trouble in the Balkan States. What did interest me, however, was the
tremendous difference between their attitude to war and that which Mr.
Lethbridge took. To them the defense of their country was a sacred
thing--indeed, almost a religion. I found that Mr. Trelaske had two
sons, both of whom were in the Army, and that young Prideaux was a
captain in the Territorials. They assumed, as a matter of course, that
no man could keep out of the Army in time of national danger. It was not
something to argue about; it was something settled as a fixed principle
in their lives. No one seemed to believe, however, that trouble between
Serbia and Austria could affect England. All of them appeared to think
with Lord Salisbury, that we must retain our attitude of "Splendid
Isolation," whatever might take place. Perhaps I ought to except young
Prideaux, who, having no fixed beliefs, seemed to have doubts about the
matter.
"I wish these blessed Radicals were not in power," he reflected, between
puffs of his cigar.
"For that matter, all of us do," said Squire Treherne, in response. "But
still, there it is. They have got the upper hand of us now, and it seems
as if they are going to keep it."
"What I can't stand about the Radicals," said Mr. Robartes, "is that
they aren't gentlemen."
"Oh, I don't know about that," said Prideaux. "There's Grey, for
instance, he's a gentleman, and a sportsman too."
"Yes, but he is different from the rest. I wonder how he stays with that
lot! I expect if we were dragged into this trouble the present
Government would adopt a peace-at-any-price attitude. The great majority
of Radicals are dissenters, and nearly all dissenters seem to be fed
with anti-war ideas. You remember what took place at the time of the
Boer War?"
"I am not sure they weren't right about that," remarked the Vicar; "I
don't mean about the war itself, but about giving self-government to
South Africa. The Boers have settled down remarkably well."
"Nonsense, Parson," said Squire Treherne. "It was pure madness.
Supposing war were to break out, we should have a revolution in South
Africa before we could say 'Jack Robinson.' These Boers ought to have
been kept under our thumb. Do you know, I had an awful row with
Lethbridge about that."
"How are the Lethbridges regarded in the neighborhood?" I asked, for I
was anxious to avoid anything like a political discussion.
"Regarded in the neighborhood?" replied Squire Treherne. "Oh, we have to
tolerate them, you know. Lethbridge is a man of great influence, and, of
course, he's very rich. That is where he has the pull. He is the largest
employer of labor in this district, and as a consequence people look up
to him."
"I don't mean that so much," I said. "How is the family regarded
socially?"
The Squire did not reply, but the Vicar was very pronounced.
"Oh, socially," he said, "they scarcely exist. You see, Lethbridge, in
spite of his money, is a parvenu and rank outsider. It is true that his
wife comes of a decent family, but a few years ago he was a poor lad in
this district, and people can't forget it. Besides, the fellow is such
an aggressive Radical. He is constantly treading on the corns of people
who would otherwise be civil to him."
"What about his children?" I said. "I happen to have met them both, and
they strike me as being well educated and presentable."
"Yes, his children are not so bad, and but for their father would
doubtless be well received. At least, Hugh would. He is quite a nice
boy. As for the girl, I don't know anything about her."
"The girl is handicapped by her father," said young Prideaux. "In spite
of everything, she is placed in a curious position."
"How is that?"
"They occupy a kind of half-way position. On the one hand, they do not
associate with the people to whom Lethbridge belonged twenty years ago,
and, on the other, they are not quite our sort. Still, I believe the
people would have forgiven them, in spite of the father, if the girl
hadn't been such a heartless flirt."
"A flirt?" I repeated.
"Yes. She's a dashed fine-looking girl, you know. Clever, too; and when
she likes can be quite fascinating; but, like the rest of her class, she
can't play the game."
"No?" I said, thinking of what her brother had told me.
"No, there was young Tom Tredinnick; fine fellow Tom is, too. He fell
head over heels in love with her, and every one thought they were going
to make a match of it, but she treated Tom shamefully. There was Nick
Blatchford, too; she treated him just as badly. She led him to the point
of an avowal, and then chucked him."
"That class of people have no sense of honor," said the Vicar. "Of
course, we can't get away from them down here. Methodism of one sort or
another is the established religion of the county, and they are nearly
all Radicals. In fact, they are anti-everything. Anti-smoking,
anti-drinking, anti-sporting, anti-vaccination, and all the rest of it."
"I wonder," I said musingly.
As I went home I tried to gather up the impressions the company had made
upon me, and I reflected that the atmosphere of the Vicar's house was
utterly different from that of Mr. Lethbridge's. In a way, both were
entirely new to me. I was a town-bred boy, and knew practically nothing
of country life, and as a consequence was utterly unacquainted with the
thoughts and feelings of those who lived far away from London.
I had not time, however, to follow my reflections to their natural
issue, for no sooner had the carriage, which I had hired for the
evening, dropped me at the footpath at the end of the little copse than
my thoughts were turned into an entirely different channel. I was
perhaps a hundred yards from my little dwelling-place, when suddenly
some one crept out of the undergrowth and stood before me.
For the time of the year the night was dark. It was now midsummer, but a
change had come over the weather, and dark clouds hung in the sky.
Still, there was enough light for me to discern the figure of a man, who
stood directly in my pathway.
"Be you the straanger?" he said.
"What do you mean?" I asked; "and who are you?"
"Be you the straanger wot d'live in Father Abram's 'ut?" The man's voice
was thick, and his enunciation anything but clear.
"That seems remarkably like my own business," I replied.
"Be you the straanger wot d'live in Father Abram's 'ut?" He repeated the
words almost feverishly, and his voice trembled.
"What if I am?" I asked.
"Then go away! Go away!"
"Why should I?"
"Ca'ant tell 'ee."
"But why should I go away? Who are you?"
"Never mind that! You go away! Go away to once!"
By this time I had become more accustomed to the darkness, and saw that
the man was of huge proportions, and I judged that he had a serious
purpose in speaking to me.
"I tell 'ee," he went on, "that you must go away; ef you do'ant ..." Here
he stopped as though he did not know how to finish his sentence. My mind
worked quickly, and I remembered my previous experiences which had taken
place at this very spot. His presence explained those wild, staring eyes
which I had seen in the copse, and the apparition which had puzzled me
on the night I had talked with Hugh Lethbridge.
What he might mean by dogging my footsteps I could not explain, but that
there was some meaning I felt quite sure.
"You have been following me for days," I said.
He grunted an assent.
"I found you watching me last Thursday week. You crept away from me when
I went after you."
"I dedn't main no wrong."
"Yes, but what do you mean?"
"You must go away!--go away!" he repeated.
"Come with me to the house," I said. "I want to talk with you."
He gave a cry of abject fear.
"I mustn't! I mustn't! I be afeerd!"
"What are you afraid of?"
"I ca'ant tell 'ee! You must go away!"
"Go away where?"
"Anywhere; but you mustn't stay in thicky house! I've tould 'ee.
Summin'll happen to 'ee ef you do'ant!"
"What will happen to me?"
"I ca'ant tell 'ee, but you must go away!" The man repeated the words
with wearisome iteration. He seemed to be obsessed with this one
thought. He spoke unintelligently. He might have been a machine
repeating over and over the same words.
"You are Fever Lurgy," I said.
Again the fellow gave a cry as if of fear.
"Do'ant 'ee tell nobody," he cried. "But go away!--go away! I tell 'ee,
ef you do'ant...." Again he stopped, like one who is afraid to finish
his sentence.
"Some one has sent you to me," I said. "Who?"
"I mustn't tell 'ee--I mustn't tell 'ee!" he cried.
"But you must tell me. Come, you are going with me to the house, and I
am going to know everything."
He started back as I spoke, and then rushed from me. I heard him among
the bushes; then he spoke again.
"You must go away!--you must go away at once!"
I waited for some time but heard nothing more. Then I made my way to my
little house, wondering at the meaning of what I had seen and heard.
X
WIRELESS TELEGRAPHY
I did not sleep well that night. The incident of Fever Lurgy raised many
questions in my mind. I felt as though I were the centre of some
mystery--a mystery of which I was ignorant. I was more convinced than I
had ever been that old Father Abraham was not dead. I believed, too,
that he had a motive out of the ordinary in coming to this spot and
building the hut, and that the reason of his disappearance was not an
ordinary crime, as was generally supposed. I pieced together all the
events which had taken place since I had been in the neighborhood, and
tried to see a meaning in them all, but I could not find any key that
would unlock the door of the mystery. I knew nothing of Father Abraham's
doings. I was simply a poor wretch who had come there to die, and yet,
from the vehemence of Fever Lurgy's voice, it might seem as though there
were some plot against me--as though some one wished to do me harm.
Twelve months before I should have rejoiced at what seemed like an
adventure. It would have added spice to life. I should have thrown
myself into the work of solving the mystery with avidity. Then I was
strong and vigorous, scarcely knowing the meaning of weariness. While at
school I had been a boxer, a runner, and had got my school cap for
Rugger. At Oxford, too, while I had been a reading man I was looked upon
as an athlete, and so could have held my own whatever took place; but
now all was different. While to outward appearances I was still a strong
man, I knew that my flesh was wasting away, that the disease from which
I suffered was eating away the centres of my life. Still, with a kind of
stubbornness which had always characterized me, I resolved I would take
no notice of the warning I had received. Why should I go away? If I were
in danger it was because something interesting existed at the back of my
life. I did not know what it was, but I would find out. To fear, in the
ordinary sense of the word, I was a stranger, and in spite of what Fever
Lurgy had said, I could not see how any one could wish to harm me.
Towards morning I fell asleep, and when I awoke it was to see the sun
streaming through the window of my little bedroom.
I felt very light-hearted, I remember, and in the light of that new day,
instead of Fever Lurgy's warning causing me to be depressed, it gave me
a new interest in life. Something was happening. A mystery surrounded
me. Things were taking place in this very district which gave zest to
life. I jumped out of bed, and in spite of Simpson's repeated warnings
against such madness, I plunged into the little pond of pure cold water,
which burst out from the hill just above my house.
I had scarcely finished breakfast when young Prideaux came into the
room.
"By the way, Erskine," he said, "you mentioned last night that you were
interested in wireless telegraphy. I have to go over to M---- this
morning, and remembering what you said last night, I came round this way
to ask you if you would go with me."
My interest in wireless telegraphy had been aroused because of the case
which had won for me some notoriety. In fact, the secret of my success
lay in the fact that I had swatted up the subject, and was able to put
questions which would never otherwise have occurred to me. I am afraid I
did not know much about the system, but, as every one knows, the success
of a barrister lies largely in his power to assimilate knowledge
quickly, to see the vital points of a case and to insist upon them.
It seems that Prideaux had remembered the case in which I had been
interested, and in talking about it I had been led to confess that I had
given some attention to wireless telegraphy. This explains why he had
come to me with the suggestion I have mentioned, and why I eagerly
accepted his invitation to motor to M---- with him. Like every one else,
I knew that Signor Marconi had erected a station in Cornwall, and that
he had thereby created a new epoch in the transmission of messages. I do
not know that, under ordinary circumstances, I should have mentioned
this fact, but my visit to M---- that day was vitally connected with
what happened afterwards.
I am by no means a scientist, and what brains I have never ran in that
direction. Still, I have a schoolboy's knowledge of scientific subjects,
and this went far in helping me to understand the things I saw.
Presently, too, the wonder of the thing laid hold of me. The sending out
of a mysterious current across the spaces, to be received hundreds of
miles away, was like some fairy dream of childhood. Prideaux had a
friend at the station, who was a great enthusiast, and who explained, as
far as it can be explained, the principle of the thing to us.
"Look!" he said presently, "I will show you the thing in miniature. I
can easily fix up a couple of these little machines here, and then you
will see how it is done."
Being an ingenious sort of fellow, he soon did as he had said, and ere
long I was simply captivated. My interest in the subject, too, seemed to
flatter the young fellow's pride in his work. It was not often, he
affirmed, that any one came to the station who picked up the thing so
easily.
After spending three hours with the young operator, we had lunch
together, and being in a more communicative mood than usual, I told him
why I had come to Cornwall, and why, in spite of the people's kindness
at St. Issey, my evenings were long and lonely.
"Why not take this up as a hobby?" he said.
"What? Wireless telegraphy?"
"Yes. These things are easy enough to fix up. Any boy with a mechanical
turn of mind can manage it. I will give you all the material necessary,
and you can make a hobby of it. Of course, it will be no advantage to
you, but it will help you to while away the time. When I first came here
I didn't care a fig about it, but now my work is a source of
ever-increasing interest to me. I am always trying new experiments. Why,
you and Prideaux could have all sorts of larks."
"How is that?"
"Why, if you got one of these things at your place, and Prideaux fixed
one up at his, you could be sending messages to each other, and you
could bewilder people by telling them what is taking place at each
other's houses. Don't you see?" And the young fellow laughed boyishly at
the prospect which appeared before his mind. "Why, you can have a party
at your house and tell your guests how, by your gift of second sight,
you know exactly what is going on at Prideaux's house, and then
Prideaux, when he comes over, could confirm all you say."
"But I should have to learn the code in order to do this?"
"Of course you would. That is easy enough. I have a book of codes. A
chap with a good memory like you could learn everything in half an
hour."
I could see that to him his work was at once a plaything and a wonder.
He must have been over twenty, but he talked like a lad of fifteen.
"It is the most wonderful thing in the world," he went on. "See what
lives have been saved by the invention. You remember the burning of the
_Volturno_? A man I know was on board that ship, and he told me what he
felt when it caught fire, and how, in spite of his danger, his heart
thrilled with wonder when he saw the vessels which had been summoned by
wireless to their aid. Every one would have died an awful death but for
this discovery. Besides, supposing we went to war, can't you see the
advantage of it?"
"I don't know," I said. "It seems to me that it might be a great
disadvantage. Supposing, for example, we went to war with France, and we
wanted to send a message to one of our ships, the French would receive
the message at one of their receiving stations, and they would know all
our plans."
"I've made a special study of that," he said, with a laugh. "I daren't
let you know how; it would be telling; but I believe I know the secret
codes of nearly all the countries. Look here, you get one of these
things fixed up, and I will come over and see whether you have got it
right. I can put you up to all sorts of dodges. You will never be lonely
if this thing really grips you."
I must confess that I caught some of the boy's enthusiasm, and when we
returned that evening I brought with me the material for fixing up a
kind of amateur installation. Although not scientifically inclined, the
wonder of the thing appealed to me, and I reflected that during my
lonely hours I could occupy myself with this marvellous discovery.
Indeed, for many days afterwards I was engaged in carrying out what the
boy had instructed me to do. I found what seemed to me a convenient spot
on the cliff, close to my house, yet hidden from the gaze of any
passer-by, and here I almost forgot my troubles in perfecting it. More
than once, too, young Martin--for that was the name of the lad--came
over to see me, and told me that I was getting on famously.
"I am afraid your affair is not powerful enough," he said; "but I will
try and send a message to you. It will be an awful lark, won't it?"
By the time young Martin and I had met three times we had become quite
friendly, and so eager was he about the work I was doing that he gave me
a little book, which he himself had compiled, containing secret codes.
"I don't know whether I ought to do this," he laughed, "but really, you
know, it is so fine. It is so interesting, too, and it was by the purest
chance that I picked them up."
By the end of a fortnight I boasted to myself that I knew practically
all young Martin could tell me about wireless telegraphy, and that I had
assimilated all his boasted knowledge about codes. Although I was not a
scientist, I had a voracious memory, and was not long in storing my mind
with what, a few weeks before, had but little meaning to me, but was now
full of mystery and wonder.
By the end of that time one of my old attacks came on, and I was too ill
to care about anything. Indeed, when Prideaux and Lethbridge called on
me I was too unwell to see either of them. For that matter, I had lost
interest in everything. Day followed day, and I opened neither newspaper
nor book, nor did I give a thought to what had so interested me since my
first visit to that monument of Marconi's genius. What was going on in
the outside world I neither knew nor cared. Once or twice I thought the
end had come, and that I should never leave Father Abraham's hut alive.
Presently, however, a turn came for the better, and in what seemed a
remarkable way, health and strength returned to me. I knew it was only
temporary, and that in a few weeks I should have another attack,
possibly worse than this, but I drove the thought from my mind.
"Let me enjoy freedom from pain while I can," I said to myself. "As for
morbid thoughts, I will have nothing to do with them."
That was why, when Hugh Lethbridge next came to see me and invited me
over to Trecarrel, I accepted the invitation with eagerness. I wanted to
live while I was able, and the thought of another conversation with
Isabella Lethbridge appealed to me.
At Hugh's request, I went early. I engaged a kind of phaeton to meet me
at the end of the copse and take me over. I still felt weak and languid
after my lengthened attack, but was much stronger than I had hoped. The
thought of strange faces, too, added a new interest to my life, and I
looked forward with eagerness to a pleasant evening. As the carriage
entered the lodge gates and passed under a fine avenue of trees, I could
not help reflecting what a fine old place Trecarrel was. It had been
built hundreds of years before by the family of Trecarrels, which, like
many other old families, had become poor, and had to sell the ancestral
acres. Mr. Lethbridge had the good sense to leave the house practically
as he found it, and had not attempted to modernize it in any way. It is
true he had, as he told me, brought the sanitary arrangements and the
fireplaces up to date, but the building, as a whole, remained pretty
much as it had been at the time of the Trecarrels. From the front
entrance it commanded a fine view of rugged tors, beyond which shone the
sea, on the one hand, and of wooded dells and rich meadows on the other.
It was a place to rejoice in--a place of which the possessor could say
proudly, "This is my home."
It wanted half an hour to dinner when I entered the house, but I found
Isabella Lethbridge already dressed, as if awaiting me. She gave me a
warm welcome, and, as I thought, seemed pleased to see me. I had not now
seen her for some weeks, and I imagined that the feelings she had
awakened in my heart, when we last met, were a thing of the past. Now,
however, I knew it was not so. In a way I could not understand she
exercised a strange influence over me. I found myself eager to talk to
her, anxious to be thought well of by her. I remembered what had been
said about her, and I believed it to be true; yet at this time I cared
nothing about it. What, after all, did it matter?
If any one should read this, I imagine he will say that I had fallen in
love with her, but such was not the case. I realized the barriers
between us, that, much as I delighted in her beauty--for she was
beautiful that night--that much as I rejoiced in being with her, I felt
no love for her. That is, love as I understand it. I knew that she
repelled me, even while she fascinated me. That she had a vigorous
intelligence, I could not deny. That she possessed a strange charm was
just as evident, but something kept Isabella Lethbridge from making that
appeal to me which caused me to be what the world calls "in love."
Perhaps this was because I knew my days were numbered. How could a man,
who a few weeks before had been given a year to live, think of marriage
and giving in marriage? No, no, Isabella Lethbridge was still only a
problem to me, and yet I could not understand the strange interest I had
in her.
"I hear you have got to know Mr. Ned Prideaux?" she said to me, after we
had been talking for a few minutes.
"Yes, I met him one night up at Mr. Trelaske's. Do you know him?"
"I have met him two or three times," was her reply. "What do you think
of him?"
"He struck me as a fine specimen of a young Cornishman."
"Have you seen him since that night at the Vicarage?"
"Yes, two or three times; we have become rather friendly."
"He said all sorts of things about me, I expect?" and she looked at me
questioningly.
"About you! Why should he?"
"Don't try to deceive me, Mr. Erskine. You cannot succeed in doing it,
although you are a lawyer. I can see that he talked to you about me.
What did he say?"
"What could he say?" I laughed, "except that you are very beautiful and
very fascinating, and all that sort of thing."
I know it was very clumsy, and that had I been gifted with a ready wit I
should have evaded her question with a greater appearance of ease.
"That will not do, Mr. Erskine, and it is not worthy of you. What did he
tell you?" There was a look in her eyes, half of curiosity, half of
anger, as she spoke. It appeared that she was interested in what
Prideaux thought of her, yet angry that he should speak of her.
"What could he tell me?" I asked.
She reflected for a few seconds, then said suddenly:
"Do you believe that any one should be tied down to conventional
morality, Mr. Erskine?"
"Conventional morality?" I asked. "I am not sure that I understand."
"Don't you think," she said, "that one has a right to pick the flowers
that lie in one's pathway? Rather, don't you think it is one's duty to
do so?"
"The question is rather too abstract for me," was my reply; "one has to
get down to concrete instances."
Again she reflected for a few seconds.
"I am glad you have come up early," she said. "Glad to have this
opportunity of talking with you alone. You have come from a world of
ideas. You have met with people who are determined to live their lives
at all costs."
"I have met with people, certainly, who have claimed to do this," was my
reply; "but, on the whole, the so-called unconventional people, as far
as my experience goes, are the most discontented. After all, life
doesn't admit of many experiments, and those who make them, as a rule,
have to pay very dearly for them."