anger flash from his eyes, saw his face harden. Perhaps, had I not been
there, he would have yielded to the passion of the moment; but he was a
proud man, and would not willingly place himself in a ridiculous
position. It was evident, too, that two forces were fighting in his
heart. One was love for his boy; for doubtless, in his way, Hugh was
very dear to him. He was his only son, and, as he had hoped, heir to his
possessions. On the other hand, he could not bear opposition, and would
not yield an inch in the pathway which he had chosen to tread.
The silence was almost painful. After Hugh had blurted out his
confession, he seemed like one incapable of speech, as his eyes were
riveted on his father's face. Neither did he feel that there was
anything for him to say. I had told Hugh, on my way up to the house,
that he must not expect me to plead for him. It was not my business to
interfere between father and son. Indeed, I felt like an intruder all
through the painful interview. As for Josiah Lethbridge, he sat in the
leather-covered library chair, close by his writing-desk, motionless,
for what seemed an interminable time. Then, as if by force of habit, he
took a pen, and began to draw grotesque figures on the blotting-pad. He
was evidently thinking deeply. Outside the night was windless, and no
sound reached us save that of the roll of the waves upon a distant
beach.
"Dad," burst out Hugh at length, "have you nothing to say?"
The older man moved in his chair slowly, and as if with difficulty.
"What is there to say?" and his voice was hard and cold.
"Well, I thought that--that----" And then Hugh broke down.
"What is there to say?" repeated Josiah Lethbridge in the same cold,
even voice. "You know what my views are, you know what my wishes are. I
have told you more than once my plans about you; but it seems that you
thought yourself wiser than I. Or perhaps," he added, "you do not care
about my wishes. That is why you have gone and married a penniless girl
who can never be anything but a drag to you--married her, too,
senselessly, madly, without a shadow of reason for doing it."
I saw then that the thing which had wounded him most deeply was not the
fact that his son had joined the Army, but that he had married a poor
village girl--married her in spite of his wishes, in spite of his
positive command.
"You have acted in a very honorable way, too, haven't you?" he sneered.
"Knowing what my feelings are in the matter, you take the irrevocable
step first, and then come and tell me afterwards."
"But, dad, don't you see?" and Hugh spoke excitedly. "Yes, I ought to
have spoken to you first, perhaps; but then I knew you would not give
your consent, and--and I could not bear to lose her. You see, I--I love
her!"
"Love her!" and Josiah Lethbridge spoke contemptuously.
"Yes, love her," cried the young fellow hotly. "I have loved her for
years."
"A common village girl!" burst forth the father.
"She is not common," replied the son. "A purer, better girl never
breathed. No one has ever dared to raise a breath against her. She is
well educated, too, and every one respects her."
It was evident the father's contempt aroused the lad's anger. He had no
difficulty in speaking now. Mary Treleaven had to be defended, and he no
longer stammered in his speech; words came easily.
"I say she is a pure girl and a good girl," he continued almost angrily,
"and I love her."
I thought for the moment that Josiah Lethbridge would have lost
self-control here, and have burst forth in a tirade of abuse; but still
he kept command over himself, and, although his lips quivered, he spoke
quietly.
"Pardon me if I doubt your love," he said. "May I ask what you intend
doing with her? If a man loves a woman, he should at least have some
prospect of keeping her decently before he marries her."
At this Hugh was silent. The father had, by his question, pierced the
weak place in Hugh's armor.
"If you think," went on Josiah Lethbridge, "that I am going to do
anything for her, or you, you are mistaken. You have chosen your own
way; you must follow it. I had intended another future for you, but my
intentions do not seem to count. I think there is nothing more to say,"
and he moved in his chair as though the interview were at an end. Then,
as if on second thoughts, he turned to me and said quietly:
"I do not see why you should have been dragged into this, Mr. Erskine;
but I suppose you had your own reason for coming."
I felt he had placed me in a wrong position, and for a moment was at a
loss how to answer him. Indeed, I felt I had made a mistake in coming,
and I was almost sorry I had yielded to Hugh's entreaty.
"He came," stammered Hugh, "because I--I begged him to. I was a coward,
and I--I thought you would b--be more reasonable to me if he came."
"Have I ever been anything but reasonable to you, Hugh?" asked the
father. "Of course, to one like yourself, who will not listen to reason,
I suppose my words have seemed harsh and arbitrary. I am an older man
than you, and therefore think my way is best. Besides----But we will not
speak of that. Surely, however, Mr. Erskine did not come here with the
intention of condoning your action."
"I am sorry if my presence here is unwelcome," I said. "All the
same----"
"Excuse my interrupting," said Josiah Lethbridge. "Did you know of my
son's intention? Were you aware of his mad plans?"
"No, dad," burst in Hugh; "Erskine knew nothing. He was as surprised as
you when, an hour ago, I went and told him. The truth is, dad, that you
and I have never got on well together. You seem to have forgotten that
you were ever a young man, and had a young man's feelings and
thoughts--seem to have forgotten that you were ever in love. You have
always treated me, even since I have reached a man's age, as though I
were never to have a will of my own, or to think of disagreeing with
you. I feared you as a child, and--and up to to-night I feared you
still. That was why I asked Mr. Erskine to come with me while I made my
confession."
"Did you think," asked Mr. Lethbridge, "that he would influence me in
any way?"
"I don't know what I thought," replied Hugh; "but Erskine told me that
you ought to know--that I ought to come and tell you everything; and I
have come, and I have told you."
"Very well. That is all, I suppose?" and still the older man spoke in
the same calm, measured tones. "You, I imagine, think you have done a
very romantic and heroic thing. On the other hand, I feel that my only
son has disgraced me."
"Disgraced you?"
"Yes, disgraced me. Every one in the county who knows me will point at
me as one whose son married against his father's wishes--married without
a penny--married like one who is ashamed of his action. Well, I imagine
I can bear it."
"Is that all you have to say, dad?"
"I cannot see what there is to say besides. You have followed your own
devices, and you must take the consequences."
"I think it may be as well to remember, Mr. Lethbridge," I said, "that,
whether your son has acted wisely or foolishly, he can claim the credit
of being sincere and honest. There is nothing ignoble in a young fellow
marrying the girl he loves. As for his joining the Army, it is what
every young man ought to do at a time like this."
"Pardon me, Mr. Erskine, if I have my own opinions about my son's
actions. No doubt the old-fashioned ideas which were instilled into my
mind as a boy are regarded as out of date. I was taught to believe in
the Commandment, 'Honor thy father and thy mother.' That Commandment, in
the present generation, is discarded; but I do not think the present
generation, or future generations, will be any the better because they
have discarded it. As for his joining the Army, he certainly knows my
views about that."
"But surely you will give him credit for being conscientious and
sincere?"
Josiah Lethbridge looked down at the blotting-paper upon which he had
been tracing grotesque figures without speaking. He seemed to imagine
that my question did not call for a reply.
"Hugh tells me that in all probability he will have to go to the front
shortly," I went on. "It may be--although I sincerely trust he will come
back in safety--he will never come back again. That being so, it is
natural to hope that his father will say a kind word before he goes.
After all, your son is doing the noblest thing of which he is capable:
he is offering his life to his country."
"Pardon me, Mr. Erskine," replied Josiah Lethbridge, "but perhaps I may
be forgiven if I hold different views from your own. I am a plain man,
and as a rule do not waste words. When a son of mine deliberately flouts
the deepest convictions of his father's life; when he deliberately
defies and does what his father has commanded him not to do; when he
tramples underfoot his father's deepest convictions--then, I say, he is
no longer a son of mine; henceforth he is a stranger to my house."
I was staggered at this. I had quite expected anger--denunciation,
perhaps--but not this cold, cruel treatment.
"You cannot mean that, sir?" I said.
"I am not in the habit of saying what I do not mean, and I do not speak
hastily. Your presence here, Mr. Erskine, may have given my brave son
the courage to speak to his father, although I have my own opinion about
your good taste in coming here to support him; but it doesn't alter my
opinions and determinations in the slightest degree, and I presume that,
since he has chosen to defy me, he has made his own plans for the
future. Anyhow, I have no more to do with him."
"Dad, you don't mean that!" and Hugh's voice was hoarse and trembling.
"I do not think I need detain you any longer," and Josiah Lethbridge
rose from his chair as he spoke. "I have many things to attend to."
Perhaps I was foolish, but I could not bear the idea of the young fellow
being turned out of his home without making protest. I knew it was no
business of mine, and that I was taking an unpardonable liberty in
interfering in any way, but I could not help myself.
"Mr. Lethbridge," I said, "you will live to repent this. That your son
may have been foolish in making a hurried marriage I do not deny; but
that he has done wrong in joining the Army at such a time as this I _do_
deny, and it seems to me that no father should treat his son as you are
treating yours. He, at least, is offering his life, while you, without a
thought of sacrifice and without care for your country's need, coldly
turn him out of the house."
"Sacrifice!" and for the first time there was a touch of passion in his
voice. "We are dragged into this ghastly war through the bungling of our
statesmen; we are made the puppets and playthings of political hacks!"
he cried. "The whole country is being dragged to ruin because of the mad
bungling of those at the head of affairs, and then, because some of us
are sane and do not wish to see the country bled to death, we are told
that we are making no sacrifice. Sacrifice! I have within the last week
lost a fortune through this madness. My business will be ruined; we
shall be all bled white with taxation; England will never be the same
again; and my own son--or he who was my son," he added in bitter
parenthesis--"offers himself as a legalized murderer! And then you talk
about sacrifice! But remember this," he added, looking towards Hugh, "it
will be no use your coming to me in days to come, or expecting help in
any way. I wash my hands of your whole future. As you have made your
bed, so you must lie on it."
Hugh Lethbridge stood in the middle of the room, looking at his father
in a dazed kind of way, as though he had failed to comprehend his words.
"You--you surely don't mean that, dad!"
Josiah Lethbridge stood, resting one hand on the back of his chair, his
face hard and immovable, no word passing his lips.
"Good-bye, dad," and Hugh held out his hand. The father did not seem to
notice it. He stood perfectly still, with the same hard look on his
face. Hugh passed out of the room, leaving me alone with the angry man.
"Good-night, sir," I said. "I am sorry, and some day you will be."
He hesitated a second, as if in doubt whether to speak, then he looked
at me more kindly.
"Mr. Erskine," he said, "doubtless you do not approve of my actions, but
my convictions are not of yesterday."
"I hope, when you have considered, you will act differently," was my
reply. "Your son may have all the foolishness of a boy, but he is a lad
of whom any father ought to be proud."
Mr. Lethbridge did not speak a word for some seconds, then he said, half
apologetically:
"I am afraid, Mr. Erskine, that I have been very rude to you. I remember
that you are a guest in my house, and I am afraid that, in my
disappointment, I have broken the laws of hospitality. I shall always be
pleased to see you here, when you care to call."
"Thank you," I replied, "but I am afraid I cannot accept the hospitality
which you offer. The man who closes his door to such a son as yours, and
for such a reason, forfeits all right to respect. I am told you claim to
be a religious man, but I will not speak of that." And I, too, passed
out of the room.
I had scarcely closed the door behind me when I saw Isabella Lethbridge
standing in the hall.
"Hugh has gone in to see mother," she said. "Please tell me what has
happened."
"I have no right to do that, Miss Lethbridge," was my reply.
"Good-night."
I went to the door and opened it, regardless of what she might think of
me. It seemed to me that I could not breathe in the house; the
atmosphere was stifling, and the memory of the look I had seen on Hugh's
face made me so angry that I could not trust myself.
XIV
THE RECRUITING MEETING
The human mind and heart are difficult to understand, and, in spite of
all men's researches in the realm of psychology, can never be explained.
I had left Mr. Lethbridge's house, angry with the owner of it, almost
angry with Hugh, certainly hard and bitter towards Isabella Lethbridge;
and yet, no sooner had I got outside than an entire revulsion of feeling
and thought came over me. My mind seemed like a cloud of dust, while
confused, whirling thoughts possessed me. But nothing was real and
clear, save that I had played an unworthy part. I reflected that I had
not understood Hugh, neither had I understood his father, and in
everything I had bungled. I had left Mr. Lethbridge when, as it now
seemed to me, he was in the humor to be reasoned with. Had I, I
reflected, understood anything of the human heart, I should have known
that he would have felt a sense of utter desolation at Hugh's departure,
and might, if I had been wise, have repented of his harsh action; but I
had not been wise. In a fit of anger I had refused his hospitality, I
had insulted him, and thereby had closed the door of his house against
me forever.
With this thought, too, came the realization that I had been anything
but courteous to Isabella Lethbridge. She, naturally, had desired to
know something about the interview which had taken place, and I had
rudely refused to reply to her question. I had left the house in a way
that was less than civil, and had, as a consequence, stamped myself as a
clown.
Strange as it may seem, I had practically forgotten all about Hugh. I
had come to his father's house in order to be near him during the most
critical and difficult hour of his life, and I ought to have been with
him during the period of anguish which must naturally follow. Instead of
which I had left him as though I did not care how he fared.
But more than all this my mind and heart were in a state of turmoil, as
I considered my feelings towards Isabella Lethbridge. I had caught the
flash of her eyes as she looked into mine. In my pride and vanity I
could not help believing that she had an interest in me which was more
than ordinary, and I knew my heart had responded to what I believed
existed in hers, even although, all the time, I felt angrily towards
her.
I walked towards the Lodge gates, scarcely knowing what I was doing or
realizing what had happened, except in a vague, confused way. At that
time I forgot my own malady, forgot that my days were numbered. It
seemed to me that life stretched out before me, full of wonder, and full
of promise. Presently, however, my confused feelings subsided, and I
began to think more sanely and connectedly on what had taken place. I
remembered that Hugh's car was outside the house, and that, in all
probability, he would be coming along in a few minutes. I determined,
therefore, to wait for him. So instead of passing through the Lodge
gates, I turned and walked back towards the house. I had not gone more
than a hundred yards when I met Isabella Lethbridge. Why she had come I
had no idea, because she could not have expected to meet me. She would,
naturally, think I had continued my journey home, yet she showed no
surprise at meeting me.
"Mr. Erskine," she said, "what have I done that you should--should----"
I thought I caught a sob in her voice. Certainly she seemed strangely
wrought upon.
I was silent, for I did not know how to answer her. Longings, hopes,
fears, and desires surged through my heart in a most unaccountable way.
In one sense I felt strangely happy at being there with her on that
bright moonlight night; for the clouds had now rolled away, and the moon
sailed serenely in the sky above. On the other hand, I knew I was much
depressed. While everything was possible, nothing seemed possible.
Truly, life was a maddening maze!
She turned with me, as if to return to the house, and for some time we
walked side by side without speaking.
"Won't you tell me what has taken place?" she asked.
"Your brother has joined the Army," I replied. "He has got married
too--married to Mary Treleaven. He asked me to come with him to the
house while he told his father."
"And----?" she asked.
"Need I tell you that?" was my response.
"You mean that my father has driven him out of the house," and her voice
was hard and angry.
I do not know why it was, but at that moment I felt I must champion
Josiah Lethbridge's cause. The man had angered me beyond words, and yet
I found myself excusing him.
"Your father has had all his convictions trampled upon, all his hopes
destroyed," I replied. "The things Hugh has done came upon him suddenly,
and overcome by disappointment and grief, he--he----"
"Do you excuse him, Mr. Erskine?" she interrupted.
"I have neither the right to excuse nor condemn. I was simply an
onlooker, and had no right to be there at all."
She caught my arm convulsively.
"Don't say that," she said eagerly. "You--you have the right; that is,
you are interested in Hugh. He is so fond of you, and he thought, of
course he thought, you might influence my father. Besides----"
"Besides what?" I queried, as I saw her hesitate.
"Oh, I don't know. Everything is in a muddle; everything is so hopeless;
and yet father talks about God--talks about the power of religion--talks
about providence!"
I was silent at this, for her words were but an echo of my own thoughts.
"Why should not Hugh marry the girl he loves?" she went on. "He is
young, and has the right to live his own life; if they love each other,
what right has my father to stand in their way?"
"I thought you did not believe in love. I remember, when talking with
you about it one day, you expressed the opinion that such a thing did
not exist." I said this almost triumphantly, as though pleased to get
the better of her in an argument.
"At any rate," she replied, "he has the madness of love. He is willing
to give all, sacrifice all, risk all, for it. That is something anyhow.
Mr. Erskine, will you not come back to the house again and plead with my
father? He might listen to you. Do you not think you owe it to Hugh,
since you came up with him?" Then her mood altered. "After all, what is
the use of it? Life can never be anything but a promise of something
which can never be fulfilled. But I love him for what he has done. I am
prouder of my brother than ever. It is worth living to know that one
whom one loves as a brother, has dared everything, and sacrificed
everything, for his love."
A strange feeling possessed me; at that moment I thought I loved
Isabella Lethbridge; felt that here, at least, was a woman who, in spite
of her contradictions, in spite of the fact that she had repelled me,
was worth the love of a lifetime. As I reflected upon it afterwards,
however, I knew that I did not love her. Between my life and hers was a
great impassable barrier. Besides, what right had I, a man with one foot
in the grave, a man whose days were numbered, to think of such things?
Again there was a silence between us, and during that silence such a
longing filled my life as I had never known before. I longed to live, to
live on and on indefinitely. I hated the barriers by which I was
bounded. My whole being revolted against the thought of death. At that
moment, too, I felt as though there must be something for which I could
find no better name than God Who was behind all things, Who made all
things, Who thought all things. Why should that Infinity give me life,
only to stamp it out, according to His caprice? Why should I be the
subject of such a hideous mockery?
With the longing of life, too, came the longing for something even
deeper. For the moment my mind was bounded by no barriers. I saw
infinite possibility, possibility which transcended all thought and
imagination. It seemed to me that if man were a child of God, he
possessed something of God's life, lived in Him, was part of Him, that
he shared in God's Infinity and Eternity.
Then I looked at the woman by my side, and as I did so she seemed to
shrivel up. She was a thing of a day, of an hour. She did not seem to
share in this Eternal Life of which I had been thinking. All the time
she clutched my arm convulsively.
At that moment I heard footsteps on the drive, and saw Hugh Lethbridge
coming towards us.
"Where are you going, Hugh?" I asked.
"Going!" he cried. "I am going to the only place a man can go at a time
like this. I am going to my wife."
"Your father has said nothing more to you?"
"I have not seen him. He has not come to me, and I could not go to him;
but I have seen mother. She knows, she understands."
"Are you walking back, then?"
"Walking?" Then he laughed. "Oh, I see, you are thinking about the car.
It is not my car now. My father has disinherited me, disowned me; this
place is no longer my home; but I would do it again, Erskine, I would do
it a thousand times. Good-night, Bella, old girl. What have you and
Erskine been talking about?"
"But I shall see you again, Hugh?" said Isabella Lethbridge, without
seeming to notice the question.
"You will have to come early to-morrow morning, if you do," he replied,
with a laugh. "I am under orders now, and must report myself to-morrow
afternoon. Don't worry, old girl."
"I will make father forgive you, I'll simply make him."
Hugh laughed sceptically.
"You might as well think of moving Routor, or Brown Willie, as think of
moving my father; and you know it, Bella; but mother's a trump. Do you
know, mother sees more of this business than I have ever seen. I told
her just now that I was going to the front almost immediately, and I
don't think she ever expects to see me alive again; but she behaved like
a saint in heaven. She sees into the heart of this war--sees why England
must fight, why it is our duty to crush German militarism; sees why we
must save Belgium. You and I have often laughed, Bella, but her mind, or
rather her heart, has probed the thing to its very depths. She has made
me believe more in religion during the last few minutes I have been with
her than I have believed in all my life. She quoted some words from the
Bible, which opened a new world for me--'Without shedding of blood,
there is no remission of sins.' She spoke like one inspired. I cannot
explain the meaning of it, I only know that as she repeated the passage
I _felt_ its meaning;--and she made me feel I was doing a great thing. I
was no longer going to the war simply at the call of my country, but at
the call of God. Good-night, Bella, old girl; shall I see you
to-morrow?"
"Where can I see you, Hugh?"
"At my wife's home," he said proudly. "Will you dare father's anger, and
come?"
Her only reply was to throw her arms round her brother's neck and kiss
him, and then, without even looking at me, she rushed rapidly towards
the house.
When I reached my little hut that night, I paid the penalty for the
excitement through which I had passed. At one time I thought I was going
to die. Pain such as I had never suffered before racked me, and I was as
weak as a child. It was not until morning that the pain subsided, and I
was able to sleep. I, too, had intended to go to John Treleaven's house,
and give Hugh a word of cheer as he left to join his regiment; but
nature was too strong for me. I did not awake till after midday, and
Simpson had been too wise to interfere with nature's healing balm.