coming along the footpath through the copse, when I saw a pair of
bright, staring eyes, like the eyes of a madman. There was no doubt
about it; I am certain I saw them. I could make out no face, but I am
certain I saw the eyes. When I went to the place where I saw them I
could find nothing. What is your opinion about it?"
Simpson thought a minute, then he replied solemnly:
"It was an 'allucination, sir."
"Was it that, Simpson?"
"Well, sir, if you will excuse me for asking, who had you been with
before you saw the eyes? Had you spoken to any one? Had you been talking
about ghosts, or that sort of thing?"
"No, Simpson; I had been talking with Miss Lethbridge, a young lady who
does not believe in ghosts."
"Ah, that explains, sir."
"How, Simpson?"
"A woman always upsets the mind--always. If you had said you had seen
the face without the eyes, I could perhaps have believed you; but when
you say you saw eyes without a face, and then tell me you had been
talking with a young lady, I know just what is the matter."
"Yes; but, Simpson, that is not all. I heard an awful moan. Rather more
than a moan--it was a kind of moan and cry combined."
"And did you hear any rustling in the bushes, sir?"
"Not a sound."
"Ah, well, sir, I stand by my opinion. Anything more you want, sir?"
"Nothing more, thank you." And Simpson went away into the kitchen.
He had not been gone long, when I heard footsteps outside, and shortly
after young Hugh Lethbridge appeared.
"You don't mind my calling, do you, Erskine?" he said.
"On the contrary, I am delighted," I replied. "I have just been talking
with my man about something which I saw this evening, and he can offer
no explanation. Perhaps you can." And I told him what I had seen.
"By Gum!" he said, "that's funny. You are sure you are not mistaken,
Erskine?"
"Impossible," I replied. "I saw those eyes as plainly as I see you. It
was not dark--the sun had not set, for that matter."
"And were you excited in any way?" And he looked at me steadily.
"No," I replied; "I was not excited."
"It's funny. You don't imagine, do you, that there was anything
supernatural about it?"
"I wish I did, but I am sorry to say that I have no faith whatever in
the supernatural."
"No," he said; "I remember what you told us up at Trecarrel. And you
searched the place thoroughly?"
"Yes, thoroughly. You see, I was curious."
"And you had not been thinking about supernatural things?"
"Not in the least. For that matter, I had a few minutes before met your
sister."
"Oh, yes; Bella told me she had met you, and was afraid she had shocked
you."
"No, I was not shocked at all; I was very interested."
"Bella is a curious girl," said Hugh Lethbridge, after a short silence.
"We have always been very good friends, but I have never understood her.
Even when she was quite a girl she was different from those of her own
age."
"In what way?"
"She was always so hard, so matter of fact. I have told her more than
once that she has no soul." He said the words lightly, but to me they
were ominous with meaning. He had put into words what I had felt.
"I suppose I ought not to say this," went on Hugh; "but I don't feel
towards you as I do towards other men. I don't know why it is. No sooner
did I see you than I wanted to have you as a friend; I felt I could
trust you. You don't mind my saying this, do you?"
"Rather it is awfully good of you."
"I am a lonely kind of fellow," he went on, "and my home life has shut
me off from the society of those I might care for. Other fellows invite
their college chums to stay with them, and all that kind of thing, but
the pater never allowed me to do it. Why, I don't know. I know it is
wrong to discuss one's people before a stranger, but, as I said just
now, I don't feel you are a stranger. What do you think of my father,
Erskine?"
"I think he is a strong, capable man," I replied.
"Yes, there is no doubt about that. Why, years ago he was only a poor
lad, living in a district where there seemed to be very few chances of a
lad making his way, and yet you see what he has done. He was a clerk in
the office of a man who had to do with shipping in Penzance. Only in a
small way, you know, but he gave my father the chance to learn the
business. He did learn it. What the pater doesn't know about shipping
isn't worth knowing. To-day he owns scores of vessels. He got into touch
with the mining world, too, and he seemed to possess a sort of genius
for fastening on to mines that would pay. He has not only a controlling
interest in the few prosperous Cornish mines, but he is connected with
the mining world in almost every country where mines are to be found. He
is as keen as a razor, is the pater, and has a way of making his will
felt everywhere.
"And yet he is a most conscientious man. That is, conscientious in his
own way. He used to be very religious. He used to pray at the Chapel,
and all that sort of thing, but he's given it up now. But he holds to
the form of religion still. As you heard him say the other night, he is
a very strong believer in democracy. On the other hand, a greater
autocrat never lived. In reality he believes in the feudal system, even
while he professes to scorn what we call aristocracy. Yes, I see you
smile. Never was a man more anxious to associate with county families
than he. But he never yields an inch to them. If he had, he would have
been admitted into what is called county society. Even as it is, Squire
Treherne seems to be afraid of him."
"How is that?" I asked.
"Oh, he pays deference to his opinions; always supports him in public
matters, and all that sort of thing. I am inclined to think that the
pater has old Treherne in his power. You will not say anything about
this, will you, Erskine? I do not believe my father cares a fig about
me," he added.
"Nonsense!" I replied.
"I don't really. In a way he is interested in me. I suppose it is
because blood is thicker than water, but do you know I can never
remember the time when he kissed me, or anything of that sort. He always
tried to rule me with a rod of iron."
"And has he treated your sister in the same way?" I asked.
"Yes, and no. Do you know, Erskine, my sister is a strange girl."
I was silent. I felt I had no right to ask the question which rose in my
mind.
"What do you think of Bella?" he asked suddenly.
He did not seem to realize that he was overstepping the bounds of good
taste in asking me, a stranger, such a question, and I realized more
than ever that he was only an impulsive boy, although he had reached
man's estate. Indeed, in one sense, Hugh did not know what it was to be
reserved, and yet in others he was strangely reticent.
I thought he seemed to be about to take me further into his confidence
at this point, but, perhaps noting the non-committal nature of my reply,
he desisted.
"Of course, she's a bundle of contradictions," he said; "but she's
really splendid. Why, on the day after she'd--but, there, I mustn't tell
you about that. Anyhow, there was an accident at Pendeen Mine. Two men
were believed to be in danger of drowning by the flooding of the old
workings. The miners had made every attempt--at least, so they said--to
rescue them, and to do anything more would be to throw away their own
lives."
"Yes," I said. "What then?"
"Bella went to them and talked to them as they had never been talked to
before. She laughed all their protests to scorn, and when they proved to
her that, humanly speaking, they had done all that men could do, she
insisted upon going down the mine herself. It was the maddest thing a
woman could do, and God only knows how she did it; but she rescued the
miners. Why, it was in all the newspapers. Yes, Bella is magnificent,
but--but----"
Hugh Lethbridge was silent for some time after this, neither did I
speak. I was thinking of the impression she had made on me when I first
saw her.
"She was never like other girls, even when she was a child," he went on.
"She did not care for games--that is, ordinary children's games--so,
although she is only two years older than I, we were never what you call
playfellows. She is a very brainy girl, too, and by the time she was
fourteen had read all sorts of out-of-the-way books."
"I wonder she did not go to Somerville or Girton when she left school."
"That's what she wanted," replied Lethbridge, "but the pater said he did
not believe in women going to a university. He has always maintained
that this modern craze about advanced education for women is so much
nonsense. Still, Bella is an educated girl. She speaks French and German
and Italian fluently, and there is scarcely a classical writer in these
languages whom she has not read first hand. Yes, Bella is a strange
girl, but very hard."
Again there was a silence between us for some seconds.
"She is not at all like mother," went on Lethbridge. "I wish she were.
Although, as you saw the other night, we teased mother about being
general manager of the world, there is scarcely a family in the parish
which mother has not helped in one way or another, and in a way she is
very popular; but no one would think of going to Bella in trouble."
I must confess that I wanted to ask more questions about her, but
refrained from so doing. After all, it would not have been good taste on
my part.
"Well, I must be going now," said Lethbridge presently, rising from his
chair. "I am glad I have seen you. Our chat, somehow, has done me good,
although I have done most of the talking. I was awfully restless after
dinner to-night, and the walk here, and seeing you, have made me feel
better. By the way"--and I saw that this was what he had really come
for--"I spoke to you about Mary Treleaven the other night."
"Yes, I remember."
"I have had a row with the pater about her to-day."
"I am sorry for that."
"It was bound to come. You see, he will not hear of my marrying her. He
says it would be pure madness on my part, and if I will not fall in with
his wishes he will not give me a penny. I should like to introduce you
to Mary; I told you so, didn't I? Will you let me?"
"If you like, certainly," I replied; "but really, Lethbridge, I cannot
help you in that matter. I would not, even if I could. It would not be
right."
"If you knew her you would," he said, with boyish eagerness. "She's the
finest, sweetest girl in the country, and she is the only one I could be
happy with. As for the pater's ideas, I won't fall in with them--I
won't." He went to the door as he spoke, and looked out over the sea.
"It's a glorious night," he said; "there is not a cloud in the sky, and
the light of the moon transforms everything into a fairyland."
I went to his side as he spoke, and as I did so a kind of shiver passed
through me. The night was, indeed, wonderful. The moon shone so brightly
that no stars appeared, and I could see the long line of cliffs
stretching northward. Scarcely a breath of wind stirred, and I could
hear the waves lapping musically on the hard yellow beach beneath.
"I will walk a few steps with you, Lethbridge," I said. "I will not go
far. But really this is not an evening to spend indoors. How I wish I
were strong and healthy!"
Putting on a summer overcoat, I walked with him along the footpath
through the copse, and when at length we reached the open country, where
heather-covered moorland stretched away on either side, both of us
stopped and listened.
"What a noise the silence is making!" said Lethbridge. "Did you ever
hear anything like it?"
"No," I said, "the hush is simply wonderful."
Scarcely had we spoken, when rising suddenly before us was the form of a
man, and again those strange eyes, which had haunted me for hours,
flashed before me. The man moved so quickly that I could not discern his
features. He uttered a cry as he went--a cry similar to that I heard in
the copse hours before.
"Do you know who it is?" I asked.
"No," replied Lethbridge. "Strange, isn't it?"
"Anyhow, it explains what I saw this afternoon. It might seem as though
some one were watching me."
"I will follow him, if you like," said Lethbridge, "and find out who it
is."
"Oh, no, don't trouble; very possibly it means nothing. But I think my
mind must be excited, after all. I will go back now, if you don't mind.
Good-night."
And I went slowly back to my little hut, wondering what the apparition
might mean.
IX
AT THE VICARAGE
On my return to my room, I naturally reflected upon what young Hugh
Lethbridge had told me. It may seem strange that, on such a short
acquaintance, he spoke to me so freely about his family, but what I have
written down is, as far as I can remember, exactly what took place. Hugh
Lethbridge was scarcely twenty-three, and, although he looked older, was
little more than a lad. He was the child of his mother rather than of
his father, and was lacking in anything like secretiveness, especially
to any one whom he liked. For some reason or another I had seemed to
captivate him, so much so that he opened his heart and gave his
confidence more fully than was natural on such a short acquaintance.
In many respects young Lethbridge was sensitive and self-contained, but
in other ways he was so impulsive that he overstepped the bounds of good
taste. I got to know him better afterwards, and found that, although he
had spoken so freely to me, he was regarded by many as reserved.
Besides, he was hungering for sympathy, and because he thought I
sympathized with him his confidences were so personal that I almost felt
uncomfortable.
Nevertheless, I pondered a great deal over what he had told me.
Evidently the household at Trecarrel was not altogether happy, and an
estrangement existed between Mr. Lethbridge senior and his son. As for
Isabella Lethbridge, she presented an interesting study to me. As I have
said, she appealed to me as no other woman had ever appealed to me
before. For the moment I had thought I was in love with her, but, on
reflection, I knew I was not. I was able to study her character calmly
and think of her in a kind of detached way. She formed no part in my
life. She was an interesting specimen of humanity, whom I took pleasure
in analyzing, but the feeling I had towards her was not love. Rather she
repelled me even while she fascinated me. The thought of her never
caused my heart to throb, nor made the blood course through my veins one
whit the faster.
Besides, it was not for me to think about such things. I had come down
to Cornwall to die. In a few months the spark of my life would go out,
and I should enter the great darkness.
Days and weeks passed away, and very little of importance happened
worthy of record. Often I reflected upon the uselessness of my life.
Why, after all, should I live? No one but Simpson was really interested
in me, and only he would grieve when I had gone; then again the old
revulsion against becoming nothing surged within me. I had hopes,
longings, intimations which seemed to overleap the boundaries of time
and sense. If this life were all, then life was a mockery, a promise
without possible fulfilment, a hope born only to be disappointed.
Sitting there alone night after night, hearing the cry of the sea-birds,
listening to the wail of the wind as it swept over hill and dale, or
found its way across the great waste of waters, I asked a thousand
questions and pondered over the problems of life and death, without ever
receiving one single ray of light. Sometimes I became so lonely that I
called Simpson into my room and talked with him, but I never allowed him
to know how dark were the prospects which faced me. The questions I
asked him, I remember, were almost flippant in their nature. I made a
joke of death, as I tried to make a joke of everything else; so much so
that I fancied Simpson was convinced that I did not trouble. After all,
why should I worry the poor, simple-minded fellow with questions which
he could not answer or understand? The best thing to do was to bear
everything with a kind of stoicism, and to make a jest of what really
haunted me night and day with strange persistency. Indeed, I think I
sometimes rather pained Simpson with my flippant remarks, for I found
that the beliefs of his boyhood were still powerful in his life. It is
difficult to eradicate the impressions of youth.
"After all, Simpson," I said one day, "sleep is a good thing providing
one has no bad dreams, and if I sleep for ever I shall know nothing
about it."
"But if one should dream, sir?" suggested Simpson.
"You are quoting Hamlet," I said.
"I don't know the gentleman you refer to," was Simpson's somewhat
indignant reply; "indeed, I never heard of him. But don't you think,
sir, that education and cleverness are very poor things?"
"Doubtless, Simpson. But why do you say so?"
"Why, sir, here are you, a gentleman who has been to college and all
that. You were spoken of in the newspapers as one who would do great
things some day, and yet you don't know as much as my old father did,
who never had a day's schooling in his life."
"How is that, Simpson?"
"Well, sir, he _knew_ there was a life after death. He saw the angels,
sir."
"Did he tell you so, Simpson?"
"Yes, sir, he did. He was a very ignorant man, sir, but he knew.
Besides, sir--excuse me for saying so--but aren't your opinions very
foolish, sir?"
"I dare say," I replied. "But to what particular opinions do you refer?"
"Opinions about dying, sir. If a watchmaker makes a watch, he makes it
keep time, doesn't he?"
"Yes," I replied; "but if one of the wheels doesn't fit, the watch
stops, and somehow my inside wheels don't fit, or rather they are made
of poor material, Simpson."
"Of course, sir, it is not for me to contradict you, but I don't think
you have been well educated, sir."
"My teachers are doubtless to blame, but the worst of it is your Vicar
here seems to know nothing for certain, neither do your preachers at
Chapel. It is all a matter of guesswork."
"Yes, sir, I know I cannot answer you properly, sir, but I do not
believe Almighty God is a fool."
"What do you mean, Simpson?"
"Well, sir, I have an old watch which my grandfather used to carry, and
it keeps good time still. The watch was made by a man, and it has lasted
nearly a hundred years. Now, I don't believe Almighty God would take so
much trouble in making us and then let us last only twenty or thirty
years. Excuse me, sir."
I mentioned some time ago that Mr. Trelaske, when he had visited me,
told me of his intention to invite me up to the Vicarage. He had
fulfilled his promise, but I had not been well enough to take advantage
of his kindness. This invitation, however, he had repeated, and one
night I found my way to the Vicarage. I had hoped for a quiet chat with
him, but to my surprise I found three other guests besides myself. One
was Squire Treherne, another was a young fellow named Prideaux, and the
other was a clergyman from a neighboring parish.
Mr. Trelaske was a widower, whose household affairs were conducted by a
man and his wife by the name of Tucker. He received me most kindly, and
played the part of host perfectly. It happened, too, that young Prideaux
knew a man who was at Balliol with me, and this fact led to many
reminiscences of college life. The fact, moreover, of my being at
Winchester greatly interested Squire Treherne in me. He was an old
Winchester boy, and was eager to ask questions concerning the school and
to compare it with the days when he was there. In fact, before I had
been in the house an hour, I found myself on a friendly footing with
them all, and they spoke quite freely in my presence.
"By the way, Squire," said Prideaux presently, "I hear that Lethbridge
has made another big _coup_. The way that fellow makes money is simply
marvellous."
"Yes," said Squire Treherne, "and he has made it at my expense, too."
"At your expense? How is that?"
"He has found tin on my land."
"Has he? That's good. It will mean mining royalties for you."
"Not a bit of it. He persuaded me to sell the farm on which the tin was
discovered two years ago. I did not want to sell it, but I wanted the
money, and as the farm was, in a way, outside my ring fence, I
consented. Evidently, he knew of the tin, but didn't let on. Got it for
a song, too. Now he has the whole thing."
"That is bad luck," said Mr. Trelaske. "He makes money at every turn. I
would not mind if one of our own set was lucky, but for that fellow--a
dissenter and a Radical--to do it riles me."
"Well, he is a capable man, isn't he?" said Mr. Robartes, the other
clergyman.
"Capable, if you like," replied the Vicar.
"And public-spirited too, isn't he?"
"Only in a way. The fellow isn't a sportsman, and, in the true sense of
the word, isn't an Englishman. That is why I dislike him. As you know,
too, he opposes the Church at every corner. I suppose it is natural in a
rabid dissenter, but it is hard to bear."
"Still, he is a great employer of labor," said Prideaux. "And as for
young Lethbridge, he is quite a decent fellow."
"I suppose Mr. Lethbridge still goes to the Chapel, doesn't he?" asked
Mr. Robartes.
"Oh yes, I suppose so," was the Vicar's reply. "I believe, if he hadn't
been a dissenter, things might have been all right."
"How? What do you mean?"
"Oh, at bottom a dissenter is never really an Englishman. Did you see
that speech he made some little time ago up at Polzeath? He was crying
down the Army and saying that our nation was being bled to death to keep
up a useless institution. That is what I cannot stand."
They went on talking in this way for a considerable time until I began
to get rather bored. It seemed to me that they discussed the Church and
Dissent as two rival institutions. They regarded the Church as something
which should be supported because it was a State affair. As for anything
deeper, it did not appear in their conversation. Churchgoing was
regarded as something that ought to be a national institution, and as
such should be kept up. A few months before I dare say I might have
taken an academic interest in the conversation, but as I reflected upon
Dr. Rhomboid's verdict upon me it all seemed paltry and foolish. Church
and Chapel, as institutions, did not matter a straw to me.
"What does Almighty God, if there is an Almighty God, Who made all the
worlds, care whether a man goes to Church or to Chapel?"
I remember propounding this question quite suddenly, and it seemed to
take them aback.
"You are a Churchman, aren't you?" asked Mr. Robartes eagerly.
"I suppose so, if I am anything," I laughed. "I was confirmed while I
was at Winchester, but for the life of me I can't see that it matters
whether a man goes to Church or to Chapel."
"But surely you have no sympathy with these dissenters?"
"I hardly know," was my reply. "I have been to the Methodist Chapel down
here two or three times. I went out of curiosity. You see, my lease of
life is very short, and I was wondering whether any of them could tell
me what lies beyond the grave."
I saw Mr. Trelaske look on the floor as I spoke. He evidently remembered
our conversation.
"It seems to me that we have to leave such things as that," said the
Squire. "The Bible and the Church teach us that there is a life beyond
the grave, and we had better let it stand at that. As for the Church, it
makes a man a good neighbor, a good citizen, and a good Englishman.
Besides, the Church doesn't cramp a man. He can be a good sportsman,
enjoy a glass of wine, play a game of cards, and still be a good
Churchman. That is why I am glad the Methodists are still losing ground.
Of course they must."
There was nothing harsh in the way he said this. He seemed to regard
dissenters as a class apart--a people with a kink in their brains, who
out of pure stubbornness adopted a form of religion which somehow made
them outsiders. I dare say, if I had gone deeper into the matter, I
should have found something which had not appeared in their
conversation, but such was the impression I received.
"By the way," said Mr. Trelaske presently, "this is bad news about
Serbia, isn't it?"
"Yes, very bad," replied the Squire. "I should not be surprised if it
doesn't lead to complications. These Serbs are barely civilized."
I did not understand what he meant, for I had not taken sufficient
interest in what was going on to open a newspaper for several days, and
I said so.
"I tell you," said Squire Treherne, "it is a serious matter. Last Sunday
some Serbians murdered the Crown Prince of Austria, and I am afraid it
will raise a rumpus. You see, Serbia is backed up by Russia, and if
Austria threatens to take reprisals there may be a row."