"I was at the Wesleyan Chapel this morning," I went on. "I did not see
you there."
"No, I did not go."
"John Rosewarn was preaching," I went on. "John has lost his boy Tom."
He hesitated for a few seconds and I thought he seemed on the point of
saying something to me, then he held out his hand.
"Good-night, Mr. Erskine," he said, and a few minutes later he was lost
to my view.
"That man is deeply troubled," I said to myself as he walked away. "I
wonder what he has on his mind."
When I entered my cottage Simpson had not yet returned. He had asked my
permission before I went to Church that night if he might be out a
little later than usual, as some old friends of his had asked him to
supper. Of course I gave my consent, but when I found myself alone in
the house I felt almost sorry. What I should have done without him
during the hours of the long winter nights I do not know, for although
his conversation was not very illuminating, it was always a source of
comfort to me to know that he was near.
I sat down to the simple little meal that he had prepared, and then,
throwing myself into an armchair, saw the previous day's newspaper lying
by my side. I picked it up almost listlessly, and a few seconds later
found myself reading an article on the ravages which were being caused
by German submarines. This article detailed the list of disasters caused
by this method of warfare, then asked questions which had been troubling
the writer.
This gentleman, who seemed to know what he was writing about, stated
that there must be secret stations along the British coast where the
Germans could be supplied with fuel, therefore many traitors to their
own country must exist in England. He also insisted that although the
shores were constantly watched, hour by hour, and every precaution
taken, the Germans had, by some means yet unknown to us, been supplied
by people in England with what was essential to their devilish work.
"Has the Government," the article concluded, "been sufficiently
stringent in their treatment of enemy aliens? Has it inquired with
sufficient care into the means whereby our enemy has caused such
appalling losses?"
I must confess, although everything seemed conjectural, that my interest
was aroused, and acting on impulse I opened the door and went out into
the night. It had now become very dark. Clouds hung heavily in the sky,
there was no moon and not a star appeared. The night was not stormy,
although a fairly strong breeze was blowing. The tide, I remember, was
high, and the sea swept upon the rocks at the base of the cliff on which
my hut was situated. I peered into the darkness, calling to mind as I
did so the night on which I had seen, what seemed to me, phantom boats
appearing round the headland and then becoming lost to view. I waited
for a few minutes and then found myself shivering with cold. When I got
back to the house Simpson had returned.
"Have you heard the news, sir?"
"What news?" I asked.
"Another vessel sunk, sir, by the submarines. It was struck without
warning, and it is feared that every one on board has been lost."
"Where did this happen?"
"I don't know, sir, but some men in the village had got hold of a Sunday
newspaper and were talking about it. I heard too that two people, one an
English woman, and the other a German man, have been taken up as spies.
It seems that they have been supplying the Germans with petrol."
The man's words seemed almost a commentary on what I had been thinking,
and I turned, almost unconsciously, to the newspaper I had been reading.
"The Germans are too clever for us, sir, and there is no dirty trick of
which they are not capable. I am told they jeered at the people who were
trying to save themselves from drowning, and even shot at them. I am not
very proud of my county, sir."
"Not proud of your county! Why?"
"Why, sir, there are dozens of young fellows in St. Issey who won't
enlist, and I was told to-night of seven of them who are off to
America."
"Off to America! Why?"
"Why, it seems that the Squire has been at them and told them they are
cowards to stay at home at a time like this. It seems, too, sir, that
poor Tom Rosewarn's death, as well as that of the Vicar's son, has
roused some of the people terribly, and these young fellows have been
called such names that they are ashamed to remain at home, but rather
than join the Army, as they ought to do, they are leaving for America. I
have never been a believer in conscription, but the stories have very
nearly converted me to that way of thinking."
When Simpson had gone to bed, I put on a thick overcoat and again went
out into the night. I wondered whether the fancies that had been in my
mind had any foundation of truth, and whether I ought not to go to the
authorities and make my suspicions known. There were a great many things
against such a course of action, however. Local officials were not very
clever, and did not act with much finesse. The Germans would be prepared
for anything they might do, and if anything were done at all, it must be
done dexterously and secretly.
By this time I knew, or at least thought I did, every inch of the cliffs
around my home. I had discovered, too, an opening through the bushes
which led far down towards the sea. Again acting on impulse, I found
this little opening, and scrambled down the steep cliff-side until I
came, perhaps, within forty feet of the water. I was entirely hidden
from view, as at this part thick brushwood grew to within a few yards of
the beach. Besides, it was very dark, and I knew that if I went farther
I should risk my life. Up above me the wind soughed its way through the
little copse, and over the heights of the beetling cliffs which rose
darkly beyond. Out at sea I could hear the sad monotone of the waves.
Now and then I heard the cry of a sea-bird, as though it were disturbed
in its nest among the rocks.
It was now perhaps eleven o'clock, and every one would, in all
probability, be abed, with perhaps the exception of the coast watchers
who patrolled the coast. I was on the point of returning to the house
when I was startled by the sound of a human voice. I was at this point
sheltered from the wind, and my ears, having become accustomed to the
noise of the waves and the night winds, could hear plainly:
"Is that the lot?"
There was a reply to this, but what it was I could not say. How long I
waited I could not say either. That something was taking place that
ought not to take place I was sure. Else why should men be in this
lonely cove at midnight on a Sunday? Presently I heard a grating sound,
then above the sound of the waves was the splash of oars. I looked
intently, but could see nothing, and by and by when I had returned to my
house I reflected that my vigils had been in vain. Yet not in vain, for
I determined, whatever might be the danger accruing from my action, that
I would not rest until I had in daylight again examined every inch of
the cliffs.
Strange to say, I did not feel much worse for my night vigils, and when
I awoke on the following morning my brain was clear and every faculty
alert. I was arranging to carry my resolutions of the previous night
into effect when Simpson placed the morning paper on the table. The next
minute I had forgotten all I had intended to do.
XXI
MISSING--DEAD
On turning to the list of casualties which appeared, I saw to my horror
that Hugh Lethbridge was missing. What that might mean I could not of
course tell, but the news made my heart as heavy as lead. During the
months I had known him I had become much attracted to the young fellow
and had conceived a strong affection for him. If he had been my own
brother I do not think I could have felt the news more keenly than I
did. But more than that I reflected upon the sorrow of his young wife,
and the pain his mother would be suffering. I called to mind the last
letter I had received from him.
"Of course, we live only from hour to hour here," he said; "in fact,
only from minute to minute. I have known chaps who have been laughing
and joking one minute and have been hurled into eternity the next. That
might happen to me. I am feeling very fit just now, but what may be my
fate to-morrow, God only knows. I do not trouble so much about myself,
but it is Mary I am constantly thinking about. She writes me often, and
on the whole is very cheerful, but I know what she is feeling. I do not
fear death so much except for her and for mother. As for father and
Bella, I do not think they would care much. Anyhow, I would rather be
killed than taken prisoner. From what I can hear, those Germans act as
devils towards English prisoners."
I wondered what the term "missing" might mean. Of course, he had been
lost sight of, but whether he had been taken prisoner or not was not
clear from what the paper said.
"Going out, sir?" said Simpson, as I put on a light overcoat.
"Yes, Simpson, I am going up to Trecarrel."
"Any bad news, sir?"
"Yes," I replied. "Mr. Hugh Lethbridge is missing."
"Dear, dear sir!" Then lapsing into his old formula when he did not know
what to say, he added, "Yes, sir; thank you, sir."
I had scarcely come within sight of Trecarrel when I had an attack of my
old malady. It was not severe. Nevertheless, while it lasted it was
terrible. I thought I should have fainted on the footpath on which I
walked. Presently it passed away somewhat, and, undeterred by my
suffering, I made my way towards the house. At that moment my last
meeting with Isabella Lethbridge had no weight with me whatever. In
fact, I did not anticipate seeing her. However, she must have seen me as
I came up the drive, for it was not a servant but she who opened the
door.
"What is the matter? You are ill!" she cried. "I--I never saw you
looking like this before."
"That does not matter," was my reply. "I am all right now. I came up
because--because...." I did not finish the sentence. I was startled by
the look in her eyes. I saw her lips quivering. "Your father and mother
are in?" I queried.
"Yes, but--but I do not think you had better see them now."
"It may not be so bad after all," I said, trying to speak cheerfully.
"The paper only reports him missing."
"Oh, but haven't you heard? No, of course you can't have. But you ought
not to be here. You look so ill, so terribly ill."
"She must care for her brother more than I thought. She speaks like one
in terrible distress," I reflected. "Oh, no, I am not ill at all now," I
said aloud, "but I saw the paper just now, and I could not help coming.
It is not so bad as it might be, is it? While there is life there is
hope."
"But there is no hope," she said. "Hugh is dead."
"Dead! Why, the paper----"
"Yes, yes, I know; but we have had a special message. It came late last
night. Hugh is dead. Hugh is killed."
I stood like one stunned, I could not speak. The news had struck me
dumb.
"Can't you say something?" she cried. "No, of course you can't. And you
ought not to be here either. I will order a carriage to take you back,"
she added like one distraught. Her words came almost in gasps.
"And your father and mother?" I asked, without seeming to notice what
she had said. "I hope--I hope----"
"Mother is wonderful. You see, she expected nothing else. She always
said from the day that Hugh went to the front that he would be killed.
Oh, yes, mother is wonderful, but my father.... Perhaps, after all, he
will see you. Shall I tell him you are here?"
"Perhaps it would be better not, after all," was my reply. "I suppose I
ought not to have come here; it was foolish; but I was so overwhelmed
with the news that I could not help myself."
She looked at me for a few seconds in a way that I had never seen her
look before, and then left the room suddenly. Presently I heard heavy
footsteps coming towards me, and then Josiah Lethbridge entered the
room. He looked years older than on the previous night, but the same
stern strength of the man manifested itself. He held himself erect, and
hid any emotions he might have felt.
"Excuse me for coming, Mr. Lethbridge, but although I had known Hugh for
such a short time, I loved him as if he were my own brother."
"It is very kind of you to come," he said almost coldly; and then, "But
you ought not to be here."
At that moment Mrs. Lethbridge entered, and I could not help being
struck by her appearance. There was a new dignity in her every look and
movement. A kind of holy pride shone from her eyes, although it was easy
to see that they were not strangers to tears. The suggestion of
inconsequence which had struck me when I had first seen her was entirely
gone.
"I am pleased to see you," she said, holding out her hand. "You were
Hugh's friend."
"I came to tell you how--how grieved I am."
"You must not speak like that," she said quietly. "My boy died in a holy
cause. 'He saved others, but himself he _would_ not save.'"
"Yes," I said, "that is true. One cannot think of him as dead in the
ordinary way. When one gives his life willingly for what he believes to
be the highest and the holiest, death has lost its sting."
"Oh, he is not dead!" she said. "I could not think of him as dead. The
spirit which led him to do what he did can never die. Have you seen what
they have said about him? Here, read his Colonel's letter, will you?"
And she passed me a missive which I could see had been stained by many
tears.
It was the letter of a plain, blunt soldier who was not gifted with
great literary powers, and yet because it was so simple, so
straightforward, it was more eloquent than if it had been written by a
master of words. It described how Hugh, in the face of almost certain
death, had undertaken work which might mean incalculable advantage to
the British Army--that he had led his men forward in the face of
withering fire, and that he had done what he set out to do. At first it
was thought that he had been taken prisoner, as no signs of him were to
be seen, but presently his body was discovered, almost mutilated out of
recognition, yet plainly to be identified by infallible signs.
"He died a hero," concluded the plain, blunt soldier, "died for his
country and his God. Had he lived, I should have recommended him for a
captaincy right away, but he has received his promotion in a better
world."
"That is it, don't you see?" said Mrs. Lethbridge, "he has received his
promotion."
I could not keep back the tears which started to my eyes. I longed, no
one knows how I longed, for the assurance which filled the mother's
heart. Nevertheless, I could not help being gladdened by her faith.
"He will not come to me, but I shall go to him," she went on. "Do you
know, Mr. Erskine, a few days ago I began to hope that he would return,
and I pictured him coming back to St. Issey well and strong. I saw the
people doing my boy honor; but that was pure fancy on my part, and it
does not matter now. Yes, I shall go to him."
I could not help glancing at Josiah Lethbridge as she spoke. I wondered
what he, who had driven his son from home, felt at that moment; but his
face told me nothing; he might not have heard his wife's words. It was
hard and stony and emotionless. But he did not rebuke his wife as he
would have rebuked her the day before. He who had forbidden his family
to mention Hugh's name sat silent, his face grave, ashen, his eyes fixed
on the floor. What he felt or thought I could not tell, but I could not
help believing that he shared his wife's pride. How could it be
otherwise? After all, Hugh was his son.
"Bella told me that you looked terribly ill," went on Mrs. Lethbridge.
"Certainly you do look pale, but better than she led me to believe. May
I order you some refreshments?"
"No, I am better now," I replied, and glancing towards the mirror, I saw
that my face had resumed its normal color.
Scarcely had she spoken than I heard the sound of wheels on the drive
outside, and a minute later Squire Treherne was shown into the room.
"I could not help coming," said the bluff old man. "The last time I was
here I told you--but never mind what I told you--that is over now. I
just glanced at the paper this morning, and then, before I knew what I
was doing, I was on my way here. We must hope for the best! He is only
reported as missing."
But Josiah Lethbridge did not speak a word. Instead, he looked out of
the window as though interested in the trees which were just bursting
into life.
"Excuse me, Mrs. Lethbridge," went on the Squire, "I did not notice you;
it was very rude of me."
Mrs. Lethbridge did not speak a word. She simply handed him the letter
of Hugh's Colonel.
"God bless my soul! I did not know this," he stammered. "No--no, I did
not know this, but--but----"
"I never felt so proud in all my life," said the mother. "I always knew
that my boy was a good boy; now I know that he was a hero. He laid down
his life willingly."
Still Josiah Lethbridge did not speak. His eyes were still fixed on the
trees in the park.
"I know what you are feeling," said the Squire, after a few seconds of
almost painful silence. "I know, I know. I lost my only son in the Boer
War, and I--I have never been the same man since. Can--can I do anything
for you?" he added.
"I was just going to suggest," I said, "that I should go over to John
Treleaven's farm and see Hugh's wife. She will, of course, have heard
the news."
"Thank you, Mr. Erskine," said Mrs. Lethbridge, "but that is my work. It
is my duty to go and comfort my son's wife."
Again I noticed the new tone in her voice. The last time I was at the
house she would not have dared to suggest such a thing. She would have
feared her husband's anger, but now she stated her intentions naturally.
She did not even look towards Josiah Lethbridge as she spoke, but I, who
glanced at him at that moment, saw that his face never moved a muscle.
"If you would do something for me," said Mrs. Lethbridge, "take care of
Mr. Erskine. My daughter told me just now that he was very ill and ought
not to have come here."
"God bless my soul! you do look seedy," said the Squire. "What is the
matter?"
"I only had a slight attack of my old trouble, and I look a great deal
worse than I am."
"All the same, I am going to take you back with me," said the Squire.
"No, no, I shall take no denial. That hut of yours on the cliff, with
only a man-servant to look after you, is certainly no place for a man
who feels seedy. You--you are sure I can do nothing for you, Mrs.
Lethbridge? I do feel for you, God knows that. All the same, I do envy
you. I wish I had another son to give. Yes, ten sons; I should be
prouder than words can say to send every one of them. Somehow this
terrible business makes one think differently of life, makes one feel
that we have had wrong ideas of everything. Somehow we have confused
existing with living."
Surely that was a morning of happenings, for scarcely had the Squire
spoken than a servant entered the room bearing a letter. It came from
the Vicar.
Josiah Lethbridge took the letter without a word and read it through
with the same unmoved countenance. After he had done so he passed it to
his wife.
"This is kind of Mr. Trelaske," she said. "He must be burdened by his
own sorrow, yet he sends this letter to us. Of course he does not know
all the truth."
I rose to go. I felt that I should be intruding if I stayed longer. I
held out my hand to Mr. Lethbridge, who took it almost mechanically.
"It is very kind of you to call," he said. "And--and take care of
yourself; you are not strong, you know."
When I reached the hall I found Isabella Lethbridge standing there.
"That letter from the Colonel is simply splendid," I said. "Of course
your loss must be terrible, but you must be proud of your brother."
She made no reply, neither could I understand the look on her face. It
was not so much sorrow I saw, as wonder and amazement.
"Funny family!" said the Squire to me, as we drove away. "Did you notice
that the man never spoke a word?"
I nodded, and the Squire went on:
"My God! what must he be suffering! Drove the boy from home too!
But--but, don't I wish he were my boy! Anyhow, there is going to be a
change in that house."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"The atmosphere is different. Did you notice Mrs. Lethbridge's face? Did
you hear what she said?"
When we reached St. Issey, I asked the Squire to tell the driver to drop
me, as I could easily walk to my house; but the old man would not have
it.
"No, no, Erskine," he said, "you must come up and spend the day with me;
I have nothing to do. Do you know, I have often felt condemned at
leaving you so much alone; but you seemed as though you did not wish for
society. Still, I have got you now! Yes, yes, I will send word to that
man of yours, telling him what has happened to you."
A few minutes later I was snugly ensconced in the Squire's library,
while Mrs. Treherne and her daughter fussed about me as though I were an
invalid. I must confess that it was pleasant to be ministered to by a
woman's hands. Simpson was all very well, but I do not think that any
man knows what to do in the time of illness as a woman does.
"What are you thinking about, Erskine?" asked the Squire presently,
after he had placed a box of cigars before me.
"I was thinking about Mr. Lethbridge's face," I said. "I was wondering
what he must be feeling."
"A hard man, Erskine, a hard man. A man who has lived to make money; a
man who has always had his own way. Whatever he has touched has turned
to gold, whatever he has willed has come to pass." The Squire sighed as
he spoke. "He has pulled all sorts of people into his net," he went on,
"and got all sorts of people into his power. He does not say much, but
he could ruin lots of us if he willed so to do."
I called to mind what Hugh Lethbridge had told me, and I fancy I knew
what the old man was thinking.
"Sometimes, deep down in my heart," went on the Squire, "I have called
him a Shylock; but I am not going to think about that now. He is passing
through deep waters."
After lunch, I again announced my intention of returning home, but was
again dissuaded; not only the Squire, but neither his wife nor his
daughter would hear of my going.
"We will have an informal dinner at six o'clock," said the old man,
"then you must come with me to the prayer-meeting."
The idea seemed so incongruous that I could not help smiling.
"Yes, I know what you are thinking," said the Squire, with a laugh. "I
have never been to a prayer-meeting in my life, and I had no thought of
going until you kind of suggested it to me yourself after last night's
service; but when I came to think about it, it seemed natural and right.
We are in for a stiff job, Erskine. I never realized it as I do now.
Those Germans stand at nothing! Nothing is too devilish for them to do!
Poisoned gases, poisoned wells, sinking passenger ships, killing
defenseless women and children, murdering our soldiers, even when they
are in the act of doing them a kindness,--nothing is too bad for them.
But they are strong! They are strong! We do not realize yet how strong
they are. They have utilized all the resources of their country to beat
us, to crush us, and we shall have to use every ounce of strength we
possess to come out on top. As the Prime Minister said, we must be
prepared to shed our last drop of blood.
"But that is not all, Erskine. I know I have not been a religious man in
the ordinary sense of the word, although I have gone to Church and tried
to act straight, but it seems to me as though God wants to teach us a
lesson. He is wanting to bring us to our senses. Never in my life have I
realized the need of God as I do now, and if we are to fight His battles
we need to go to Him for help. I have seen, too, how paltry is the spite
which exists between the sects. God bless my soul! What, after all, does
the Almighty care whether we go to Church or to Chapel? And it may be
that this war will teach us how silly we have been. That is why, in
spite of my prejudices, I am glad that Trelaske announced the meeting
for to-night. Yes, I am going, Erskine, and I hope you are going too."
At seven o'clock that night the Squire and I stood at the door of the
village schoolroom, for we had both determined to go to the
prayer-meeting.
XXII
A DISCOVERY
I must confess that it was with a strange feeling that I took my seat in
the little village schoolroom that night. I had been born and educated
in a Christian country, and yet I had never been to a prayer-meeting in
my life. As I have previously said, until I came to St. Issey, I had
not, except for a wedding, entered a Church for years, and here was I,
an avowed agnostic, who had little faith in God and none in a future
life, obeying the Vicar's call to prayer.