tell you you are in danger. You as a lawyer ought to know that a clever
man, an observant man, even although he may know nothing of what is
going on around him, can be a constant menace to those who work in
secret. Now do you follow me?"
"Yes," I replied, "I follow you, but because you will not tell me
plainly what is in your mind, you have aroused my curiosity; more than
that, you have aroused the John Bull in me. I am too near death to be
intimidated by what you tell me. As a consequence, you have made me more
determined than ever to stay here, unless," I added, "you have decided
to come back and live here, and drive me from this little hut, which, in
spite of myself, I have come to love."
"Ah, you like it!" he said. "It is comfortable, is it not? The sea views
are wonderful, the silence of the night is a revelation; but leave it,
my young friend, leave it!"
"I have told you I shall not leave it," I replied, "until I have
sufficient reason for doing so."
"But you can do no good by remaining here; if you could, I would not
hinder you from your madness. But can't you realize, man, that England
is at war? Now then, cannot you understand?"
"Oh yes," I replied. "I have had that in my mind for some time. I
realized it when I told you that you had lived a long time in Germany."
"How did you guess that?"
"Oh, for one thing, while you speak English with an English accent, the
construction of your sentences suggests a close acquaintance with German
literature. You mentioned the Kaiser just now when you spoke of being
guarded, and a look of fear came into your eyes when I said I knew of
your connection with Germany."
He grasped the arms of his chair as I spoke, and looked at me without
speaking, but I saw that I had touched him--saw too that there were
thoughts in his mind which he dared not utter.
"You are afraid of some one," I went on. "Who, I don't know; possibly I
shall not be able to find out; but you are. In spite of the kindliness
of your nature, there is a horrible fear in your heart. Forces are at
work in your life which I at present cannot understand. Look here, are
you a paid tool of the German Government?"
"God forbid!" he cried. "No, no, God forbid; but--but----Look here, Mr.
Erskine, have you discovered anything?"
"Nothing. I wish I had."
"Let me tell you this, then. You are watched, constantly watched, and
the moment you do discover anything----" He shrugged his shoulders by
way of concluding his sentence. "Every man has his own secrets," he went
on; "as you say, motives govern lives. They guide our actions, control
our words."
"If I am watched day and night," I said, "I must be a person of some
importance; but more than that, you must be in danger in coming here."
"I fight the devil with his own weapons," was his reply. "I meet cunning
with cunning, plot with plot, mystery with mystery. To be forewarned is
to be fore-armed, and I have taken every precaution; but I cannot tell
you what I know--that is why I beseech you to leave here. You, a poor
invalid, weak as a rabbit, with one foot in the grave, can do nothing;
yet your very presence is a menace. Therefore leave the neighborhood, or
if you must stay in the neighborhood, go into the village away from
here."
"I should not be in danger if I went into the village, then?" I asked.
"Go into the village," he repeated. "There are lodgings there, simple
perhaps, but clean, which would suit you just as well as this."
"No," I replied, "no place will suit me quite as well as this."
"Then your blood be upon your own head; I am sorry. I like you; I
watched you directly after you came here. I discovered all that there
was to be known about you. Leave the place, man, and give it out that it
is haunted."
"Do you realize," I said, "that you have put yourself in danger, too? I
do not mean from those enemies who are unknown to me, but from other
sources. I happen to know three magistrates in this district. If I were
to tell them what you have told me to-night, I could have you arrested
as a dangerous character. I have a servant, too, who is in a room close
by. Possibly he has heard every word which has passed between us."
He laughed like a man amused.
"No, Mr. Erskine," he said, "there is not the slightest danger of that.
Your servant is asleep. Bah, do you think I don't know? Do you think I
am such a fool as that? As for telling the magistrates, you could not do
it."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because you are you. Do you think I did not estimate the kind of man I
am speaking to before I said what I have said? But I am sorry. I must be
going now."
He put on his heavy ulster as he spoke, buttoned it closely round his
throat, and pulled his broad-brimmed hat over his forehead.
"If you discover anything," he said,--"I am saying this as an off
chance, ay, a chance in a million,--leave this place as soon as you have
discovered it, and send a telegram to me."
"Where?" I asked.
"Send it to John Adams, Chigwheal Post Office."
"And you will tell me nothing more than that?"
"I came here to warn, not to inform."
As he spoke I heard a sound outside, something like the cry of a
sea-bird; it was a human voice.
"Good-night," he said, holding out his hand. "I am truly sorry, but I
have done my best."
I unlocked the door, and he passed out into the darkness. I listened
intently, and heard the rustling of the bushes. A minute later, there
was a murmur of voices, and I knew that Fever Lurgy was near.
After having closed the door and carefully locked it, I sat for a long
time thinking.
Part of the little success I had had in the law was owing to a
remarkably retentive memory. I have sometimes thought that my memory is
peculiar to myself. I do not quite know how to describe it. I have
listened to a conversation which has interested me, and I have listened
to evidence in court which has been of importance, and for three or four
days I have remembered it in its minutest detail, and could repeat it
word for word. At the end of three or four days, however, the details
have passed from me completely, although I have retained the broad
outlines of what I have heard. Now as I sat, the conversation which had
taken place, every word, every look, every gesture of old Father Abraham
was clear before my mind.
That the old man was sincere I did not doubt. He evidently believed that
I was in danger. I was sure, too, that he had had some connections with
Germany, and that his fears were connected with the war. But I doubted
his judgment. I was not sure that he was altogether sane. He was
obsessed with thoughts which had no objective reality, at least so I
fancied, and yet his warning was grave. Not that I intended to heed it:
I had not much to hope for in life; but danger or no danger, I meant to
get to the bottom of what he had said. Evidently this hut was closely
connected with his thoughts. Evidently, too, it had been under his
observation ever since he had left it.
I reflected on all I had said to him, and was pleased that I had told
him nothing of what I had discovered. Remembering all that had taken
place in the country during the last few months, I determined to use
whatever faculties I might possess in order to discover how I might be a
menace to the enemy. If I could discover that, I should be able to help
my own country.
When I awoke the following morning, I realized how truly Father Abraham
had read my character. I could not make up my mind, even although I had
tried, to tell any one that the old man was still alive, and that his
actions were at least suspicious. For one thing, I did not believe that
he was an enemy to our country; for another, I had my doubts whether any
good could result in making a search for him.
That he was in hiding in some place in the district I did not doubt.
Chigwheal was about nine miles from St. Issey, and he evidently lived
near enough to that village to receive postal communications; but where
he lived, or what disguises he might assume, I had not the slightest
idea. That he was a man with a quick brain and of great resource I had
no doubt whatever, and I felt sure he would know how to defend himself
in case of danger. In addition to that, too, I felt that I should be
acting against the interests which had been born in my heart, if I
disclosed his possible whereabouts. I knew instinctively that he was
kindly disposed towards me, and to tell of what had occurred would
possibly hinder me from the course of action I had decided upon. Added
to all this was a kind of secretiveness which hindered me from making
known his visit to me.
As may be imagined, I had plenty of food for thought. It was evident
that his interest in me was no new thing. Months had now elapsed since
Fever Lurgy had given me the same warning. Doubtless the poor
thick-witted lad was but a messenger from this mysterious old man. I
carefully thought over every sentence he had uttered, and weighed their
possible meanings.
My danger, if danger there was, lay not in the fact that any one
harbored evil thoughts concerning me, but that I lived in this little
hut. Evidently the hut itself occupied a position of advantage. It was
at the centre of some operation. The old man had built it for some
purpose, and then, for reasons unknown to me, had left it. I called to
mind the fact that immediately after my arrival I had seen figures in
the near distance who looked as if they might be watching my actions;
but why? It was well known that I had no purpose in coming to Cornwall
save to find a healthy spot where I might conserve my poor feeble life
as long as possible.
One thing, however, Father Abraham had done for me. He had set me on my
guard. I had for some months now taken an intelligent interest in what
was going on, and had read the papers carefully. Like all other British
people, too, my eyes had been opened to what militarism had done for
Germany, and to the depths of meanness and baseness to which they were
prepared to sink, in order to carry out their purposes. As I have said
previously, I had visited Germany on more than one occasion. I also
understood the language and could speak it and read it fluently. While
in Germany I had talked with professors in the universities and officers
in their army. I was aware, too, of their mastery of detail and of their
thorough preparedness for everything they undertook. What I could not
understand was how I, living in this obscure corner of the country,
could be in a position of advantage, and how I could be a menace to my
country's enemies.
I did not know then, neither did I dream, how my eyes were to be opened.
XIX
GOD ANSWERED OUT OF THE WHIRLWIND
Nothing happened for some days. At first I kept close to the house, and
was constantly on the alert lest some evil thing should befall me. I
watched vigilantly too. Remembering all that had been reported in the
newspapers, my mind was filled with suspicions concerning the
possibility of the enemy pursuing his work in this part of the country.
Especially did I watch the cliffs around the little bay; but in no way
was I rewarded. I began to think that I was the victim of a hoax, or
that Father Abraham was little better than a madman obsessed with mad
fancies. Thus it came about that after a few days I became careless of
the warnings given me, and pursued my old course of life.
At that time, I remember, the black cloud of war hung especially heavy
on our land. The Prime Minister had stated in the House of Commons the
number of killed and wounded in our Army and Navy, and the appalling
figures which he gave were added to daily by the lists given in the
papers. The village of St. Issey had not suffered greatly. It is true
that three men had come home wounded, but their wounds were not serious,
and as they had been bright and cheerful during their stay, we had been
led to hope that we should escape lightly. Then, suddenly, the horror of
the whole business came home to us. Two of our lads were killed at sea.
Then we heard that others had been taken prisoners and lay suffering in
a German prison camp. Others still were lying wounded in the hospitals
in France.
One morning--it was some days after Father Abraham's visit--I found on
opening my newspapers that among the killed was one Edward Trelaske, who
died in action. The name struck me, first because it was Cornish, and
second because it was the name of our Vicar. I saw too that he was a
captain in one of the battalions belonging to the D.C.L.I., and I
wondered whether he were in any way associated with St. Issey.
Scarcely had I read this than a knock came to the door, and I saw the
Vicar enter the room. He looked ten years older than when I had first
seen him. I think I said, when describing our first meeting, that he was
a hale and handsome man, ruddy and inclined to stoutness. Now his face
was haggard and bloodless, the flesh hung loosely on his cheeks, and I
judged from his eyes that he was a stranger to sleep. Immediately I
connected his appearance with what I had just read. I did not speak a
word, I thought it best not to; but I held out my hand, which he gripped
almost convulsively. Almost unconsciously I looked at the newspaper.
"Yes," he said, "it is there."
"It was your son, then?" I said.
"Yes, my eldest son; both were in the Army. One is still alive, thank
God; but Ned, my boy Ned----" Then for a moment he broke down, his whole
body trembling violently. He recovered himself in a few seconds,
however.
"I do not complain," he said. "In a way I am proud."
"I think I understand," was my reply.
"I shall never be the same man again," he went on. "It seems as though a
part of my life is buried with him, away in that little French cemetery;
but at this moment there is no prouder man in England than I. My son, my
eldest son, has given his life for honor, for truth, for God."
He spoke like a man inspired. Every word was weighted with a new
meaning.
"I don't know why I came to you," he went on. "I received the news days
ago, and ever since, ever since...." Then he stopped. There was a
far-away look in his eyes.
"You have my deepest sympathy, Mr. Trelaske," I said. "Words are poor at
a time like this----"
"No," he interrupted, "words are not poor, when they convey what the
heart feels. I rather resented it when my son expressed the desire to go
into the Army. I fully expected it of Harry, my second son, and had had
him educated with that object in view; but it has always been a
tradition in our family for generations that one of the sons should go
into the Church. But he would not fall in with my wishes; he was not
fit, he said, and he wanted to be a soldier. The living here belongs to
our family, has belonged to it for more than a hundred years. Now I know
it ought not to have belonged to us."
"Why?" I asked.
"The Church," he replied, "has been but little more than a name to me,
the vocation of a clergyman I have regarded as little more than a
profession; that is why--why...." He stopped, as if unable to express
the thought in his mind. "'What is the use of my becoming a parson?'
said Ned to me. 'I have nothing to say to the people. How can I tell the
chaps whom I have fought with, shot with, played cards with, about their
souls, about God and about heaven?' I argued with him. I told him that
when a man was ordained a priest his ordination gave him priestly
rights. But he would have none of it, and insisted upon going into the
Army. As I said, I was grieved and angry; but now I know that he served
his God more truly than I, for what I have done has lacked a great
conviction. I have looked upon my profession as--as a profession; but
he, he gave his life for his country, and for truth, and for God.
Perhaps he did not say so in so many words, perhaps he did not even
think of it, but that is what he did; and I am proud--oh, I am proud. He
died a hero, too."
"How?" I asked. "Tell me."
"He was wounded, not badly, but his arm was broken. He made light of it,
however, and among the German prisoners taken was a German officer, a
major who was badly hurt. He asked for water. My son, although he was in
great pain, fetched water and gave it to him, and while he was giving it
to him the German got out his revolver and shot him through the heart."
"What happened then?" I asked.
"You may guess what happened," he replied. "Some of our men saw it. It
was terrible--wasn't it? But how could I wish my son to die a nobler
death, even although that fiend shot him? Did he not die as a Christian,
trying to bring succor to his enemy?"
There was a note of earnestness in his voice which I had never heard
before.
"And you got this news days ago?" I said.
"Yes," he replied, "and I have been to see no one since it came until
now. I haven't even been to see my old friend Treherne. At first, all
the foundations of my life seemed to be broken up. I could not
understand it. I thought I should never be able to bear it. Why should
I, a man past my prime, with my work nearly over, be alive while my son,
a lad of twenty-seven, should be killed?
"I revolted against it.
"I told God He was hard.
"By and by, however, my mind became clearer; I began to understand. Not
that I could put my thoughts into words; I cannot now. Presently I began
to pray. I do not think I had really prayed for years. I had read the
prayers at Church, I had done my work as a clergyman, but I had missed
the great reality of it all. But then I prayed. This morning I felt I
must come to see you. You remember what you asked me when I came here
first?"
"Yes, I remember," I said; "but please do not trouble about that now.
You have your own sorrow to think of."
"I am ashamed," he went on. "I, a clergyman, set apart to give help,
comfort, to those who might come to me, and yet when you asked me one of
the greatest of all questions, I had no answer to give. I was dumb."
I waited in silence. I longed to know what was in the man's mind, but I
felt it would be sacrilege to ask him questions then. I could see that
he had been passing through deep waters, that the billows had gone over
his head. He was no longer the ecclesiastic, no longer the man he had
believed himself, set apart simply because a bishop's hands had been
laid upon his head. He had seen beneath the mere conventions of his
faith, he had got to the heart of things, or, at least, he had tried to
get there.
"I am ashamed," he went on, "that I had no answer to give you. Even yet
I have none to give. I am still in the dark, and yet--yet...."
He seemed like a man who saw something from afar, one who was stretching
out lame hands of faith.
"I understand as I never understood before," he went on. "Do you
remember that story of David standing by the gates of Jerusalem, waiting
for news of his son, and who, when the news came, cried out, 'Oh,
Absalom, my son, my son, would God that I had died for thee, oh,
Absalom, my son!' I understand that now. I think I understand something
more; I am not certain yet, but I feel as though--as though...."
And again there was a far-away look in his eyes. He rose and held out
his hand.
"You will wonder why I came," he said. "I do too, except that I could
not help coming. Do you remember what our Lord said about blind leaders
of the blind? No, I am not blind, but I am like the man who was cured of
his blindness by our Lord, who said he saw men as trees walking. It is a
strange story, isn't it? But oh, man, what fools we are! What blind
fools! And how God Almighty opens our eyes and shows us our
foolishness!"
I longed to be able to utter some words of comfort, but I was in the
dark myself. I had been asking questions ever since I came to Cornwall,
but had received no answer. I would have given anything at that time to
have been able to say something which would have been balm to the
father's bleeding heart. But I could not. I could only tell him how
sorry I was, and that seemed such a little thing.
That same afternoon, the weather being fine, I found my way into St.
Issey. I had practically forgotten Father Abraham's warning, and longing
to see human faces, and to get away from the questions which haunted me,
I turned towards the village. I had, by this time, learnt to know a
great many of the people. I was no longer simply the stranger who had a
few months before come to live in Father Abraham's hut. I had now been
living in the neighborhood for several months, and was regarded by many
of the people as a friend. I had also got into the habit of dropping
into the cottages and talking with the simple folk. I had barely entered
the village when I saw a woman standing by her cottage door.
"Oh, Mr. Erskine," she said. "Will 'ee come in a minute? I 'ave
somethin' to tell 'ee."
"What is it, Mrs. Rosewarn?" I had seen her once or twice at the Chapel,
and knew that her husband was a local preacher.
"Ain't 'ee heered, my deear?"
"Heard what?" I asked.
"About my deear boy. He's killed, my deear."
"Killed?" I said.
"Yes, my deear. They Germans 'ave killed 'im."
Never did I hear such pathos in a human voice. There was no bitterness,
no anger, no suggestion of vengeance in her voice, but there was pathos,
deep unutterable pathos.
"'E was a deear, deear boy," she went on. "No better boy ever stepped in
shoe leather. 'Is father were ter'ble against 'is goin' as a sojer, but
'e would go, and now 'e is dead."
What could I say? What comfort could I give to this poor bruised,
breaking heart? Never did I realize, as I did at that moment, how vain
and futile was the learning of men when brought face to face with sorrow
and loss. I did not feel it so much when the Vicar had come to me that
morning. At the back of my mind I had felt that he, the Vicar of the
parish, ought to have had means whereby he could obtain comfort. He was
supposed to be the spiritual head of the parish, and professed to
believe in shibboleths of Christianity; but everything was different in
relation to this poor cottage woman. I felt that I, who had spent years
at a seat of learning, who had pored over musty law-books and professed
to know something of the ways of men, should have something to say, some
message of hope to give her; but I had nothing.
"Oh, my deear Mr. Erskine," she said, "the 'and of the Lord is 'eavy
upon me, but I am not as those who sorrow without hope."
"No," I said. "What hope have you?"
"Oh, my deear, 'e was a good boy. 'Ere is 'is last letter, sir. Will 'ee
read it, then?"
I took the letter and read it. I do not ever remember perusing a
document with the same eagerness as I perused this letter sent from the
trenches.
"DEAR MOTHER AND FATHER,"--I read,--"I have just got a few minutes
to write to you, so I am just sending you these few lines to tell
you that I am well and happy. While I write I can hear the booming
of the guns, the sound of shrapnel, and the awful noise of shells
which are shrieking above me; but I am safe here. The trenches are
so made that even the German guns cannot hurt us. We are doing very
well, and although it will take us a long time, we are going to
lick the Germans right enough. I wish the war was over and that I
was home among you once again. I expect you will be in Chapel now,
or just going home, for it is half-past seven on Sunday night. If
ever I live to go home again, I shall go to Chapel more regularly
than I did. An hour ago some of us met here and had a
prayer-meeting. Lots of the fellows came who never thought of going
to a prayer-meeting at home. Somehow war makes us think of things
differently. I never dared to pray in the meetings at home, but I
did to-night, and you would have been surprised at some of the
chaps that did pray, and hear what they said. It was very funny,
but they meant it all right, and God understood. Well, I must stop
now, for I have to go on duty. Love to you both.--Your affectionate
son,
"TOM."
"Ed'n it wonderful?" she said to me, with streaming eyes. "Tom would
never say a word about religion when 'e was at 'ome; but now, do'ant 'ee
see, my deear Mr. Erskine? I know that Tom is saafe with his God."
"How did he die?" I asked. I felt the question to be out of place, but I
could think of nothing better to say.
"I do'ant know, my deear. We was told that 'e was killed in action, and
that is all. But I ain't got no feears, Tom was a good boy."
At that moment there was a knock at the door, and the next moment Mr.
Trelaske entered.
"I ... I have just heard that Tom is killed," he said, "and I thought
you would not take it amiss if I dropped in."
"Bless 'ee, sir, I be glad to see 'ee," replied the woman. "Mr. Erskine
'ere was just readin' Tom's last letter. Would 'ee like to read it?"
I passed him the letter without a word, and the Vicar read it carefully.
"Oh, yes, sir," said Mrs. Rosewarn, "Tom was a good boy, and I ain't got
no feears. 'E 'as gone straight to God, 'as Tom."
The Vicar stayed for perhaps ten minutes, and during that time he
uttered no word about religion. He spoke quite naturally about Tom
Rosewarn's death, and expressed deepest sympathy with the sorrowing
mother.