reflected that she was an intelligent woman, and represented the class
to which she belonged.
"Ah, sur, I've lived in Cornwall all my life, and I ca'ant 'elp seein'
the deffurence between things now and what they used to be."
"Oh," I said, "and how is that?"
"Ah, sur, the young people be'ant the same. Why, sur, when I was a young
woman, we didn't spend all our time gaddin' about, like young people do
nowadays. We wad'n all for pleasure then. Why, sur, every Sunday mornin'
I used to go to seven o'clock prayer-meetin', and there would be thirty
or forty of us. The people had'n forgot 'ow to pray then, sur."
"And have they now?" I asked.
"Why, sur, there ed'n no seven o'clock meetin'; we d'ardly ever 'ave
prayer-meetin' like we used to. There ed'n nobody to pray, so to speak,
and when they do pray, 'tis deffurent. Ah, sur, we 'ad power then. We
felt the power, too. As for the Chapel, it was full nearly every Sunday,
and nearly everybody went."
"And they don't go now?" I suggested.
"No, sur, they do'ant go now. That is, nothin' like they used to. Young
people do'ant seem to have no relish for the House of God."
"What is the reason of it?" I asked.
"Worldliness and pleasure, sur. Everybody be a thinkin' 'ow they shall
enjoy theirselves. Yes, sur, we 'ave forgotten God, and He is goin' to
bring us back to our senses. Yes, war is a ter'ble thing, but ef et will
do that et'll be good for us. We d'need strong physic sometimes."
I waited, for I could see that she was in a communicative mood, and was
pleased with the attention I gave to her.
"Then ther's the class-meetin's," she went on; "when I was a young
woman, all the professin' Christians went to class-meetin', and
everybody did give their experience. It was a means of grace to go then,
sur. Men and women 'ad somethin' to tell of what God had done for them,
and now, it do'ant seem as ef anybody 'ad any experience to give. Why,
sur, we 'ad cottage prayer-meetin's all over St. Issey, and we was
'appy. We knawed then that God loved us, but now we do'ant seem to think
about God. Religion wad'n a formal thing then, sur, it was everything to
us. Yet, I dunno; people seem to have more worldly goods than they 'ad
then, we 'ave better wages, and more of the good things of this life,
but then we knawed God; now we do'ant."
"Do you mean to say that every one has forgotten Him, Mrs. Crantock?"
"No, sur, I do'ant go so fur as that. There be a few who 'aven't removed
the ould landmarks. There's Tommy Yelland, and Mary Tresidder, and a few
like they, to whom the Word of God is precious, but there be'ant many.
You can remember, sur, the story of Sodom and Gomorrah. The Lord
destroyed those cities because there wad'n ten righteous men. I do'ant
say things is so bad as that wi' we, but we have lost certainty, sur,
and we 'ave lost power. Be you a professin' Christian yerself, sur?"
"I am afraid I am not, Mrs. Crantock, but I am very interested in it."
"Ah, sur, I wish you 'ad come down 'ere in the ould days, when we 'ad
Revivals. I've knawed the time when every one in St. Issey who went to
Chapel was converted."
"Revivals?" I said, for I scarcely understood her.
"Yes, sur, the Spirit of the Lord used to move mightily, and after a
Sunday evening service I 'ave knawed lots of people come out and be
soundly converted; but that is all over now."
"Why is that?" I asked.
"Ted'n the Lord's fault, sur; His arm is not shortened, neither is His
ear heavy. We have resisted His Spirit, sur, and come away from Him. We
are fulfilling words of Scripture, 'Ephraim is joined to his idols; let
him alone.' Why, sur, at our last special services nobody wad'n
converted."
"Special services?" I queried.
"Yes, sur, we call it a 'mission' now, and we 'ad a special preacher
down, but there wad'n no results."
"And are things no better at the Church?" I asked.
"Well, sur, they d'think of things deffurent up there. We do'ant look
upon they as thinking about religion, like we Wesleyans do, or used to
do," she added, correcting herself. "Now, sur, we be all alike. There
do'ant seem any deffurence between the Church and the world. That is why
God 'ave allowed this ter'ble war to come; for 'twill be ter'ble, do'ant
you think so, sur?"
"Yes," I replied, "I am afraid it will."
"I d'ear they Germans be ter'ble fighters, and that every man in the
country is a sojer. Es that true, sur?"
"Yes, practically true."
"Ah, 'tis a wisht thing ed'n et, then? but ef all the people would
return to the Lord I shudd'n fear, but we seem to 'ave forgot the power
of prayer. Be you better then, sur, makin' so bold?"
"Not much better, I am afraid," I replied.
"You do look fine an' slight, sur," she added, looking at me pityingly.
At first I scarcely understood what she meant, but I discovered that the
word "slight" was commonly used among the Cornish people when they spoke
of people looking ill.
"Pardon me," I said, for although the old dame was comparatively
ignorant, and lived in a narrow world of her own, her conversation had
greatly interested me. She had made me realize the power of Methodism in
the county half a century before, and I wondered whether, in the
simplicity of her mind and heart, she had got hold of a greater truth
than I had realized. I remembered some words of the Founder of
Christianity, "He hath hid these things from the wise and prudent, and
hath revealed them unto babes." "Have you lost the knowledge of God,
which you once possessed, with the rest of the people?"
"No, sur; that is," she added, correcting herself, "I do'ant think I
have. Sometimes I am in danger of forgetting Him, and then He d'seem a
long way off like, but I know et es my own fault, for direckly I spend a
lot of time on my knees the Lord d'come real again to me. I d'remember
my ould man's death-bed, too, and, sur, he was like Enoch of old, he
walked with God, and when he came to die it was like heaven to hear him
talk. He was triumphant, sur, triumphant."
As I left Mrs. Crantock, and made my way into the village, I could not
help reflecting on what she had said. I had now been in St. Issey ten
weeks, and had had time to form some impression on the life of the
people. I could not help being convinced, too, that the old woman, in
her simple way, had spoken the truth. As far as I could see there was no
religion in Cornwall such as she had described. The people were, on the
whole, well conducted, but, as I understood the word, there was no deep
sense of religion at all. Both at Chapel and Church the people were
listless, and, to a large extent, indifferent. The fact of God was not
real. That consciousness of the presence of God, which, as far as I
could judge, had been common to the people fifty years before, no longer
existed.
And yet, perhaps, I am not altogether right in saying this. The ideals
and the thoughts of the people were largely because of what religion had
been in the olden days. Whether the distinctive doctrines of Methodism
were largely superstition I am not going to argue here, but they had, in
the past, permeated the county, and their effects had not altogether
died out. On the other hand, however, they were no longer a present
possession, neither was religion, in a large number of cases, a
distinctive factor in their lives. The people were comfortable, well
fed, well housed, and, generally, well conditioned, and, as a
consequence, they did not feel the need of God. The fear of hell, which
was prevalent in the old days, had died out, and with its death the
realization for the need of religion had died out too. They were so
comfortable, so self-satisfied, that everything appertaining to the
spiritual world was a long, long way off. No one seemed to be stirred to
the depths of life, never anywhere was there a deep calling unto the
deep; and thus, while the majority of people were respectable and well
behaved, they sought for satisfaction in the life around them.
As I walked through the village I came upon a number of miners lounging
around, with, apparently, nothing to do. They were, they informed me,
working afternoon "core" that week, and thus had their mornings at
liberty. They greeted me heartily as I came up, and willingly entered
into conversation with me. The subject of conversation was the war, and
the two things which impressed me were, first of all, that it would soon
be over, and, second, that they had nothing to do with it. In the
majority of cases they did not seem to feel that Lord Kitchener's appeal
was to them at all. They imagined that soldiers would be forthcoming,
and that England would be able to get all the men she wanted, but the
idea that they should leave their homes and go away for training did not
seem to occur to them. I am speaking now of those early days of the war,
before the terror of it really gripped the country.
"I d'give they Germans about six weeks," said one miner to me. "What can
Germany do 'gainst Russia and France and we? I tell you what, maaster,
they have bite off a bigger piece than they can chow, tha's what they've
done; do'ant you think so?"
"I hope they have," I replied; "but I think you are over-confident. You
see, in Germany, every man is trained to be a soldier, and thus they
have an army nearly twenty times as big as we have."
"But you do'ant think they'll bait we, do 'ee, maaster?"
"I think we shall have difficult work to beat them," was my reply, "and
the sooner you chaps enlist the better."
"What! we go for sojers; do'ant you believe it. I never fired a gun in
my life."
"Then I think the sooner you begin to learn the better."
But I could make no impression on them. The war, to them, was a long way
off, and they had only a kind of detached interest in it. They quite
agreed with me that, as we were in it, we should have to see it through,
only some one else must see it through, not they. The thought of their
becoming soldiers seemed utterly alien to them. I discovered, too, that
all of them had a kind of feeling that they would lower themselves in
the social grade if they donned the King's uniform. In the past, the
Army had largely been recruited from men of the extreme lower orders. Of
course, I am referring now to privates. When a young fellow got into
trouble, or had disgraced himself in any way, the Army was a kind of
harbor of refuge. Indeed, it was quite common for magistrates to give
incipient criminals the choice between joining the Army and being sent
to prison. As a consequence, these Cornish miners, who in their way were
exceedingly proud, thought it beneath them to don the King's uniform.
Besides, as Mr. Lethbridge had said on a previous occasion, the whole
spirit of the county was utterly alien to anything like militarism.
As, towards noon, I found my way back to my hut, a great feeling of
bitterness came into my heart. "Wouldn't I enlist, if I were able?" I
said to myself. "I would to heaven that I were strong and well, and able
to do something; but I am nothing but a useless hulk. If the spirit
shown by these young fellows is the spirit of the country, the Germans
will smash us in a few weeks."
For I was not blind to the problem which faced us. I knew that France
was not prepared in the same way that Germany was. I remembered that,
forty-five years before, Von Moltke with his perfectly trained army had
swept down like an avalanche, and carried away the French army as if by
a flood. I knew, too, that the German forces were far stronger now than
they were then, and that, with the thoroughness which characterized
them, they had prepared everything to the minutest detail. I reflected
that at that time the German guns were thundering at the Liège forts,
and that, except some miracle happened, the German hordes would sweep
towards Paris, as in the great _dêbâcle_ of 1870. I knew we had a little
army of, perhaps, 200,000 men, but what could they do against such a
mighty host? I wondered, too, whether our guns were equal to those of
the Germans. Altogether, I was very pessimistic.
After this, some days passed without anything happening. For some reason
or other I seemed to be left severely alone. No one visited me, neither
did I go out of the house. The weather was somewhat inclement, and I was
too depressed to brave the angry clouds which hung in the sky. I went
neither to Church nor to Chapel, but hung around my hut, sometimes
listlessly walking along the cliffs, but, in the main, staying in my
little room.
"I suppose, sir," said Simpson, one evening, "that there is going to be
a recruiting meeting in the village schoolroom."
"How did you find that out, Simpson?" I asked.
"Saw a bill, sir. Squire Treherne is going to take the chair, and the
Vicar and several others are going to speak."
"When is the meeting to be, Simpson?"
"To-morrow night, sir."
Although I felt far from well, I determined to go. I was far away from
the centres of life, and felt utterly incapable of doing anything; but I
wanted to feel the throb of humanity's pulses, longed to take my share
in the great world struggle.
I had not time to ask any more questions, however, for at that minute
Hugh Lethbridge walked into my room, and I saw by the look on his face
that he was much perturbed.
I did not ask him any questions, for at that moment Simpson was busily
clearing away the dinner utensils. It was evident, however, that
something had excited him greatly. He could not sit still, and his hands
were constantly clenching and unclenching themselves.
"Erskine," he said presently, when Simpson had left the room, "I want
you to help me."
"Help you, my dear fellow, how?"
"I have been and done it," he said.
"Done what?"
"I could not help it, my dear chap. You have seen the placards all over
the place. You know the call there has been for men. What could I do?
Here am I, healthy and strong, and just the kind of man that is needed.
How could I hang back like a coward?"
"Then you have enlisted?"
"Yes," he cried, "I have enlisted; I could not help myself."
"As a private?"
"Yes, as a private. I am not fit to be an officer."
"But didn't you belong to the Officers' Training Corps when you were at
school?"
"The pater would not allow me. No, it was no use my thinking anything
about it, so I went to a recruiting station and joined up. I shall have
to go to the front immediately."
"How is that?" I asked. "What is the use of your going to the front
without training? They won't allow you. You will be kept in England at
least six months."
"No, I shan't. You see, I know the Colonel of the regiment I have joined
very well, and he is off to the front immediately, and I am going too."
"But how?"
"Well, you see, for one thing, I know French and German, and for
another, I am not a bad hand at mechanics. I know all about a motor-car,
inside and out, and they can find work for me."
"Then you are not going as an ordinary Tommy?"
"In a way I am, and in a way I am not; but there it is. They are going
to make a special case of me. I am off to-morrow to join my regiment,
and from what I can hear, the regiment is off in two or three days. I
don't know exactly what my duties will be; but there it is, I am off."
"What will your father say?" I asked.
"That is what I have come to see you about. I never realized until I had
done it what the pater would say. You know I am fond of him, even
although we have never got on well together. He has never understood me,
and I am afraid I have never understood him--there is no link of
sympathy between us; but then, you know, he is my pater after all. Yes,
I have joined; but that is not all, Erskine."
"Not all?" I queried. "What is there besides?"
"I have been and got married," was his reply.
"Got married!"
"Yes. I expect it was a mad thing to do, but I could not help myself.
You don't know what it is to be in love, Erskine, and I could not bear
the idea of leaving Mary without knowing she was my wife."
"And, of course, your father knows nothing about that either?"
"No, he knows nothing. You see, I got married by special license. I was
afraid to tell the pater what was in my mind,--afraid he would interfere
somehow and stop me,--so I thought I would do it first and tell him
afterwards."
Our conversation was not nearly so connected and straightforward as I
have described it here. What he said was uttered in quick, disjointed
sentences. Sometimes he would break off in the middle of what he was
saying, and talk about something else. That he was greatly excited was
easy to see. It was evident, too, that his duty towards his father
troubled him greatly.
"I don't mind mother," he said; "she will be all right--mother
understands me. Of course, Bella and I laugh at her, and all that sort
of thing, because she is always making plans for us, and mapping out our
day's program, and telling us what we ought to do. We call her the
general manager; but she is a good sort is mother, and she understands
us, too. But the pater is different. Somehow, he cannot understand us,
and we cannot understand him. I suppose, in a way, he is just, and in
many things he is generous to me, but in others----Well, there it is. I
wondered what I ought to do. At first I thought I would go away without
telling him anything, but that would be acting like a sneak. Mind you,
Erskine, I would not undo anything I have done. If ever a man had a call
to serve his country, I have, and I think it is a splendid piece of luck
that I can be useful at a time like this, without going through the
training of an ordinary soldier. I jumped at the chance of going to the
front straight away; but then, there was Mary. How could I leave her
without being sure that I had her? I was afraid the pater would take
steps to hinder me from ever getting her. You have some idea what he
is--and I was afraid. Besides, she was willing, and so I--I----God
forgive me if I have done wrong, Erskine, but I could not help it."
"Well, what can I do to help you?" I asked.
"There it is, and that is why I have come to-night. I have always had
the reputation of having a fair amount of pluck; I do not fear death a
bit, and I haven't a single qualm about going to the front; but it's the
pater, you see."
"What about your father?" I asked.
"I am afraid to tell him, Erskine. I simply dare not go home and tell
him what I have done."
"Nonsense!" I said; "he cannot eat you; you have done nothing to be
ashamed of. For that matter you have done what thousands of other
fellows have done. You have joined the Army at the call of your King and
Country, and it was the right thing to do. I would to God that I were
able to do it too!"
"Would you, Erskine?" he cried eagerly. "You think I have done right,
then?"
"I think you should have gone to your father first and asked for his
consent. Then, if he would not give it, I think you, being of age, and
feeling it your duty, should go in spite of him."
"But he would not have consented."
"Exactly; still, you should have asked him. As for getting married----"
"Yes, yes, what about that?" and he looked towards me feverishly.
"Well," I said, "hundreds of fellows are doing it. I have seen scores of
such cases in the newspapers. Hurried marriages have been arranged by
young fellows going to the front."
"Yes, but, you see, they have been different. They have been married
with their father's blessing, and all that sort of thing; but I, I am
afraid to go and tell him, Erskine, unless----"
"Unless what?" I asked.
"The pater thinks no end of you," he said excitedly. "He doesn't say
much, but I can see it. You see, you promised to do well at the Bar, and
he thinks you are clever, and all that sort of thing. Of course he
hasn't said much to you, but I know it."
"Well, what if he does?" I asked.
"Look here, Erskine, that is what I came for. Will you come with me? If
you are with me, I believe I can tell him. I have got the car outside,
and I can run you up in five minutes."
Although I ought to have seen what was in his mind all the time, his
request came almost as a shock to me. Josiah Lethbridge was almost a
stranger to me. It is true I had been to his house twice, and had met
him on two other occasions, but he was not a man to whom one could speak
freely. At least I thought so. As I have intimated before, he was a
strong, capable man, and, like many of his class, was overbearing,
almost repellent. He had risen from a poor lad by his own energy and
determination and ability. He had swept difficulties out of his path. He
had succeeded because he had made others yield to his stronger will. All
these things had left their mark upon him. He could not bear opposition,
and he took it as a personal grievance when others did not fall in with
his way of thinking. I knew, too, his thoughts and desires with regard
to his son, knew how he hated militarism, knew how ambitious he was that
Hugh, his only son, should take a high place, not only in the county but
in the nation. Therefore, when he was told that Hugh had not only joined
the Army as a common soldier, but had married, against his will, a small
tenant farmer's daughter, his anger would know no bounds.
Besides, what had it to do with me? I had known none of them before I
came to Cornwall, less than three months before. Why should I be dragged
into this imbroglio? Then I looked at Hugh Lethbridge's face, saw the
quiver of his lips, saw the eager look in his eye. Although I had known
him only a few weeks, I had conceived a strong affection for him, and,
in spite of myself, could not help sympathizing with him.
"Will you help me?" he said pleadingly.
I nodded.
"You will come with me now and see the pater?"
"If you wish it."
"Thank you, my dear chap," and his voice became husky as he spoke.
A few minutes later we stood at the door of Josiah Lethbridge's house.
XIII
FATHER AND SON
I think Isabella Lethbridge must have realized that something out of the
ordinary had brought me there that night, for when she met me in the
hall there was a look of inquiry on her face. Still, she greeted me
kindly, almost eagerly.
"It is good of you to come up with Hugh. Father is in the library
alone," she said, "and mother and I have sat for more than an hour
without speaking. Come in, will you?"
"I am afraid I can't," I said. "I have come to see Mr. Lethbridge."
Again she looked at me inquiringly, and I was sure, as her glance passed
from myself to Hugh, that she divined something of our purpose.
"You said the pater was in the library, Bella?" said Hugh.
"Yes," was her reply. "Some man came up to see him directly after
dinner, and has only just left. I fancy he has had some unpleasantness
about business."
Hugh, whose mouth had now become firm and determined, went to the
library door and knocked.
"Yes, come in."
I followed Hugh Lethbridge into the room, while he carefully shut the
door. The older man looked at us inquiringly.
"Won't you sit down?" he said to me, nodding towards a chair; but I
could see that he hardly knew what he was saying. His eyes were riveted
on Hugh's face, as if he would read his inmost soul. Even then I could
not help being impressed by the young fellow's behavior, nor, for that
matter, by his general appearance. For Hugh Lethbridge was one of the
finest specimens of British young manhood I have ever met. Quite a boy
in appearance, he was tall, well knit, and muscular. He had an open,
frank countenance, sparkling blue eyes, and brown, wavy hair. He stood
before his father firm and erect. His every movement belied the
statement that he was afraid. There was no suggestion of fear in his
presence, except for the fact that once he looked towards me, as if to
be certain that I was there, near to him. Then, without preamble, and
without seeking to excuse himself in any way, he burst forth with the
news.
"Pater," he said, "I have joined the Army--and--and I have married Mary
Treleaven."
The two sentences came like two pistol-shots. He had evidently
determined to waste no time or words.
His father did not speak a word for some time. At first he looked at his
son, as though he did not comprehend him, and then, when the truth came
to him, felt stunned. I watched his face closely, as Hugh spoke, and for
a moment could not help pitying him. I realized the pride of the man,
realized, too, all the plans he had made, and understood something of
what he felt when he saw that the structure he had built up was levelled
to the ground like a house of cards.