but that is ev et; we 'ave come to words about this, and we 'ave 'ad
several arguments about et, and I d'old to one thing, and my 'usband to
another; and I thought you bein' from London would be able to put us
right."
"If I can I will, but I have my doubts."
"'Tis this," replied the woman. "'Tis about Lord Kitchener. My 'usband
d'say that Lord Kitchener is for the Germans, and I d'say 'e ed'n. I
d'say 'e's for the English. Now which is right, maaster?"
Later in the afternoon I met Martha Bray, who, it may be remembered,
proffered her services to Simpson on the day of my arrival.
"'Ow be 'ee gettin' on then, maaster?"
"Oh, better than I deserve, Martha," I replied. "Thank you for the ham
you sent over."
"Oh, tha's all right, sur. Es the war still goin' on?"
"Yes," I replied; "still going on."
"Ter'ble pity," was her answer. "It ought to be stopped."
"The question is, Martha, how can we stop it?"
"We could stop et all right," said Martha, "ef everybody made up their
minds to send them no more money. They would have to stop et."
"Send who any more money?" I asked.
"Why, Lloyd George, maaster; ef everybody in the country refused to send
'un a penny, he'd 'ave to stop et, and then the war would be over."
I could not help laughing at Martha's method for ending the great
struggle of the world, neither would I have mentioned it, but to give an
idea of the feelings which obtained in certain sections of the country.
But although to many the great carnage of blood which was convulsing
Europe was not real, the fact of war brooded over us like a great black
cloud. In a sense we did not realize it, everything was so quiet and
peaceful; but in another we did. It was in the background of all our
lives, it colored all our thoughts.
Although I had given up all hope of getting any answers to the questions
which troubled me either at Church or Chapel, I still went almost
regularly. I could not understand how, but I had a feeling that it was
here I should solve the problems which faced me.
For the first two or three weeks after war was declared there was a
slight improvement in the congregations, and then things seemed to
settle down to their normal condition again. And yet there was a
difference, a subtle, indefinable difference. In a way I could not
explain, it colored, as I have already said, all our thoughts and
feelings. The services both at the Church and the Chapel were conducted
just as they had been, except that some new prayers had been added to
the Church liturgy, while the preacher at the Chapel generally made some
mention of the war in some part of the service.
It seemed to me, too, that the people were thinking more than usual.
Questions were being asked, which they had never thought of asking when
I first came to the village. They did not go very deep, but they were
suggestive of the new forces which were being realized. The change was
so slight that a casual observer might not have noticed it; but it was
there. I could not help thinking of the old Biblical story I had read at
school, about the cloud the prophet saw which at first was no bigger
than a man's hand, but which presently overspread the whole sky.
One day, when I went into the village, a woman stopped me rather
angrily.
"Look 'ere, Mr. Erskine, I 'ave got somethin' to say to 'ee."
"What is it?" I asked.
"Well, a few weeks agone my boy Jim enlisted as a sojer 'cause of what
you said at the meetin'."
"Very sensible of Jim," I replied.
"I ded'n like it at the time," said the woman.
"I'm very sorry."
"Well, none of my family have ever come so low as that before, and the
mornin' after he'd enlisted I told my sister Betty, who comed over to
see me about it. I said to 'er, 'Jim's goin' for a sojer,' and she says
to me, 'God help us, Mary!' she said,'to think that one of our family
should sink so low as that.'"
"Yes," I said. "And what then?"
"Well, sur, he went away, and a week agone he didn't get on very well
with one of the officers."
"No," I said, "that is a pity. Didn't the officer behave nicely?"
"No, 'e didn', that is, what I call nicely. He spoke to my son 'bout
what I call nothin' 't 'oal."
"Well, what then?"
"Well, Jim wad'n pleased, so he gived a fortnight's notice to leave."
"What! to leave the Army?" I asked.
"Yes. You see, down 'ere wi' we, when a man d'want to leave 'is job, 'ee
d'give a week's notice; but Jim thought he would be generous, so 'e
gived a fortnight's notice. He went to the officer, and he said, 'I
d'want to give a fortnight's notice to leave.'"
"And then?" I asked.
"Well, first the officer laughed, and then 'e told Jim to go back to 'is
work, and said ef 'e left the Army before the war was over, 'e would be
shot. I do'ant 'old with things like that, so now Jim 'as got to stay,
whether 'e d'like it or not."
"And Jim doesn't like it?"
"No, 'e ain't bin used to bein' treated like that, and it was all
because of you, too. Ef et ad'n bin for the speech you made in the
schoolroom, 'e would'n 'ave joined."
But although humorous incidents were often happening, the grave
realities were slowly gripping our minds and hearts. Day after day, this
and that lad was leaving his home to prepare for the war, while many of
the Naval Reserve men were already away in the North Sea, or elsewhere,
waiting to give their lives, if need be, for their country's safety.
Indeed, the Navy was far more real to us than the Army. The Cornish have
never been a military people, but have always been at home on the
waters. Many a time, as I have watched those great steel monsters
ploughing the Atlantic, I have reflected that they were manned very
largely by the Cornish, and that they were the chief bulwark against
enemy invasion.
"I wonder if my boy is on her?" said an old man to me, as one day I
watched the smoke from a great warship in the distance. And that
question was echoed by thousands of hearts all over the county.
Week after week passed away, until the days became short and the nights
grew cold. Blacker and blacker grew the clouds, while the lists of
casualties which daily appeared in the newspapers made us feel that it
was no game we were playing, but that we were engaged in a death
struggle.
I had not been to Josiah Lethbridge's house, neither had I seen anything
of the family, since the night of Hugh's departure, and then--I think it
was the beginning of November--I was greatly surprised to see Josiah
Lethbridge come to my door.
XVI
NEWS FROM HUGH
I thought he looked ill at ease, and I noticed that he was less ruddy
and more careworn than when I had first met him.
I am afraid I greeted him rather coldly, for I remembered what had taken
place at our last meeting.
"I hope I do not intrude," he said.
"It is very kind of you to call," was my reply.
"Not at all, I ought to apologize for coming."
"Have you heard from Hugh?" I asked, for I was determined, as far as
possible, to make him feel his duty to his son.
I saw his lips shut, and his eyes and face grow harder, as I spoke.
"I have heard nothing," he replied. "I do not expect to, neither do I
wish to."
I was silent at this, for it was not for me to interfere in his
relations with his son, but I could not help feeling angry. But there
was pity in my heart too, for I could not help seeing that the man was
suffering. Why he was suffering I could not tell, but suffering he was.
"You have not been to see us lately," he said. "I hope what you said
when we last met is not final. I--I should be sorry if the neighborly
relations which I had hoped were established came to an end."
"I have been nowhere," I replied. "The weather has been very wet lately,
and I have scarcely ventured out of doors."
"You must be very lonely here."
"Life is not very gay," I said. "It can scarcely be."
"I suppose friends come to see you?"
"Yes, a friend came down last week and spent three days with me," I
replied, wondering what was in the man's mind.
"The newspapers do not bring us very good tidings."
"No, I am afraid we shall have a great deal of bad tidings before the
good comes."
After that there was an awkward silence for some time.
"I am a lonely man myself," he went on. "Of course I have my business,
and my public work, but I should be very glad if you would come up to
see us sometimes. If you would let me know when you would come, I'd
always send a car for you."
"What is in the man's mind?" I asked myself. "Surely he did not come
here simply to say this."
"Naturally I did not think my presence would be welcome after our last
interview, and----"
"Nothing of the kind," he interrupted, almost eagerly. "I hope you will
forgive me for coming so informally, but my wife and I were wondering
whether you would come up to-night. Could you? Of course I will send a
car for you."
I reflected a few seconds before replying. It is true I had told him in
a fit of anger that I should refuse his hospitality in future, but I
wondered whether he was not repenting of his action towards Hugh;
wondered, too, whether by going I could not bring about a better
relationship between them and soften his heart. After all, I owed it to
Hugh. But, if the truth must be confessed, there was another reason
which made me long to go. I knew it was weakness on my part, knew, too,
that I was a madman to encourage such feelings. As I have repeated in
this history so many times, with dreary monotony, I had received my
death sentence, and as I looked at my face each morning in the glass,
and saw it become thinner and thinner, I had no misapprehension about
the truth of the doctor's words. Therefore it was worse than madness for
me to think about Isabella Lethbridge as I did; and yet--let me repeat
it again--I was not in love with her.
"I wish you would come up to-night," urged Josiah Lethbridge. "Ours is a
very quiet household."
"Are you giving a dinner-party or anything of that sort?" I asked.
"Oh no, no. I believe Bella is having one or two friends; but nothing in
the shape of a dinner-party. Come, will you?"
I wanted to accept his invitation more than words can say, and yet
something held me back.
"Have you heard anything about your son's wife?" I asked.
Again the old hard look came into his eyes, and he seemed to be
struggling with himself.
"I have no son," he replied. "I know nothing about the woman you speak
of."
"Pardon me, Mr. Lethbridge," I said, "but you have. Your son may not
have fallen in with your wishes, but he is your son. Nothing can undo
that fact. As for his so-called disobedience, he acted according to his
conscience, and----"
Josiah Lethbridge held up his hand, as if in protest.
"We will not speak of that, if you don't mind," he said. "I do not often
alter my mind when it is once made up."
Again there was a silence, and I was on the point of refusing his
invitation, when he, as if anticipating me, broke out almost eagerly.
"But you must come up to-night, Mr. Erskine," he said. "My wife is so
anxious that you should. She is very fond of you. I never saw her take
to a stranger as she has taken to you. Naturally, too, she is very
anxious."
I tried to read his heart, tried to understand something of the thoughts
which were surging through his mind.
"I suppose," he went on, "that you, who know influential people in
London, know nothing more of this ghastly business than we do. That is,
you know nothing more than what appears in the papers."
"No," I replied; "but what has appeared in the papers has surely made us
feel proud that we are Englishmen. You have seen that we have again
repulsed the German attack at Ypres?"
"Wholesale murder, I call it!" and his voice became hard as he spoke.
"But there, we will not talk about that any more. I shall expect you
to-night, then, and will send down the car at a quarter to seven. No,
no, I shall accept no refusal. That is settled. I dare not face my wife
if I had to go back and say you would not come." And a wintry smile
passed over his face.
"I am like a moth fluttering in a candle," I said to myself as I put on
my evening clothes that night. "Why should I be going to this man's
house? Why should I eat of his dinner? Why should I throw myself into
the society of this girl? She is nothing to me, never can be; in a way I
positively dislike her, and yet I am always thinking about her."
"I am glad you are going out to-night, sir," said Simpson, as he helped
me on with my fur-lined coat. "It must be very lonely for you night
after night, sir, with no one to speak to. I hope you will have a
pleasant evening, sir."
"It must be a little lonely for you too, Simpson, and I am afraid I try
your patience sometimes." For the man had been with me for so long, and
had served in our family for so many years, that I regarded him more as
a friend than as a servant.
"No, sir, it is always a pleasure to serve you, sir."
He lit the lantern and walked ahead of me, as we went along the pathway
through the copse.
"Shall I wait up for you, sir?" he added, as he held open the door of
the car.
"I think you may as well, Simpson," I said. "I shall not be late."
A few minutes later I had reached Josiah Lethbridge's house, and was
greeted warmly by Mrs. Lethbridge. I heard the sound of merry voices in
the drawing-room close by, and was made somewhat angry that Mr.
Lethbridge had asked me this evening, especially as, in spite of what he
had said, they were evidently giving a dinner-party that night. When I
went into the drawing-room, however, I found only three people. A young
man and woman, whom I took to be brother and sister, were the only
guests besides myself. They were the son and daughter of the managing
director of one of the Cornish banks, and had motored some twenty miles
in order to be present. The man, Edward Barcroft, was a young fellow of
about five-and-twenty, and I knew him to be a rich man's son. There was
nothing striking about him. He was of medium height, somewhat stoutly
built, and carried himself with an air of confidence. I did not like
him, however. He seemed to be too sure of himself, too aggressive. Miss
Barcroft was one of those placid, even-tempered girls who made me think
of a German frau.
Before the evening was very far advanced, I could not help concluding
that Edward Barcroft was a suitor for Isabella Lethbridge's hand, while,
as it seemed to me, she was much flattered by his attentions. I do not
think I had ever seen her look so handsome as she looked that night. I
was never able to describe a woman's dress, but I could not help
noticing that her clothes fitted her to perfection. They seemed a part
of her. She was very gay, too. She laughed frequently, but her
pleasantries grated upon me. Why, I could not tell. She paid me very
little attention; indeed, she did not treat me as her guest at all. I
had simply come there at the invitation of her father and mother, while
she devoted all her attention to young Barcroft.
I have said that I had never seen Isabella Lethbridge looking so
handsome as she did that night; on the other hand, she had never
repelled me more, even while she fascinated me. I understood, as I had
not understood before, young Prideaux's description of her. She was a
flirt. I saw that young Barcroft was greatly enamored with her; noted,
too, that she laughed at his feeblest jokes, and, as far as I could
judge, made him believe that she was as interested in him as he was in
her. Yet I could not help realizing the artificiality of her every word
and action.
As for poor Hugh, he was never mentioned. He might never have existed,
although I knew by the look on Mrs. Lethbridge's face that she was
constantly thinking of him, constantly grieving about what had taken
place.
I could not tell why it was, but in spite of the fact that every one
except Isabella Lethbridge was very kind and courteous to me, I was
angry, and felt a sort of contempt for the self-assertive, unpleasant
young Cornishman who made himself so much at home in Josiah Lethbridge's
house.
"The war will soon be over, don't you think, Mr. Erskine?" he said.
"What makes you think so?" I asked.
"Why, the Germans have been able to do nothing for months," was his
reply. "Never since their first blow have they been able to hurt us. See
how we have been able to hold them up at Ypres. At present we are not
ready to strike our decisive blow, but when we have more guns and
ammunition, we shall be able to drive them like a flock of sheep.
Besides, they are financially bankrupt, you know."
"Indeed," I said.
"Yes. It is a matter of robbing Peter to pay Paul with them now. They
live by taking in each other's washing; but that will soon come to an
end. On the other hand, the war hasn't been such a bad thing for us."
"No," I said. "How?"
"Oh, it has been good for business. Money has been circulated as it has
never been circulated before. Instead of it meaning a financial crash to
us, it has meant a boom. Have you not found it so, Mr. Lethbridge?"
"Money has certainly been circulated freely," was the older man's reply,
"but I do not wish to talk about it. The whole thing is a crime." And
both his face and voice hardened.
At that moment a servant entered and brought Mr. Lethbridge an
official-looking document, which he opened eagerly. He read it through
twice, and then calmly and deliberately folded it again and placed it in
the envelope.
"What is it about, Josiah?" asked Mrs. Lethbridge.
I thought he looked pleased, but I could not tell. He did not answer his
wife's question.
"Is it about Hugh?" she asked.
Still he was silent.
"Josiah, Josiah, tell me, is he wounded, killed?"
"No. I--I suppose it is all the other way. It is nothing to me. There,
you can read it if you like."
With trembling hands Mrs. Lethbridge took the letter and read it.
"Oh, Hugh, my darling boy," she sobbed.
"What is it, mother?" asked Isabella. "What has he done?"
"He has received some order, some distinguished order for bravery.
There, there, read it! Isn't it splendid? I was afraid he was killed or
hurt or something. I didn't expect this. Oh, isn't it glorious? But it
is just like him."
Josiah Lethbridge rose from the table.
"Shall we go into the library for our coffee and cigars?" he asked. He
seemed to be making an effort to be calm.
"We must tell Mary," said Mrs. Lethbridge.
"You must do nothing of the sort," said her husband. "When I said, once
for all, that we would have nothing to do with that woman, I meant it.
Will you come this way, Barcroft and Mr. Erskine? Oh yes, the ladies can
come with us if they do not mind tobacco smoke."
A few minutes later we were all in the library, where, in spite of Mr.
Lethbridge's chagrin, we were not able to suppress our desire to talk
about Hugh and what he had done. It appeared by the document received
that he had, by his coolness and bravery, not only saved the life of an
officer, but that he had rendered such important service to his
battalion that a possible disaster had been turned into a victory.
"Ah!" I said. "How I envy him!"
"Envy him! In what way?" asked Barcroft.
"Envy his being able to serve his country," was my reply. "How a man
with health and strength can stay in England at a time like this I can't
understand."
"Are you referring to me?" he asked. And I noticed there was an angry
look in his eyes.
"I was not referring to any one," was my reply. "I was simply stating
what I felt."
"For my own part, I believe that a man who is looking after the finances
of the country may be doing more for his nation than by wearing khaki,"
he replied. "Don't you think so, Miss Lethbridge?"
"I think too much is made of the so-called heroism of soldiers," she
said, evidently with a desire to please him. "Of course it was grand of
Hugh to do what he did, but he was always like that." And she looked
smilingly into Barcroft's face.
Again the girl angered me, and in my heart of hearts I despised her. But
why should I be angry? Why should I care about her evident desire to
please this young Cornishman? And then, realizing that my words were
bordering on discourtesy, said:
"I expect the War Office will have written to his wife. Anyhow, I will
see that she knows to-morrow that her husband is a hero."
At this, Isabella Lethbridge looked at her father and laughed, while he,
having given me an angry look, talked about something else.
The evening, as far as I was concerned, was painful; and yet I was glad
I had accepted the invitation, glad I had been there when the news of
Hugh's bravery had arrived. Shortly after ten o'clock I took my leave,
vowing to myself as I did so that I would never go there again. Indeed,
as I reflected on what had taken place, I could see no reason for my
being asked. I had nothing in common with Josiah Lethbridge, while, in
spite of everything, Isabella Lethbridge was farther removed from me
than ever.
"I hope you spent a pleasant evening, sir," said Simpson, as he helped
me off with my coat.
I did not answer him. Why it was I could not tell, but my mind and heart
were full of strange, tumultuous thoughts and feelings.
The next morning, I was on the point of sending Simpson for a carriage
to take me over to John Treleaven's farm when Hugh's young wife burst
into the room with a radiant smile upon her face.
"Have you seen this, Mr. Erskine? Have you heard about it?" And she
laughed and sobbed at the same time. "It is about Hugh. He has got the
D.C.M., and they have actually written to me about it, and I have got a
letter from Hugh too! Oh, Mr. Erskine, I am proud and happy!"
"It is splendid," I said, "simply splendid!"
"Did you know about it?" she asked. "I only got the letter last night."
"Yes, I knew," I said, before I had time to think of the meaning of my
words.
"Has he written to you? Have you heard from the War Office?"
"No, I have not heard from Hugh for weeks," I said, "neither have I
heard from the War Office, but I was up at Trecarrel last night."
"And have they heard up there?"
"A letter came while we were at dinner."
"And were they pleased? Oh, Mr. Erskine, I am so proud and happy, and
yet I am miserable too. You see, I am constantly wondering whether I did
right. I cannot bear to think about it, although I am so happy."
"Think about what?" I asked.
"About Hugh being disinherited. His father has never written him once,
and--and--and you know what I mean, sir."
"I hope it will all come right in the end, Mrs. Lethbridge," I said.
"Oh, but you mustn't call me Mrs. Lethbridge; you must call me Mary. You
are Hugh's friend. Do you really think it will all come right? I pray a
hundred times a day that it may. Somehow I think it will, because God
has answered my prayer in keeping Hugh in safety. Oh, Mr. Erskine, I
never prayed in my life as I have been praying lately. Somehow I never
felt the need of prayer as I do now. Now that Hugh has gone and left me
alone, and while he is in such terrible danger, I am obliged to pray.
God has become more real to me lately; and seeing that He has answered
my prayer in keeping Hugh safe, perhaps He will do the other also. Why,
Mr. Erskine, his father cannot keep a hard heart against Hugh when he is
such a hero! Have you seen the paper this morning? They have told all
about it. Hugh did wonderful things, simply wonderful! Oh, he can't help
being proud of his son when he reads it, can he?"
I did not reply, because when I remembered the look on Josiah
Lethbridge's face I felt I could give her no comfort.
Still, Mary's visit did me good. Her simple trustfulness and her devoted
love were such a change from the atmosphere at Trecarrel that her
presence seemed like a ray of sunshine on a dark day.
After this, days and weeks passed without anything happening which needs
recording. We had become used to the war, and while we still read our
papers anxiously, there was not the great excitement there had been in
its early stages. Our hearts thrilled at the story of the battle of
Ypres, especially when, presently, the details of that terrible struggle
became known; but the keen excitement and feverish desire to read what
had taken place somewhat subsided.
Meanwhile, as all the country knows, the spy fever became prevalent. On
every hand we heard that agents of the German Secret Information
Department covered our country like a plague, and even here, in
Cornwall, all sorts of stories were afloat concerning people who were
suspected of giving information to Germans. Personally, I paid but
little attention to these stories. I did not see how we, situated as we
were, away in the extreme end of the country, could be in any way
utilized by the enemy. Neither did I see how any one in Cornwall could
render them service.
I was soon to be undeceived in this matter, however.
XVII
THE PHANTOM BOATS
It came about in this way. One morning in the early spring of 1915, it
was unusually fine. For more than a week the weather had been cold and
dismal beyond words, then suddenly, as if by magic, the clouds
disappeared, the sun shone brightly, and it seemed like summer.