each were trying to find what we looked for.
Then I saw the tears well up, saw them trickle down her cheeks, saw her
lips quiver, and then she could no longer hold back her words.
"Don't you know, don't you know?" she sobbed.
I held out my arms, and a second later our lips met, and we were
uttering incoherent words which none but those who know the language of
the heart can interpret.
"You know now, don't you?" she said at length.
"Yes, I know," I said.
And yet it was all a wonder to me. When last I had spoken to her an
invisible barrier stood between us. I had admired her beauty, her keen
intelligence; I thought, too, that I saw wondrous possibilities in her
nature; but I did not love her. Something, I knew not what, forbade that
love. I had told her so, told her that I did not love her, that I only
loved the woman she ought to be. Now it seemed as though a magician's
hand had swept away the barrier; that some divine power had illumined
her life and filled it with a new and divine element. I saw her
ennobled, glorified; the old repellent look had gone; those eyes which
had flashed with scorn were now filled with infinite tenderness. Why was
it? And what had wrought the change?
Presently she lifted her head, and I saw a look of fear come into her
eyes.
"You said you didn't love me; is that true?"
"You know," I replied.
"But tell me, tell me!"
"I can't," I replied; "words only mock me; they would only suggest the
faintest shadow of what fills my life. The barriers are gone! What has
wrought the change?"
"Are you sure you are strong enough to hear? Oh, it is wrong of me to
speak to you like this, and you so weak!"
"Your every word is giving me new life," was my reply; "tell me
everything."
"And you are sure, sure--that--that----"
"That I see in you the woman God meant you to be," was my reply. "But
what has wrought the change?"
"I can hardly find words to tell you, it seems so unreal, so--so beyond
the power of words to express. But--but years ago I could not love; I
longed to love and could not; something held me back, what, I didn't
know. I tried to break down that something. I--I was called a flirt, you
know," and she laughed nervously.
"Yes, yes, I remember," I said.
"I did it as an experiment. I fancied that somehow if I won the love of
some one, the casement around my heart would break, would melt away; but
it was no use. And all the time I knew that I was missing the joy of
life. Then you came. Yes, you were right; I thought I saw in you one who
might break the hard crust around my heart, and I tried to fascinate
you, tried to--to--do what you said. You remember?"
"Yes, I remember."
"But you were right. If you had loved me then, I had nothing to give
you. At the centre of my heart there was a burning fire; but that fire
was confined; I didn't love you; I wanted to, longed to, but I could
not. And yet all the time I knew that if ever love came to me it would
be for you, only you."
She ceased speaking for a few seconds, and I heard her tremulous
breathing.
"Do you understand? Do you forgive me?" she asked.
"Yes, I understand; go on, tell me."
"Then came that day, before--before--the awful night. You know when you
told me that you believed you were going to die, and you hinted that
that very night you were going on an enterprise which meant danger,
possibly death, I think I went mad; I have no remembrance of anything
except the feeling that I must watch you, save you! So all that evening
I waited around your hut unseen. I saw you at your little wireless
station; I saw you send Simpson away; I saw you go down through the
copse towards the beach. I followed you, watching all the time. Even
then I didn't know my secret; I acted as though I had no will of my own,
as though I were driven by some power I could not understand. I didn't
know your plans, but I felt that I must be silent and watch. Then when
that man leapt on you something seemed to break within me, something was
liberated, I didn't know what; but I knew that I loved you, I knew that
the power of love had come to me, and that I was ready to die to save
you. Without thought or comprehension of what I was doing, I flung
myself upon the woman, and--and...."
"Oh, my love, my love!" I murmured. "Thank God for all His goodness!"
For some time we were silent.
"Tell me all the rest," I said presently.
"That's all, isn't it?"
There was a great deal more, but I cared nothing about it. At that
moment it seemed to me that all I had tried to do and hoped to do for my
country was swallowed up in the one great possession, the one great fact
which overwhelmed everything.
"Am I doing wrong in telling you this?" she asked. "It seems as though
there is nothing else in life now but that, because it has meant
everything else--faith, religion, God. It has made the world new, it has
broken down all barriers and glorified all life. Oh, my love, my love,
do you understand?"
"I understand," I replied, "I understand."
And then the truth which had contained everything, the truth which was
the centre and circumference of all that came to me during the time I
thought I was dead, flooded my heart and brain.
"Life and love are everything, for these mean God."
I did not ask her the result of my struggle with Liddicoat, or the
outcome of the plans I had made. I wanted to ask her, and yet I did not;
somehow that did not seem to matter.
I heard the birds singing in the trees around the house; heard the
lowing of the cattle in the meadows; saw the sunlight streaming through
the window; breathed the sweetness of the morning air.
I had indeed entered the light and life of a new day; the world was
flooded with a glory that was infinite; barriers were broken down
because I had learnt the secret of life!
For some time we were silent; again there seemed nothing to say, because
everything was too wonderful for words.
"During the time your life hung on a thread, and when the doctors
doubted whether you could live, even then I had no fear," she went on
presently. "That which had come to me was so wonderful that it seemed to
make everything possible, and--I cannot put it into words--but while I
was almost mad with anxiety, in spite of a kind of certainty which
possessed me, I knew that all was well, I knew that somehow--somehow we
should be brought together and that life's secret would be ours."
A knock came to the door and the nurse entered.
"How is the patient, Miss Lethbridge?" she asked.
"I feel wonderful," I replied; "far stronger than I was when you were
here last, nurse."
"Yes, you are all right," said the nurse smilingly. "Miss Lethbridge
came directly you fell asleep, and insisted on my going to bed. I am
sure it was awfully good of her to relieve me."
"She has proved a good substitute, nurse," I replied; "but you must
insist upon her going to bed now if she has been watching all the
night."
"Yes, and you look as though you need washing and your hair brushed,"
laughed the nurse. "You must not get on too fast, you know."
"I shall be quite well enough to receive visitors soon," was my reply.
"Visitors!" laughed the nurse; "you will be inundated with them as soon
as you are strong enough. A man has come all the way from London to see
you; he wants to interview you for one of the London newspapers. You
see, having succeeded in exposing that German plot, and causing the
arrest of a lot of dangerous people, you have been the talk of the
country."
"I was successful, then?" I said.
"Successful! Oh, of course you don't know; but you will hear all about
it later, as soon as you are stronger."
"How long is it since it happened?" I asked curiously.
"I have been here just five weeks," replied the nurse.
XXIX
CHRISTMAS 1915
Of course the facts are old now, and I need not detail them here. All
the world knows that Colonel Laycock's soldiers came up in time to get
hold of, not only Liddicoat and his accomplice, who proved to be
dangerous German spies, but several others who had been in the enemy's
service for the purpose of conveying petrol to the submarines. The
little bay in which I had lived was of great importance to them, and the
cave I had discovered was their principal storehouse for petrol. Indeed,
since their plot was exposed and our Government officials got hold of
the facts, submarines have done their work under increasing difficulty.
Of Father Abraham I heard but little. This, however, is the news which
came to me: Years before, he had been sent from Germany to act as one of
their agents, but later on, when he discovered what would be expected of
him, he left the neighborhood; but before doing so he did his best to
create the idea that he had been murdered, and that his body had been
disposed of. It seems that he stood in deadly fear of the Germans, and
believed that he was constantly watched. He was afraid to confess that
he had been acting as a German agent, and that was why he didn't tell
the English authorities what he knew. Why he was so anxious to save me
from danger I cannot fully comprehend; all I know about him I have set
down in this narrative, and those who read this must draw their own
conclusions. Certain it is that he was never seen in the neighborhood of
St. Issey again.
My own recovery was longer than I had hoped for. I grew gradually
stronger, but the operation which I had undergone was more serious than
I had imagined, and it was several weeks after I awoke to consciousness
before I was allowed to leave my room.
Dr. Rhomboid, who came twice from London to see me, was very insistent
on my taking no risks, and also kept the many visitors who desired to
see me from entering the room.
Thus for some time after the incidents I have recorded, with the
exception of the doctor, who, by the way, was not Dr. Wise, the only
persons I saw were the nurse, Simpson, and Isabella. As may be imagined,
however, I was well looked after, and was not at all sorry at being
deprived of the companionship of my neighbors. Perhaps, however, I have
said too much. I did want to see Squire Treherne, and I should have been
glad of a visit from the Vicar; and bearing in mind what Squire Treherne
had said, I wanted to have a chat with Josiah Lethbridge.
At the end of three weeks I was pronounced sufficiently strong to
receive visitors, and the first who came was Josiah Lethbridge. I had
expected to see a change in him, but not so great as had actually taken
place. He knew nothing of what had passed between Isabella and myself,
because we had arranged to keep everything a secret; but he could not
have treated me more kindly had I been his own child. When I uttered my
apologies for the trouble which I had given the family, his lips
quivered and he seemed on the point of breaking down.
"Please don't mention that," he said. "If you only knew the joy it gives
me to know that you are in the house, and that I am in the slightest
degree able to be of service to you, you would not talk in that way. But
I must not try to explain now; the doctor has only given me three
minutes to be with you, so I will only say that I am glad you are here,
and that I am eagerly looking forward to the time when we shall see more
of each other and know each other better. I have a great deal to tell
you, my lad. God only knows how much."
Of the visits of Squire Treherne and Mr. Trelaske I will not speak, save
to say that I well-nigh broke down at the old Squire's behavior.
"God bless my soul!" ejaculated the old man; "we will give you a time
when you get well! No, no, not a word from you; you must not talk; but
we _will_ give you a time! We will have the whole countryside _en fête_!
It is not only the German plot you have exposed, it is other things, my
boy! God bless you!"
It was not until the beginning of August that I was allowed to leave my
bedroom and find my way down-stairs. The nurse and Isabella walked each
side of me, supporting me at each step I took, and when I reached the
living-room I found Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge awaiting me. I had barely
spoken to Mrs. Lethbridge when I heard a child's cry in the room, and,
looking, I saw Mary, Hugh's wife, holding a baby in her arms.
"Yes," said Josiah Lethbridge with a laugh, "this is a secret that we
have kept in store for you. This is Hugh's child!"
"Then--then...." I stammered.
"As soon as my son's wife was well enough I insisted upon her being
brought to her true home. Mary, my love, bring your baby here where Mr.
Erskine can see him. Isn't he a beautiful boy? He was christened a month
ago."
"And what is he called?" I asked.
"There was only one name to give him," replied Josiah Lethbridge
proudly--"Hugh."
As I looked into Mary's eyes a sob rose in my throat. I saw the joy of
motherhood there, I saw infinite tenderness, and more than tenderness.
It was a joy chastened by sorrow, by loss unspeakable, by hope eternal.
"I am so glad, Mary," I said, "so glad. It is as it ought to be, isn't
it?"
"Isn't he just like his father?" said the young mother proudly. "See his
eyes, his chin--why, he's Hugh all over again!" Then her lips became
tremulous, and tears welled up into her eyes.
"He is a beautiful boy," I said, "and--and...."
"He's made the house a new place," cried Josiah Lethbridge. "I have made
Mary sleep in the next room to mine so that I can hear him when he cries
in the night. It does me good to hear a baby cry. Oh, my boy, my boy!"
and his voice trembled as he spoke.
I knew what he was thinking about--knew that he remembered, with a great
sadness in his heart, that he had driven his only son from home; knew
that he suffered unspeakable sorrow; and I could see that he was a
different man.
"Isn't God good to us?" he said huskily; "and--and--Mary's forgiven me
too, haven't you, my love?"
He put his arm around the young widow's waist as he spoke and kissed
her.
"It's the baby who has done everything," said Mrs. Lethbridge. "The news
that he was born came in the middle of the night, and when Josiah heard
that both mother and child were well, he could not stay in bed; he got
up and tramped around the room like a man beside himself. 'She must come
home,' he said, 'home, and bring her baby with her.' Oh, it's wonderful,
wonderful!"
"And you, Mary," said I, "are you well again?"
The simple-hearted girl turned to me with a wan smile.
"When the news came to me first about Hugh," she said, "I thought I
should have died; I wanted to die; life seemed hateful to me;
then--then--when my boy was born, oh, he made all the difference! I know
Hugh is not dead, he lives in heaven, and he is watching over us. You
believe that too, don't you, Mr. Erskine?"
"I don't believe in death," I replied; "there is no death, only seeming
death."
"Do you remember what I said to you, Erskine, when I saw you months ago
in your little hut?" said Josiah Lethbridge. "I said that God Almighty
must be laughing at us. Now I know I was wrong."
"Yes?" I said questioningly.
"God Almighty never laughs at us," said Josiah Lethbridge. "He is
revealed to us by His Son, and Jesus wept at the graveside of Lazarus.
He weeps at all the sorrow and pain of the world. Jesus wept even
although He knew He would raise Lazarus from the dead, and God weeps at
our follies and our madness even although He, in His Eternal Love, is
working out for us all a greater salvation. Oh, we are fools, my lad! We
measure His purposes by our little foot-rule; we explain His Will
according to the standard of our puny minds; we measure events by days
and years; but God lives, and works His own Sovereign Will. It has all
come to me lately. I have gone through deep waters, my lad; the waves
and the billows have well-nigh overwhelmed me; but that little baby has
made all the difference; my boy lives again in him."
I was silent, I remember; there seemed nothing to say. What were words
at such a time as that? Deep had called unto deep, and the Voice of God
had been heard in the mysterious happenings of life.
I found my way to a chair close by a window, through which I looked out
on the lawn, and at the flowers which surrounded it. It was about three
o'clock in the afternoon, and the sun had begun to sink, although the
day was yet glorious. Beyond the trees of the park I could see the wild
moorland, and between two rugged tors I caught the shimmer of the sea.
The nurse had left the room by this time, and none but the members of
the family except myself remained. I could not help realizing the change
that had taken place. When I had first entered the house the atmosphere
was cold, hard, unpleasant. Josiah Lethbridge was in the height of his
prosperity, and he had his wife and children around him; his life did
not seem to be touched with care or sorrow; no clouds seemed to hang in
his sky. Now the death-reaper had come and had taken his only son; yet
it was a far happier home than then. Josiah Lethbridge had been
embittered towards his son, because the latter loved a simple-minded
farmer's daughter; he had even driven his son from home, because the lad
would be true to his heart and marry the girl he loved. Now he had taken
this girl to his arms; he had brought her and her baby to his home.
There was sorrow in the house, but it was a chastened sorrow, a sorrow
illumined by faith and love.
"Oh, if my boy had only lived!" said Josiah Lethbridge; "if he had only
been spared to see this day, I think my cup of happiness would be full;
but God Almighty never makes a mistake."
"No," I said, "He never makes a mistake."
"Do you say that, Erskine?"
"Yes, I say it," I replied, thinking of my own experiences and
remembering the life that had come to me. "Yes, I say it."
"It is a ghastly thing, is this war," he went on. "I become bewildered,
maddened, when I think about it. I can't explain it, I can't even see a
far-off glimpse of explanation, when I think of this life only. When I
think of the suffering, of the waste of life, the sorrow, the
unutterable sorrow of tens of thousands of homes;--it's all so foolish,
so--so--mad. But that is not God's doing, my boy; besides, even in it
all, through it all, He's working His Will. Life is being purified; men
are learning their lessons. I know it, Great God, I know it! The nations
of Europe were in danger of forgetting God, and now are realizing their
foolishness. But oh, if my Hugh had lived! If I could see him coming
across the lawn as I used to see him, if I could hear him laugh in his
old boyish way! But he is dead."
"No, Mr. Lethbridge," I said, "he is not dead; there is no death, of
that I am certain; there is no death. God lives, and because He lives
His children live always. I agree with you about the ghastliness, the
sinfulness, the madness of war; but this war has told me that the
eternal life in man laughs at death. What we call death is not an end of
life, it is only a beginning. This life is only a fragment of life; that
at all events I have learnt."
I looked around the room and found that we were alone. Mary had taken
away her baby, while Mrs. Lethbridge and Isabella had, for some reason,
left the room.
"You speak like one who knows," said Josiah Lethbridge; "you talk like a
man who has seen things."
"Yes," I said, "I have seen things."
"And you have rendered great service to your country too. Have you read
what the papers have said about you?"
"No," I replied, "I don't know that I have troubled about them. After
all, those were only incidents; there are more important things than
those."
He looked at me curiously.
"I know what you have experienced and suffered," I said, "and I know
what your suffering has done for you; but you know little of my story; I
want to tell you more about it."
"Yes, yes, tell me!" he said eagerly.
And I told him--told him of the doctor's verdict; told him of my longing
for life; told him much that I have set down in these pages.
"I can't explain it," I said, when I came to describe the experiences
through which I had passed after the great darkness fell upon me, "but I
KNOW, I SAW."
"You felt that, saw that?"
"God and immortality are not matters of faith to me now, Mr. Lethbridge;
they are matters of consciousness; that is why I am so certain about
Hugh. He is not dead. A lad who could do what he did had Eternal Life in
him. God is here all the while; it is only our blindness that keeps us
from seeing Him. Hugh is still your son. There are only two eternal
things, Mr. Lethbridge."
"Two eternal things," he repeated, "only two?"
"Life, love. That leads me to what I want to say to you now."
He looked at me with keen interest.
"I love Isabella," I said simply. "Haven't you guessed it?"
"What! Do you mean----?"
"I do," I said. "Will you give her to me?"
"I--I have seen a change in her lately, and--and----But, my dear
boy----"
"I am afraid I am what you will call a poor match," I went on. "The
doctor says it will be months before I shall be fully strong again,
although he promises me that I shall be able to resume my old profession
in a couple of months from now. Perhaps my clients will have forgotten
me; still, I think I can get some new ones; my reputation seems to be
better than I thought it was. Besides, if I become fully strong again, I
shall feel it my duty to offer my services to the country; so I shall be
a poor match, I am afraid, but I love her."
"And she?" he asked.
"She knows all I have told you," I replied.
"And--and--that has made all the change in her then. Why--why----"
"Will you give her to me, Mr. Lethbridge?" I repeated. "Will you let me
take Hugh's place as far as I can? I will give my life to make her
happy."
His astonishment seemed too great for words; several times he attempted
to speak, but broke down each time.
"But, Erskine, my lad," he said at length, "Erskine----"
"You will, won't you, dad? If you don't, I shall run away with Frank!"
I had no knowledge that Isabella had been there, but, turning, I saw her
standing behind me with love-lit eyes.
"Oh, dad, you won't refuse, will you?"
"Refuse?" he cried. "God bless my soul!--but--but--it's the very thing I
would have chosen!" and then this stern, strong man sobbed like a child.
"We are having tea on the lawn," said Mrs. Lethbridge, entering the room
at that moment. "Why, what's the meaning of this?"
When she knew what had taken place, she threw her arms around my neck,
and kissed me.
"I have seen it for months," she declared presently. "Oh, yes, you
needn't laugh at me; I saw--trust a mother's eyes."
That was the happiest evening I had ever known. I will not try to
describe it, words seem so poor, so utterly insufficient. We were like
those who had come safe into harbor after a voyage across a gray,
trackless, stormy sea. We shuddered at the thought of the voyage; but we
were glad we had undergone the suffering.
"I never knew dad so happy in my life," said Isabella to me as she bade
me good-night. "Do you know, that in spite of everything I was afraid
that he might--he might refuse? Oh, my love, my love, if Hugh had only
lived to see us all!"
"He does see us," I ventured.
"Yes, but if he could be here amongst us, if he could see how father
treats Mary, how he loves the baby, how happy mother is, and
how--I--I----Oh, how I hate bidding you good-night, but we shall meet
again in the morning."
"Yes, we shall meet in the morning," I said, with a glad heart.
* * * * *
I thought my story had come to an end here, that I had no more to
relate, but an event has just happened which I must set down, or this
narrative will be incomplete.
I had returned to London and taken up my life where I had dropped it. I
was still comparatively weak, but strong enough to do the work which
fell to me.
As the weeks passed by, clients came to me as of old, and I found myself
having to refuse briefs. I was glad of this, because I wanted to show
Josiah Lethbridge, when I went to Cornwall for Christmas, that I was not
helpless, and that I was able to provide a home for his child. I found,
too, although the doctors refused me when I offered myself for the Army,
that my strength was daily increasing. Indeed, so far had I recovered
myself that near the end of the term I was able to carry through a
difficult case, and in spite of being opposed by a barrister of national
reputation, I was able to win it.
I had hoped to go to Cornwall at the beginning of the Christmas
vacation, but I found that my success had led to so much work that it
was not until Christmas Eve that I was able to get away.
"Simpson," I said on the Thursday night, "I want you to get my bag in
readiness in time for me to catch the Riviera express to-morrow morning.
You know what things I shall want, Simpson; I shall be away about a
fortnight, I hope."
"Yes, sir."
But Simpson didn't leave me as usual.
"What is the matter, Simpson? Is there anything you wish to say?"