impart any information, they asked me countless questions.
This, I have found since, is a characteristic of the Cornish people.
They are exceedingly friendly, and are willing to show kindness to a
stranger, but they will not take him into their confidence. They are
curious to know everything he can tell them, but they will tell him
nothing in return. While they believed I was simply a stranger from "up
country," their only interest in me was to know who I was, where I came
from, and all about my affairs generally. When they got to know that I
was of Cornish descent, however, there was an entire change in their
demeanor towards me. I was one of them.
In the course of a few minutes we got talking about Father Abraham and
of his tragic end.
"It 'ave bin said, sur, that th' ould man's ghost do wander round the
plaace, where you d' live, sur. Es et true?"
"I have never seen him, anyhow. Have you?"
"Well, sur, ted'n for we to say. Oal the saame, I heerd curious noises
wawn night near your house."
"What kind of noises?" I asked.
"Oh, a kind of moanin' and cryin', like a gull in pain."
"Maybe it _was_ a sea-gull," I suggested.
"No, sur, we d' know what gulls be like. Twad'n that. We be sure there
was foul play, sur."
"What about that lad, Fever Lurgy?" I asked. "Does he live in the
neighborhood now?"
"Bless you, sur, Fayver Lurgy a'n't bin seen since th' ould man was
killed."
"No!" I said. "Isn't that strange?"
"Oa, he was a funny chap, was Fayver Lurgy. Do you know whay he was
called Fayver Lurgy, sur?"
"Not the slightest idea," I replied.
"Well, sur, down 'long 'ere wi' we, when a great lousterin' chap wa'ant
work, and do ait a lot, we d' say 'ee've got Fayver Lurgy. That es, two
stomachs to ait, and noan to work. Tha's 'ow Fayver Lurgy got 'is name.
He's as strong as a 'oss, but he wudd'n work. 'Ee wadd'n such a fool as
'ee made out. 'Ee allays was a button short, was Fayver Lurgy, but 'ee
wadd'n no idiot, as people d' say."
"So you think he was afraid of being killed?" I suggested.
"Tha's what we d' think, sur."
"Who were his father and mother?" I asked.
"Nobody doan knaw, sur. He comed 'ere years and years ago, sur, weth an
ould woman, who said she was 'is grandmother. When th' ould woman died,
sur, Fayver Lurgy jist lopped round by hisself. Sometimes he ded a bit
of work, and sometimes nothin'; but 'ee scraped up a living some'ow.
When ould Father Abraham comed, he kipt with 'im reglar, and direkly 'ee
was killed, Fayver Lurgy left the neighbrood, and nobody doan knaw where
'a es."
"Did you ever see old Father Abraham?" I asked.
"Yes, sur, I've seen 'im, but never to spaik to. Curyus ould chap he
was. He 'ad long white whiskers and ter'ble bright eyes. Wan man I d'
knaw spoke to 'un. Billy Barnycote 't was. Billy did say as 'ow he
believed that ould Father Abraham was a furriner."
"I suppose he never went to Church or Chapel?" I asked.
"What! ould Father Abraham? Not 'ee. 'Ee ded'n go nowhere, so to spaik."
"And you," I said. "Do you ever go?"
"Sometimes, maaster, when there is a good praicher; but why shud us go
when the praichers doan knaw more'n we do? I a'ain't bin since last
Sunday-school anniversary. They 'ad a praicher from up to Plymouth.
Clever chap 'ee was, too. Ef we cud allays git praichers like 'ee, we'd
go every Sunday, but when a man like Tommy Coad d' git up and craake, we
ca'ant stand it."
The day was beautifully fine, and, as I felt more than ordinarily well,
I took a long route home. I had not gone far when, passing a stile, I
saw Miss Lethbridge leap lightly into the road. I could not help
reflecting how handsome she appeared in her light summer attire. When
visiting her father's house a few days before she had struck me as being
hard and repellent. Even now there was nothing winsome or girlish about
her, but that she presented an attractive figure I could not deny. More
than ordinarily tall, and finely formed, she carried her well-fitting
clothes to perfection. Her features, too, while not exactly beautiful,
were striking; and, flushed somewhat as she was by her walk through the
fields, she seemed a part of that bright, early summer day.
"I hope you are better, Mr. Erskine," was her greeting.
"Yes," I replied, "I feel well enough to take a fairly long walk. I have
been down into the village talking with some of the people there, and
trying to discover some of the romance for which Cornwall is famous."
"And have had your labor for your pains," was her reply.
"Not entirely. I feel as though I have happened upon something which
will lead to interesting developments."
"Believe me, you will not, Mr. Erskine."
"No? Why?"
"If ever there was a false tradition, it is the tradition that Cornwall
is romantic. I have lived here all my life, and there is no more romance
in the county than in that mine-heap," and she nodded towards a
discarded mine which lay in the distance.
"The Cornish people," she went on, "have no sense of the mysterious, no
sense of the romantic. If ever they had it, it has all died. I suppose
that years ago, when the people were entirely ignorant, they believed in
all sorts of superstitions, but now that they are better educated they
have discarded everything but what they can see, and feel with their own
hands. I am inclined to think they are right, too."
"I am not so sure," was my answer. And then I told her of the
conversation that had taken place a few moments before.
"And do you imagine, Mr. Erskine, that any romance surrounds the old man
who built the house you live in, and lived like a hermit away there by
the cliff? Do you think that any romance is associated with the idiot
lad who ran his errands and did his bidding?"
"Why not?"
"Because none exists."
"Pardon me if I do not agree with you. After all, there is something
romantic in the thought of that old man coming there alone and building
his hut in a lonely place, and spending years of his life there."
"Yes, it may seem so; but, pardon me, is there anything romantic in your
coming there, Mr. Erskine?"
I shrugged my shoulders.
"I am afraid not," I replied.
"And I dare say the reason why he came there was just as unromantic. As
for Fever Lurgy, every village has its idiot who is a butt for rustic
jokes."
"And what about old Father Abraham's mysterious disappearance?" I asked.
"What you call a mysterious disappearance," was her reply, "I regard as
a sordid crime. I expect the old man had a little money hoarded up, some
tramps heard of it, and, for the sake of that money, murdered him and
threw his body over the cliff."
"At any rate," I said, "it is more pleasant to think that some mystery
surrounded his life, and that he left the neighborhood from some
romantic cause. Do you know, I am inclined to think that he is still
alive, that he will turn up some day, and that the whole thing will be
the talk of the countryside."
"And yet you are a trained lawyer, and have lived in London!" she
laughed.
"Perhaps that is why. Lawyers get weary of hard thinking. Besides, when
one comes to think of it, hard thinking is only responsible for a tithe
of the discovery of truth. Far more of it is discovered by intuition
than by logic."
"Do you know, you are very refreshing, Mr. Erskine. It is delightful to
think of a man coming from hard, matter-of-fact London to Cornwall, and
believing in the things that we simple rustics have discarded for a
generation or more."
"Then you don't find life either romantic or mysterious?"
"I find it the most prosy, uninteresting thing imaginable. There is no
mystery and no romance in the world; everything is hard, matter of fact,
commonplace."
"Come, come, now, you cannot believe that," I laughed.
"One believes as one finds." And I thought her eyes became hard. "The
other day I read what is called a romantic novel. It had gone through
numberless editions, and was, I suppose, the rage of reading circles. It
told of all sorts of mysterious happenings and romantic adventures. Then
I reflected on what had actually happened to myself and to girls with
whom I am acquainted. I went to school in France and Germany, as well as
in England, and, do you know, I really cannot find one bit of romance
that has ever happened to me or to the girls I have known. I can't
remember anything mysterious."
"Isn't life one great mystery?"
"Yes, mystery if you like, but simply because of our ignorance. When the
mystery is explained, the explanation is as prosy as that cottage." And
she looked towards a cottage door, where a woman stood by her wash-tub.
"Do you ever find life mysterious, Mr. Erskine?"
"Yes, it is mysterious from end to end. Sometimes, as I sit in my little
wooden hut, facing the sea, at night-time, and hear the wind moan its
way over the cliffs and across the waste of waters, when the solemn
feeling of night broods over everything, I feel that life is one great
mystery. What is behind it all? What is the meaning of everything? Is
there a Creator? What lies beyond what we call death? Surely, that is
mystery enough. You may say, if you like, that this feeling of mystery
is because of our ignorance; nevertheless, it is there."
"Yes," she replied. "But the trouble is that, in so far as we have
discovered mysteries, they turn out to be of the most prosy and
commonplace nature. Things that were once unknown, and appealed to the
world as romantic, now that they are known are just as prosy and
uninteresting as the commonplace. Directly a thing is known it becomes
humdrum. I went to a lecture one night given by a scientist--an
astronomer, in fact. He was lecturing on the planet Mars. He said that
he himself had examined the planet through a powerful telescope, and he
had seen what to him were convincing proofs that there were canals cut
through a piece of land which was similar in nature to the Isthmus of
Panama. As a consequence the planet Mars was inhabited--inhabited by
thinking, sentient beings, who lived in a world millions of miles from
this world. It seemed very wonderful at that time, but, when I came to
think of it, it was all very prosy. What if it were inhabited? It would
simply mean that people somehow exist there, just as they exist here,
and think and suffer, and struggle and die. Can anything be more prosy
and unromantic than that?"
"Isn't the very mystery of death itself attractive--wonderful?" I asked.
"Do you think so?" And she looked at me curiously.
"Sometimes," I replied, "although I dread the thought of death, I have a
kind of feverish curiosity about it, and I would like to die just to
know."
"Yet it would be disappointing in the end. When that so-called mystery
comes to be explained, there will be nothing but great, blank darkness."
"And that is your creed of life and death?"
"We can only argue from the known to the unknown," was her reply.
"And do you not long for something more?"
"Long!" And there was passion in her voice.
"Then, to you, religion, immortality, have no interest?"
"Yes, interest," was her reply, "but, like everything else, it is
because of my ignorance. I know I am very ignorant, Mr. Erskine, and I
dare say you will laugh at me for talking in the way I do; but, so far
as I have read of the origins of religions, they are simply the result
of a fear of the unknown. People are afraid to die, and they have
evolved a sort of hope that there is a life other than this. I know it
is a cheerless creed, but don't facts bear out what I have said? In
different parts of the world are different religions, and each and all
of them are characteristic of the people who believe in them. Wasn't
Matthew Arnold right when he said that the Greeks manufactured a god
with classical features and golden hair, while the negroes created a god
with black skin, thick lips, and woolly hair?"
"Do you go far enough back, even then?" I asked. "You are simply dealing
with the shape of the god. What is the origin of the idea?"
"I suppose man invented it," was her reply.
"Yes, but how? After all, knowledge is built upon other knowledge.
Imagination is the play of the mind around ascertained facts. 'No man
hath seen God at any time.' How, then, have people come to believe in
Him, except through some deeper and more wonderful faculty, which
conveyed it to the mind? For the mind, after all, is only the vehicle,
and not the creator, of thought."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"You get beyond me there, Mr. Erskine. When you dabble in metaphysics I
am lost. Still, is it not a fact that the more intellectual the race the
less religious it becomes? Take France, for example. Paris is the great
clearing-house of ideas, and yet the French are an unbelieving people."
"Is that altogether true?" was my reply, for I was led to take up an
attitude of the soundness of which I was far from being convinced. "Is
not France literally sick and tired of the atheism which surged over the
nation at the time of the Revolution? France no longer glories in hard
unbelief, and, as far as I know, the French people are simply longing
for faith, and, for that matter, are going back to faith. Not, perhaps,
the faith which the Revolution destroyed, but to something deeper,
diviner."
She seemed thoughtful, and for some time neither of us spoke. Then she
burst out laughing merrily.
"Don't things seem reversed?" she said. "Here are you, a scholar of
Oxford, and a clever lawyer, upholding tradition, imagination,
intuition, superstition, while I, an ignorant girl, am discarding it
all."
"Perhaps," I replied, "that is because life is long to you, short to me.
When one comes to what seems the end of things, one looks at life
differently. There," I went on, for at that moment we had passed a lad
with his arm round a girl's waist, "that boy lives in heaven. He is with
the girl he loves. Suppose you tried to convince that boy and girl there
was no such thing as romance, would they believe you?"
"Perhaps not," she replied; "but I could take you down the village
yonder, and show you men and women who, twenty years ago, were just as
romantic as those two cooing doves; and to-day the men loaf round the
village lanes, smoking, or, perhaps, are in the public-house drinking;
while the women are slatternly, discontented, standing at the wash-tub,
or scrubbing out cottages. Where now is the romance, or, for that
matter, the love?"
"Then you don't believe in love either?"
She was silent, and I watched her face closely, and again I was struck
by her appearance. Yes, no doubt, Isabella Lethbridge was more than
ordinarily handsome. Her features, without being beautiful, were fine.
The flash of her eyes betokened intelligence beyond the ordinary. At
that moment, too, there was a look in them which I had not seen
before--a kind of longing, a sense of unsatisfaction, something wistful.
"Love?" she repeated. "No, I don't think I believe in it."
"Surely," I said, "that is going a little bit too far."
"Yes, perhaps it is," was her answer. "There is love--the love of a
mother for her child. You see it everywhere. A lion will fight for her
whelps, a hen will protect her chickens. But I suppose you were meaning
the love which man has for a woman, and woman for man?"
"Yes," I replied, "I was. I was thinking of that lover and his lass whom
we have just passed."
"I do not know," she replied. "All I know is that I never felt it, and
yet I confess to being twenty-four. It is an awful age, isn't it? Fancy
a girl of twenty-four never having been in love! Yet, facts are facts. I
do not deny that there is such a thing as affinity; but love, as I
understand it, is, or ought to be, something spiritual, something
divine, something which outlasts youth and all that youth means;
something which defies the ravages of time, that laughs at
impossibilities. No. I do not believe there is such a thing."
"Then what is the use of living?" I asked.
"I hardly know. We have a kind of clinging to life, at least the great
majority of us have, although I suppose in the more highly cultured
States suicides are becoming more common. We shudder at what we call
death, and so we seek to live. If, like the old Greeks, we surrounded
death with beautiful thoughts----"
"Ah yes," I interrupted; "but then we get into the realms of religion.
The Greeks believed in an immortal part, and love to them was eternal."
"True," she replied. "But where is the old Greek mythology now? It has
become a thing of the past. Mr. Erskine, will you forgive me for talking
all this nonsense, for it is nonsense? I know I am floundering in a deep
sea and saying foolish things. Besides, I must leave you. There is a
house here where I must call."
She held out her hand as she spoke, and looked at me. I felt as though
she were trying to fascinate me. For a second our eyes met, and I felt
her hand quiver in mine. At that moment something was born in my mind
and heart which I had never experienced before. I confess it here,
because probably no one will read these lines but myself. I felt towards
Isabella Lethbridge as I had never felt towards any woman before. Even
in those days when I had flirted and danced and laughed with girls of my
own age, and with whom I fancied myself in love, I had never felt
towards a woman as I felt towards her.
"Good-day, Miss Lethbridge," I said, as I walked away.
"I hope you will come up to Trecarrel again soon," she said. "Please
don't wait for a formal invitation; we shall always be glad to see you.
At least, _I_ shall," and she gave me a bewildering smile.
I walked some little distance down the road, then turned and watched her
till she was out of sight. I tried to analyze the new feelings which had
come into my life.
"Why am I so interested in her?" I asked. "What is this which has come
to me so suddenly? Whatever it is, it is not love." And I knew I spoke
the truth, even as I know it now. Yet she fascinated me. I reflected
that her talk had been pedantic, the product of an ill-balanced mind,
and, while she was clever, she was superficial. Yet she attracted me in
a way I could not understand. She had moved me as no other woman had
moved me, but I knew, as I know now, that I was not in love with her.
I walked slowly along. We had come to the end of June, and the birds
were singing gaily. Away in the distance I could see the sheen of the
waves in the sunlight. The great line of cliffs stood out boldly; the
world was very fair. A weight seemed to have rolled from my shoulders.
Oh, it was good to live--good to bask in the sunlight on that summer
day! I laughed aloud. No romance! no mystery! no religion! no love! The
girl had almost made me believe in what she had said, although at the
back of my mind I felt it was all wrong. I looked at my watch, and knew
that I must be returning, or Simpson would be anxious about me. He had
become quite paternal in his care.
I descended the steep hill towards the little copse at the back of my
house. Once or twice I stopped and listened to the waves as they rolled
on the hard, yellow beach, while the sea-gulls hovered over the great
beetling cliffs.
"I won't die!" I cried. "I simply won't!"
And yet I knew at the time that death had taken possession of me, was
even then gnawing away at the centre of my life.
I entered the little copse and drew near to the house. I had gone,
perhaps, twenty yards, when I stopped. Peering at me through the leaves
of the bushes, which grew thick on the side of the cliff, was a pair of
gleaming eyes. They seemed to me to be the eyes of a madman, a maniac.
Perhaps my imagination was excited, and my mind unbalanced, but I
thought I saw revenge, hatred, murder. The eyes were large and staring.
I could see no face, no form. I felt no fear, only a sense of wonder and
a desire to know. I took a step in the direction of those wild, maniacal
orbs, and I heard a cry--hoarse, agonized. I took another step forward
and looked again, and saw nothing, neither did I hear another sound.
Feverishly I made my way towards the spot, but there was nothing there.
No footmarks could I discover, no signs of any one having been there. I
am perfectly certain I saw what I have described, as sure as that I am
sitting in my little room at this moment, but although I searched
everywhere I could discover nothing.
I returned to my house and began to dress for dinner; but all the while
I was haunted by those wild, staring eyes.
VIII
MYSTERY
"Simpson," I said, after dinner, "do you believe in ghosts?"
"Yes, sir, I think so, sir."
"What are your views about them?"
"Well, sir, I don't know that I could put them into words. Will you have
your coffee now, sir?"
"Yes, please, Simpson; and will you pass my cigar-box?"
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir."
"You are somewhat of a philosopher, aren't you, Simpson?"
"In my own way, sir. If I hadn't been I should have been dead before
now."
"Oh, indeed," I said. "How?"
"Well, sir, it was during the two years I was married. It was my
philosophy that saved me."
"In what way?" I asked.
"Well, you see, sir, I hadn't been married more than a month before I
discovered that my wife had a remarkable command of language. While we
were courting, she pretended to be shy, and had very little to say; but
when we got married she developed the power of speech awful, sir--just
awful. At first I answered her back, and every time I spoke I seemed, as
it were, to open up the fountains of the great deep, until I thought I
was going mad. Then I got to thinking about it, sir, and after careful
study of my wife's character I came to the conclusion that the only way
I could meet her was by silence. I didn't smoke at that time, sir, she
having said as how she hated smoking; but I bought a pipe and tobacco,
and every time she started talking I just loaded up my pipe and
commenced smoking. I didn't say a word, sir, but let her go on and on."
"Well," I asked, "did that cure her?"
"Not at first, sir; for a time she was worse than ever, and I thought I
should have to give it up. That was where my philosophy came in, sir; I
just held on. The more she talked the more I smoked, never uttering a
word."
"Yes," I said, "and what then?"
"She began to cry, sir. She cried and cried until I thought she was
going to cry her eyes out. I almost gave in, but being a philosopher I
still kept quiet. After that, she began to threaten what she would do.
She rampaged round the house like a mad woman, but I only bought a new
pipe."
"And did you master her that way?"
"No, sir; I never mastered her. It is my belief that if a woman has got
the gift of the gab as she had, she never can be mastered. But she left
me, sir."
"I thought you told me she was dead, Simpson?"
"Oh, no, sir; I never told you that; I only told you that I had a wife
for two years. Yes, sir, she kept with me for two years, trying to break
me down. Then, one day, when I came into the house I found a letter from
her. She said that she could not live with a brute who would not answer
her back, so she went off on her own."
"And what did you do then, Simpson?"
"I went to live with your father, sir, and I have lived with the family
ever since. But it was my philosophy which saved my life. If I had given
in she would have killed me."
"And where is she now, Simpson?"
"I don't know, sir, and I don't want to. Yes, sir, nothing but
philosophy will master a woman."
"Well, to come back to where we were, Simpson. You being a philosopher,
have you any explanation to offer as to ghosts?"
"Well, sir, not ever having seen one, I don't see how I can. If I had
seen one I might answer. Have you seen one, sir?"