Chapter IV: Part 4

And yet I knew at the time that death had taken possession of me, was even then gnawing away at the centre of my life.

I entered the little copse and drew near to the house. I had gone, perhaps, twenty yards, when I stopped. Peering at me through the leaves of the bushes, which grew thick on the side of the cliff, was a pair of gleaming eyes. They seemed to me to be the eyes of a madman, a maniac. Perhaps my imagination was excited, and my mind unbalanced, but I thought I saw revenge, hatred, murder. The eyes were large and staring. I could see no face, no form. I felt no fear, only a sense of wonder and a desire to know. I took a step in the direction of those wild, maniacal orbs, and I heard a cry--hoarse, agonized. I took another step forward and looked again, and saw nothing, neither did I hear another sound. Feverishly I made my way towards the spot, but there was nothing there. No footmarks could I discover, no signs of any one having been there. I am perfectly certain I saw what I have described, as sure as that I am sitting in my little room at this moment, but although I searched everywhere I could discover nothing.

I returned to my house and began to dress for dinner; but all the while I was haunted by those wild, staring eyes.

VIII

MYSTERY

"Simpson," I said, after dinner, "do you believe in ghosts?"

"Yes, sir, I think so, sir."

"What are your views about them?"

"Well, sir, I don't know that I could put them into words. Will you have your coffee now, sir?"

"Yes, please, Simpson; and will you pass my cigar-box?"

"Yes, sir; thank you, sir."

"You are somewhat of a philosopher, aren't you, Simpson?"

"In my own way, sir. If I hadn't been I should have been dead before now."

"Oh, indeed," I said. "How?"

"Well, sir, it was during the two years I was married. It was my philosophy that saved me."

"In what way?" I asked.

"Well, you see, sir, I hadn't been married more than a month before I discovered that my wife had a remarkable command of language. While we were courting, she pretended to be shy, and had very little to say; but when we got married she developed the power of speech awful, sir--just awful. At first I answered her back, and every time I spoke I seemed, as it were, to open up the fountains of the great deep, until I thought I was going mad. Then I got to thinking about it, sir, and after careful study of my wife's character I came to the conclusion that the only way I could meet her was by silence. I didn't smoke at that time, sir, she having said as how she hated smoking; but I bought a pipe and tobacco, and every time she started talking I just loaded up my pipe and commenced smoking. I didn't say a word, sir, but let her go on and on."

"Well," I asked, "did that cure her?"

"Not at first, sir; for a time she was worse than ever, and I thought I should have to give it up. That was where my philosophy came in, sir; I just held on. The more she talked the more I smoked, never uttering a word."

"Yes," I said, "and what then?"

"She began to cry, sir. She cried and cried until I thought she was going to cry her eyes out. I almost gave in, but being a philosopher I still kept quiet. After that, she began to threaten what she would do. She rampaged round the house like a mad woman, but I only bought a new pipe."

"And did you master her that way?"

"No, sir; I never mastered her. It is my belief that if a woman has got the gift of the gab as she had, she never can be mastered. But she left me, sir."

"I thought you told me she was dead, Simpson?"

"Oh, no, sir; I never told you that; I only told you that I had a wife for two years. Yes, sir, she kept with me for two years, trying to break me down. Then, one day, when I came into the house I found a letter from her. She said that she could not live with a brute who would not answer her back, so she went off on her own."

"And what did you do then, Simpson?"

"I went to live with your father, sir, and I have lived with the family ever since. But it was my philosophy which saved my life. If I had given in she would have killed me."

"And where is she now, Simpson?"

"I don't know, sir, and I don't want to. Yes, sir, nothing but philosophy will master a woman."

"Well, to come back to where we were, Simpson. You being a philosopher, have you any explanation to offer as to ghosts?"

"Well, sir, not ever having seen one, I don't see how I can. If I had seen one I might answer. Have you seen one, sir?"

"Yes, Simpson. This evening, just before coming in to dinner, I was coming along the footpath through the copse, when I saw a pair of bright, staring eyes, like the eyes of a madman. There was no doubt about it; I am certain I saw them. I could make out no face, but I am certain I saw the eyes. When I went to the place where I saw them I could find nothing. What is your opinion about it?"

Simpson thought a minute, then he replied solemnly:

"It was an 'allucination, sir."

"Was it that, Simpson?"

"Well, sir, if you will excuse me for asking, who had you been with before you saw the eyes? Had you spoken to any one? Had you been talking about ghosts, or that sort of thing?"

"No, Simpson; I had been talking with Miss Lethbridge, a young lady who does not believe in ghosts."

"Ah, that explains, sir."

"How, Simpson?"

"A woman always upsets the mind--always. If you had said you had seen the face without the eyes, I could perhaps have believed you; but when you say you saw eyes without a face, and then tell me you had been talking with a young lady, I know just what is the matter."

"Yes; but, Simpson, that is not all. I heard an awful moan. Rather more than a moan--it was a kind of moan and cry combined."

"And did you hear any rustling in the bushes, sir?"

"Not a sound."

"Ah, well, sir, I stand by my opinion. Anything more you want, sir?"

"Nothing more, thank you." And Simpson went away into the kitchen.

He had not been gone long, when I heard footsteps outside, and shortly after young Hugh Lethbridge appeared.

"You don't mind my calling, do you, Erskine?" he said.

"On the contrary, I am delighted," I replied. "I have just been talking with my man about something which I saw this evening, and he can offer no explanation. Perhaps you can." And I told him what I had seen.

"By Gum!" he said, "that's funny. You are sure you are not mistaken, Erskine?"

"Impossible," I replied. "I saw those eyes as plainly as I see you. It was not dark--the sun had not set, for that matter."

"And were you excited in any way?" And he looked at me steadily.

"No," I replied; "I was not excited."

"It's funny. You don't imagine, do you, that there was anything supernatural about it?"

"I wish I did, but I am sorry to say that I have no faith whatever in the supernatural."

"No," he said; "I remember what you told us up at Trecarrel. And you searched the place thoroughly?"

"Yes, thoroughly. You see, I was curious."

"And you had not been thinking about supernatural things?"

"Not in the least. For that matter, I had a few minutes before met your sister."

"Oh, yes; Bella told me she had met you, and was afraid she had shocked you."

"No, I was not shocked at all; I was very interested."

"Bella is a curious girl," said Hugh Lethbridge, after a short silence. "We have always been very good friends, but I have never understood her. Even when she was quite a girl she was different from those of her own age."

"In what way?"

"She was always so hard, so matter of fact. I have told her more than once that she has no soul." He said the words lightly, but to me they were ominous with meaning. He had put into words what I had felt.

"I suppose I ought not to say this," went on Hugh; "but I don't feel towards you as I do towards other men. I don't know why it is. No sooner did I see you than I wanted to have you as a friend; I felt I could trust you. You don't mind my saying this, do you?"

"Rather it is awfully good of you."

"I am a lonely kind of fellow," he went on, "and my home life has shut me off from the society of those I might care for. Other fellows invite their college chums to stay with them, and all that kind of thing, but the pater never allowed me to do it. Why, I don't know. I know it is wrong to discuss one's people before a stranger, but, as I said just now, I don't feel you are a stranger. What do you think of my father, Erskine?"

"I think he is a strong, capable man," I replied.

"Yes, there is no doubt about that. Why, years ago he was only a poor lad, living in a district where there seemed to be very few chances of a lad making his way, and yet you see what he has done. He was a clerk in the office of a man who had to do with shipping in Penzance. Only in a small way, you know, but he gave my father the chance to learn the business. He did learn it. What the pater doesn't know about shipping isn't worth knowing. To-day he owns scores of vessels. He got into touch with the mining world, too, and he seemed to possess a sort of genius for fastening on to mines that would pay. He has not only a controlling interest in the few prosperous Cornish mines, but he is connected with the mining world in almost every country where mines are to be found. He is as keen as a razor, is the pater, and has a way of making his will felt everywhere.

"And yet he is a most conscientious man. That is, conscientious in his own way. He used to be very religious. He used to pray at the Chapel, and all that sort of thing, but he's given it up now. But he holds to the form of religion still. As you heard him say the other night, he is a very strong believer in democracy. On the other hand, a greater autocrat never lived. In reality he believes in the feudal system, even while he professes to scorn what we call aristocracy. Yes, I see you smile. Never was a man more anxious to associate with county families than he. But he never yields an inch to them. If he had, he would have been admitted into what is called county society. Even as it is, Squire Treherne seems to be afraid of him."

"How is that?" I asked.

"Oh, he pays deference to his opinions; always supports him in public matters, and all that sort of thing. I am inclined to think that the pater has old Treherne in his power. You will not say anything about this, will you, Erskine? I do not believe my father cares a fig about me," he added.

"Nonsense!" I replied.

"I don't really. In a way he is interested in me. I suppose it is because blood is thicker than water, but do you know I can never remember the time when he kissed me, or anything of that sort. He always tried to rule me with a rod of iron."

"And has he treated your sister in the same way?" I asked.

"Yes, and no. Do you know, Erskine, my sister is a strange girl."

I was silent. I felt I had no right to ask the question which rose in my mind.

"What do you think of Bella?" he asked suddenly.

He did not seem to realize that he was overstepping the bounds of good taste in asking me, a stranger, such a question, and I realized more than ever that he was only an impulsive boy, although he had reached man's estate. Indeed, in one sense, Hugh did not know what it was to be reserved, and yet in others he was strangely reticent.

I thought he seemed to be about to take me further into his confidence at this point, but, perhaps noting the non-committal nature of my reply, he desisted.

"Of course, she's a bundle of contradictions," he said; "but she's really splendid. Why, on the day after she'd--but, there, I mustn't tell you about that. Anyhow, there was an accident at Pendeen Mine. Two men were believed to be in danger of drowning by the flooding of the old workings. The miners had made every attempt--at least, so they said--to rescue them, and to do anything more would be to throw away their own lives."

"Yes," I said. "What then?"

"Bella went to them and talked to them as they had never been talked to before. She laughed all their protests to scorn, and when they proved to her that, humanly speaking, they had done all that men could do, she insisted upon going down the mine herself. It was the maddest thing a woman could do, and God only knows how she did it; but she rescued the miners. Why, it was in all the newspapers. Yes, Bella is magnificent, but--but----"

Hugh Lethbridge was silent for some time after this, neither did I speak. I was thinking of the impression she had made on me when I first saw her.

"She was never like other girls, even when she was a child," he went on. "She did not care for games--that is, ordinary children's games--so, although she is only two years older than I, we were never what you call playfellows. She is a very brainy girl, too, and by the time she was fourteen had read all sorts of out-of-the-way books."

"I wonder she did not go to Somerville or Girton when she left school."

"That's what she wanted," replied Lethbridge, "but the pater said he did not believe in women going to a university. He has always maintained that this modern craze about advanced education for women is so much nonsense. Still, Bella is an educated girl. She speaks French and German and Italian fluently, and there is scarcely a classical writer in these languages whom she has not read first hand. Yes, Bella is a strange girl, but very hard."

Again there was a silence between us for some seconds.

"She is not at all like mother," went on Lethbridge. "I wish she were. Although, as you saw the other night, we teased mother about being general manager of the world, there is scarcely a family in the parish which mother has not helped in one way or another, and in a way she is very popular; but no one would think of going to Bella in trouble."

I must confess that I wanted to ask more questions about her, but refrained from so doing. After all, it would not have been good taste on my part.

"Well, I must be going now," said Lethbridge presently, rising from his chair. "I am glad I have seen you. Our chat, somehow, has done me good, although I have done most of the talking. I was awfully restless after dinner to-night, and the walk here, and seeing you, have made me feel better. By the way"--and I saw that this was what he had really come for--"I spoke to you about Mary Treleaven the other night."

"Yes, I remember."

"I have had a row with the pater about her to-day."

"I am sorry for that."

"It was bound to come. You see, he will not hear of my marrying her. He says it would be pure madness on my part, and if I will not fall in with his wishes he will not give me a penny. I should like to introduce you to Mary; I told you so, didn't I? Will you let me?"

"If you like, certainly," I replied; "but really, Lethbridge, I cannot help you in that matter. I would not, even if I could. It would not be right."

"If you knew her you would," he said, with boyish eagerness. "She's the finest, sweetest girl in the country, and she is the only one I could be happy with. As for the pater's ideas, I won't fall in with them--I won't." He went to the door as he spoke, and looked out over the sea.

"It's a glorious night," he said; "there is not a cloud in the sky, and the light of the moon transforms everything into a fairyland."

I went to his side as he spoke, and as I did so a kind of shiver passed through me. The night was, indeed, wonderful. The moon shone so brightly that no stars appeared, and I could see the long line of cliffs stretching northward. Scarcely a breath of wind stirred, and I could hear the waves lapping musically on the hard yellow beach beneath.

"I will walk a few steps with you, Lethbridge," I said. "I will not go far. But really this is not an evening to spend indoors. How I wish I were strong and healthy!"

Putting on a summer overcoat, I walked with him along the footpath through the copse, and when at length we reached the open country, where heather-covered moorland stretched away on either side, both of us stopped and listened.

"What a noise the silence is making!" said Lethbridge. "Did you ever hear anything like it?"

"No," I said, "the hush is simply wonderful."

Scarcely had we spoken, when rising suddenly before us was the form of a man, and again those strange eyes, which had haunted me for hours, flashed before me. The man moved so quickly that I could not discern his features. He uttered a cry as he went--a cry similar to that I heard in the copse hours before.

"Do you know who it is?" I asked.

"No," replied Lethbridge. "Strange, isn't it?"

"Anyhow, it explains what I saw this afternoon. It might seem as though some one were watching me."

"I will follow him, if you like," said Lethbridge, "and find out who it is."

"Oh, no, don't trouble; very possibly it means nothing. But I think my mind must be excited, after all. I will go back now, if you don't mind. Good-night."

And I went slowly back to my little hut, wondering what the apparition might mean.

IX

AT THE VICARAGE

On my return to my room, I naturally reflected upon what young Hugh Lethbridge had told me. It may seem strange that, on such a short acquaintance, he spoke to me so freely about his family, but what I have written down is, as far as I can remember, exactly what took place. Hugh Lethbridge was scarcely twenty-three, and, although he looked older, was little more than a lad. He was the child of his mother rather than of his father, and was lacking in anything like secretiveness, especially to any one whom he liked. For some reason or another I had seemed to captivate him, so much so that he opened his heart and gave his confidence more fully than was natural on such a short acquaintance.

In many respects young Lethbridge was sensitive and self-contained, but in other ways he was so impulsive that he overstepped the bounds of good taste. I got to know him better afterwards, and found that, although he had spoken so freely to me, he was regarded by many as reserved. Besides, he was hungering for sympathy, and because he thought I sympathized with him his confidences were so personal that I almost felt uncomfortable.

Nevertheless, I pondered a great deal over what he had told me. Evidently the household at Trecarrel was not altogether happy, and an estrangement existed between Mr. Lethbridge senior and his son. As for Isabella Lethbridge, she presented an interesting study to me. As I have said, she appealed to me as no other woman had ever appealed to me before. For the moment I had thought I was in love with her, but, on reflection, I knew I was not. I was able to study her character calmly and think of her in a kind of detached way. She formed no part in my life. She was an interesting specimen of humanity, whom I took pleasure in analyzing, but the feeling I had towards her was not love. Rather she repelled me even while she fascinated me. The thought of her never caused my heart to throb, nor made the blood course through my veins one whit the faster.

Besides, it was not for me to think about such things. I had come down to Cornwall to die. In a few months the spark of my life would go out, and I should enter the great darkness.

Days and weeks passed away, and very little of importance happened worthy of record. Often I reflected upon the uselessness of my life. Why, after all, should I live? No one but Simpson was really interested in me, and only he would grieve when I had gone; then again the old revulsion against becoming nothing surged within me. I had hopes, longings, intimations which seemed to overleap the boundaries of time and sense. If this life were all, then life was a mockery, a promise without possible fulfilment, a hope born only to be disappointed.

Sitting there alone night after night, hearing the cry of the sea-birds, listening to the wail of the wind as it swept over hill and dale, or found its way across the great waste of waters, I asked a thousand questions and pondered over the problems of life and death, without ever receiving one single ray of light. Sometimes I became so lonely that I called Simpson into my room and talked with him, but I never allowed him to know how dark were the prospects which faced me. The questions I asked him, I remember, were almost flippant in their nature. I made a joke of death, as I tried to make a joke of everything else; so much so that I fancied Simpson was convinced that I did not trouble. After all, why should I worry the poor, simple-minded fellow with questions which he could not answer or understand? The best thing to do was to bear everything with a kind of stoicism, and to make a jest of what really haunted me night and day with strange persistency. Indeed, I think I sometimes rather pained Simpson with my flippant remarks, for I found that the beliefs of his boyhood were still powerful in his life. It is difficult to eradicate the impressions of youth.

"After all, Simpson," I said one day, "sleep is a good thing providing one has no bad dreams, and if I sleep for ever I shall know nothing about it."

"But if one should dream, sir?" suggested Simpson.

"You are quoting Hamlet," I said.

"I don't know the gentleman you refer to," was Simpson's somewhat indignant reply; "indeed, I never heard of him. But don't you think, sir, that education and cleverness are very poor things?"

"Doubtless, Simpson. But why do you say so?"

"Why, sir, here are you, a gentleman who has been to college and all that. You were spoken of in the newspapers as one who would do great things some day, and yet you don't know as much as my old father did, who never had a day's schooling in his life."

"How is that, Simpson?"

"Well, sir, he _knew_ there was a life after death. He saw the angels, sir."

"Did he tell you so, Simpson?"

"Yes, sir, he did. He was a very ignorant man, sir, but he knew. Besides, sir--excuse me for saying so--but aren't your opinions very foolish, sir?"

"I dare say," I replied. "But to what particular opinions do you refer?"

"Opinions about dying, sir. If a watchmaker makes a watch, he makes it keep time, doesn't he?"

"Yes," I replied; "but if one of the wheels doesn't fit, the watch stops, and somehow my inside wheels don't fit, or rather they are made of poor material, Simpson."

"Of course, sir, it is not for me to contradict you, but I don't think you have been well educated, sir."

"My teachers are doubtless to blame, but the worst of it is your Vicar here seems to know nothing for certain, neither do your preachers at Chapel. It is all a matter of guesswork."

"Yes, sir, I know I cannot answer you properly, sir, but I do not believe Almighty God is a fool."

"What do you mean, Simpson?"

"Well, sir, I have an old watch which my grandfather used to carry, and it keeps good time still. The watch was made by a man, and it has lasted nearly a hundred years. Now, I don't believe Almighty God would take so much trouble in making us and then let us last only twenty or thirty years. Excuse me, sir."

I mentioned some time ago that Mr. Trelaske, when he had visited me, told me of his intention to invite me up to the Vicarage. He had fulfilled his promise, but I had not been well enough to take advantage of his kindness. This invitation, however, he had repeated, and one night I found my way to the Vicarage. I had hoped for a quiet chat with him, but to my surprise I found three other guests besides myself. One was Squire Treherne, another was a young fellow named Prideaux, and the other was a clergyman from a neighboring parish.

Mr. Trelaske was a widower, whose household affairs were conducted by a man and his wife by the name of Tucker. He received me most kindly, and played the part of host perfectly. It happened, too, that young Prideaux knew a man who was at Balliol with me, and this fact led to many reminiscences of college life. The fact, moreover, of my being at Winchester greatly interested Squire Treherne in me. He was an old Winchester boy, and was eager to ask questions concerning the school and to compare it with the days when he was there. In fact, before I had been in the house an hour, I found myself on a friendly footing with them all, and they spoke quite freely in my presence.

"By the way, Squire," said Prideaux presently, "I hear that Lethbridge has made another big _coup_. The way that fellow makes money is simply marvellous."

"Yes," said Squire Treherne, "and he has made it at my expense, too."

"At your expense? How is that?"

"He has found tin on my land."

"Has he? That's good. It will mean mining royalties for you."

"Not a bit of it. He persuaded me to sell the farm on which the tin was discovered two years ago. I did not want to sell it, but I wanted the money, and as the farm was, in a way, outside my ring fence, I consented. Evidently, he knew of the tin, but didn't let on. Got it for a song, too. Now he has the whole thing."

"That is bad luck," said Mr. Trelaske. "He makes money at every turn. I would not mind if one of our own set was lucky, but for that fellow--a dissenter and a Radical--to do it riles me."

"Well, he is a capable man, isn't he?" said Mr. Robartes, the other clergyman.

"Capable, if you like," replied the Vicar.

"And public-spirited too, isn't he?"

"Only in a way. The fellow isn't a sportsman, and, in the true sense of the word, isn't an Englishman. That is why I dislike him. As you know, too, he opposes the Church at every corner. I suppose it is natural in a rabid dissenter, but it is hard to bear."

"Still, he is a great employer of labor," said Prideaux. "And as for young Lethbridge, he is quite a decent fellow."

"I suppose Mr. Lethbridge still goes to the Chapel, doesn't he?" asked Mr. Robartes.

"Oh yes, I suppose so," was the Vicar's reply. "I believe, if he hadn't been a dissenter, things might have been all right."

"How? What do you mean?"

"Oh, at bottom a dissenter is never really an Englishman. Did you see that speech he made some little time ago up at Polzeath? He was crying down the Army and saying that our nation was being bled to death to keep up a useless institution. That is what I cannot stand."

They went on talking in this way for a considerable time until I began to get rather bored. It seemed to me that they discussed the Church and Dissent as two rival institutions. They regarded the Church as something which should be supported because it was a State affair. As for anything deeper, it did not appear in their conversation. Churchgoing was regarded as something that ought to be a national institution, and as such should be kept up. A few months before I dare say I might have taken an academic interest in the conversation, but as I reflected upon Dr. Rhomboid's verdict upon me it all seemed paltry and foolish. Church and Chapel, as institutions, did not matter a straw to me.

"What does Almighty God, if there is an Almighty God, Who made all the worlds, care whether a man goes to Church or to Chapel?"

I remember propounding this question quite suddenly, and it seemed to take them aback.

"You are a Churchman, aren't you?" asked Mr. Robartes eagerly.

"I suppose so, if I am anything," I laughed. "I was confirmed while I was at Winchester, but for the life of me I can't see that it matters whether a man goes to Church or to Chapel."

"But surely you have no sympathy with these dissenters?"

"I hardly know," was my reply. "I have been to the Methodist Chapel down here two or three times. I went out of curiosity. You see, my lease of life is very short, and I was wondering whether any of them could tell me what lies beyond the grave."

I saw Mr. Trelaske look on the floor as I spoke. He evidently remembered our conversation.

"It seems to me that we have to leave such things as that," said the Squire. "The Bible and the Church teach us that there is a life beyond the grave, and we had better let it stand at that. As for the Church, it makes a man a good neighbor, a good citizen, and a good Englishman. Besides, the Church doesn't cramp a man. He can be a good sportsman, enjoy a glass of wine, play a game of cards, and still be a good Churchman. That is why I am glad the Methodists are still losing ground. Of course they must."

There was nothing harsh in the way he said this. He seemed to regard dissenters as a class apart--a people with a kink in their brains, who out of pure stubbornness adopted a form of religion which somehow made them outsiders. I dare say, if I had gone deeper into the matter, I should have found something which had not appeared in their conversation, but such was the impression I received.

"By the way," said Mr. Trelaske presently, "this is bad news about Serbia, isn't it?"

"Yes, very bad," replied the Squire. "I should not be surprised if it doesn't lead to complications. These Serbs are barely civilized."

I did not understand what he meant, for I had not taken sufficient interest in what was going on to open a newspaper for several days, and I said so.

"I tell you," said Squire Treherne, "it is a serious matter. Last Sunday some Serbians murdered the Crown Prince of Austria, and I am afraid it will raise a rumpus. You see, Serbia is backed up by Russia, and if Austria threatens to take reprisals there may be a row."

I did not follow with very much interest what they were saying about the trouble in the Balkan States. What did interest me, however, was the tremendous difference between their attitude to war and that which Mr. Lethbridge took. To them the defense of their country was a sacred thing--indeed, almost a religion. I found that Mr. Trelaske had two sons, both of whom were in the Army, and that young Prideaux was a captain in the Territorials. They assumed, as a matter of course, that no man could keep out of the Army in time of national danger. It was not something to argue about; it was something settled as a fixed principle in their lives. No one seemed to believe, however, that trouble between Serbia and Austria could affect England. All of them appeared to think with Lord Salisbury, that we must retain our attitude of "Splendid Isolation," whatever might take place. Perhaps I ought to except young Prideaux, who, having no fixed beliefs, seemed to have doubts about the matter.

"I wish these blessed Radicals were not in power," he reflected, between puffs of his cigar.

"For that matter, all of us do," said Squire Treherne, in response. "But still, there it is. They have got the upper hand of us now, and it seems as if they are going to keep it."

"What I can't stand about the Radicals," said Mr. Robartes, "is that they aren't gentlemen."

"Oh, I don't know about that," said Prideaux. "There's Grey, for instance, he's a gentleman, and a sportsman too."

"Yes, but he is different from the rest. I wonder how he stays with that lot! I expect if we were dragged into this trouble the present Government would adopt a peace-at-any-price attitude. The great majority of Radicals are dissenters, and nearly all dissenters seem to be fed with anti-war ideas. You remember what took place at the time of the Boer War?"

"I am not sure they weren't right about that," remarked the Vicar; "I don't mean about the war itself, but about giving self-government to South Africa. The Boers have settled down remarkably well."

"Nonsense, Parson," said Squire Treherne. "It was pure madness. Supposing war were to break out, we should have a revolution in South Africa before we could say 'Jack Robinson.' These Boers ought to have been kept under our thumb. Do you know, I had an awful row with Lethbridge about that."

"How are the Lethbridges regarded in the neighborhood?" I asked, for I was anxious to avoid anything like a political discussion.

"Regarded in the neighborhood?" replied Squire Treherne. "Oh, we have to tolerate them, you know. Lethbridge is a man of great influence, and, of course, he's very rich. That is where he has the pull. He is the largest employer of labor in this district, and as a consequence people look up to him."

"I don't mean that so much," I said. "How is the family regarded socially?"

The Squire did not reply, but the Vicar was very pronounced.

"Oh, socially," he said, "they scarcely exist. You see, Lethbridge, in spite of his money, is a parvenu and rank outsider. It is true that his wife comes of a decent family, but a few years ago he was a poor lad in this district, and people can't forget it. Besides, the fellow is such an aggressive Radical. He is constantly treading on the corns of people who would otherwise be civil to him."

"What about his children?" I said. "I happen to have met them both, and they strike me as being well educated and presentable."

"Yes, his children are not so bad, and but for their father would doubtless be well received. At least, Hugh would. He is quite a nice boy. As for the girl, I don't know anything about her."

"The girl is handicapped by her father," said young Prideaux. "In spite of everything, she is placed in a curious position."

"How is that?"

"They occupy a kind of half-way position. On the one hand, they do not associate with the people to whom Lethbridge belonged twenty years ago, and, on the other, they are not quite our sort. Still, I believe the people would have forgiven them, in spite of the father, if the girl hadn't been such a heartless flirt."

"A flirt?" I repeated.

"Yes. She's a dashed fine-looking girl, you know. Clever, too; and when she likes can be quite fascinating; but, like the rest of her class, she can't play the game."

"No?" I said, thinking of what her brother had told me.

"No, there was young Tom Tredinnick; fine fellow Tom is, too. He fell head over heels in love with her, and every one thought they were going to make a match of it, but she treated Tom shamefully. There was Nick Blatchford, too; she treated him just as badly. She led him to the point of an avowal, and then chucked him."

"That class of people have no sense of honor," said the Vicar. "Of course, we can't get away from them down here. Methodism of one sort or another is the established religion of the county, and they are nearly all Radicals. In fact, they are anti-everything. Anti-smoking, anti-drinking, anti-sporting, anti-vaccination, and all the rest of it."

"I wonder," I said musingly.

As I went home I tried to gather up the impressions the company had made upon me, and I reflected that the atmosphere of the Vicar's house was utterly different from that of Mr. Lethbridge's. In a way, both were entirely new to me. I was a town-bred boy, and knew practically nothing of country life, and as a consequence was utterly unacquainted with the thoughts and feelings of those who lived far away from London.

I had not time, however, to follow my reflections to their natural issue, for no sooner had the carriage, which I had hired for the evening, dropped me at the footpath at the end of the little copse than my thoughts were turned into an entirely different channel. I was perhaps a hundred yards from my little dwelling-place, when suddenly some one crept out of the undergrowth and stood before me.

For the time of the year the night was dark. It was now midsummer, but a change had come over the weather, and dark clouds hung in the sky. Still, there was enough light for me to discern the figure of a man, who stood directly in my pathway.

"Be you the straanger?" he said.

"What do you mean?" I asked; "and who are you?"

"Be you the straanger wot d'live in Father Abram's 'ut?" The man's voice was thick, and his enunciation anything but clear.

"That seems remarkably like my own business," I replied.

"Be you the straanger wot d'live in Father Abram's 'ut?" He repeated the words almost feverishly, and his voice trembled.

"What if I am?" I asked.

"Then go away! Go away!"

"Why should I?"

"Ca'ant tell 'ee."

"But why should I go away? Who are you?"

"Never mind that! You go away! Go away to once!"

By this time I had become more accustomed to the darkness, and saw that the man was of huge proportions, and I judged that he had a serious purpose in speaking to me.

"I tell 'ee," he went on, "that you must go away; ef you do'ant ..." Here he stopped as though he did not know how to finish his sentence. My mind worked quickly, and I remembered my previous experiences which had taken place at this very spot. His presence explained those wild, staring eyes which I had seen in the copse, and the apparition which had puzzled me on the night I had talked with Hugh Lethbridge.

What he might mean by dogging my footsteps I could not explain, but that there was some meaning I felt quite sure.

"You have been following me for days," I said.

He grunted an assent.

"I found you watching me last Thursday week. You crept away from me when I went after you."

"I dedn't main no wrong."

"Yes, but what do you mean?"

"You must go away!--go away!" he repeated.

"Come with me to the house," I said. "I want to talk with you."

He gave a cry of abject fear.

"I mustn't! I mustn't! I be afeerd!"

"What are you afraid of?"

"I ca'ant tell 'ee! You must go away!"

"Go away where?"

"Anywhere; but you mustn't stay in thicky house! I've tould 'ee. Summin'll happen to 'ee ef you do'ant!"

"What will happen to me?"

"I ca'ant tell 'ee, but you must go away!" The man repeated the words with wearisome iteration. He seemed to be obsessed with this one thought. He spoke unintelligently. He might have been a machine repeating over and over the same words.

"You are Fever Lurgy," I said.

Again the fellow gave a cry as if of fear.

"Do'ant 'ee tell nobody," he cried. "But go away!--go away! I tell 'ee, ef you do'ant...." Again he stopped, like one who is afraid to finish his sentence.

"Some one has sent you to me," I said. "Who?"

"I mustn't tell 'ee--I mustn't tell 'ee!" he cried.

"But you must tell me. Come, you are going with me to the house, and I am going to know everything."

He started back as I spoke, and then rushed from me. I heard him among the bushes; then he spoke again.

"You must go away!--you must go away at once!"

I waited for some time but heard nothing more. Then I made my way to my little house, wondering at the meaning of what I had seen and heard.

X

WIRELESS TELEGRAPHY

I did not sleep well that night. The incident of Fever Lurgy raised many questions in my mind. I felt as though I were the centre of some mystery--a mystery of which I was ignorant. I was more convinced than I had ever been that old Father Abraham was not dead. I believed, too, that he had a motive out of the ordinary in coming to this spot and building the hut, and that the reason of his disappearance was not an ordinary crime, as was generally supposed. I pieced together all the events which had taken place since I had been in the neighborhood, and tried to see a meaning in them all, but I could not find any key that would unlock the door of the mystery. I knew nothing of Father Abraham's doings. I was simply a poor wretch who had come there to die, and yet, from the vehemence of Fever Lurgy's voice, it might seem as though there were some plot against me--as though some one wished to do me harm.

Twelve months before I should have rejoiced at what seemed like an adventure. It would have added spice to life. I should have thrown myself into the work of solving the mystery with avidity. Then I was strong and vigorous, scarcely knowing the meaning of weariness. While at school I had been a boxer, a runner, and had got my school cap for Rugger. At Oxford, too, while I had been a reading man I was looked upon as an athlete, and so could have held my own whatever took place; but now all was different. While to outward appearances I was still a strong man, I knew that my flesh was wasting away, that the disease from which I suffered was eating away the centres of my life. Still, with a kind of stubbornness which had always characterized me, I resolved I would take no notice of the warning I had received. Why should I go away? If I were in danger it was because something interesting existed at the back of my life. I did not know what it was, but I would find out. To fear, in the ordinary sense of the word, I was a stranger, and in spite of what Fever Lurgy had said, I could not see how any one could wish to harm me.

Towards morning I fell asleep, and when I awoke it was to see the sun streaming through the window of my little bedroom.

I felt very light-hearted, I remember, and in the light of that new day, instead of Fever Lurgy's warning causing me to be depressed, it gave me a new interest in life. Something was happening. A mystery surrounded me. Things were taking place in this very district which gave zest to life. I jumped out of bed, and in spite of Simpson's repeated warnings against such madness, I plunged into the little pond of pure cold water, which burst out from the hill just above my house.

I had scarcely finished breakfast when young Prideaux came into the room.

"By the way, Erskine," he said, "you mentioned last night that you were interested in wireless telegraphy. I have to go over to M---- this morning, and remembering what you said last night, I came round this way to ask you if you would go with me."

My interest in wireless telegraphy had been aroused because of the case which had won for me some notoriety. In fact, the secret of my success lay in the fact that I had swatted up the subject, and was able to put questions which would never otherwise have occurred to me. I am afraid I did not know much about the system, but, as every one knows, the success of a barrister lies largely in his power to assimilate knowledge quickly, to see the vital points of a case and to insist upon them.

It seems that Prideaux had remembered the case in which I had been interested, and in talking about it I had been led to confess that I had given some attention to wireless telegraphy. This explains why he had come to me with the suggestion I have mentioned, and why I eagerly accepted his invitation to motor to M---- with him. Like every one else, I knew that Signor Marconi had erected a station in Cornwall, and that he had thereby created a new epoch in the transmission of messages. I do not know that, under ordinary circumstances, I should have mentioned this fact, but my visit to M---- that day was vitally connected with what happened afterwards.

I am by no means a scientist, and what brains I have never ran in that direction. Still, I have a schoolboy's knowledge of scientific subjects, and this went far in helping me to understand the things I saw. Presently, too, the wonder of the thing laid hold of me. The sending out of a mysterious current across the spaces, to be received hundreds of miles away, was like some fairy dream of childhood. Prideaux had a friend at the station, who was a great enthusiast, and who explained, as far as it can be explained, the principle of the thing to us.

"Look!" he said presently, "I will show you the thing in miniature. I can easily fix up a couple of these little machines here, and then you will see how it is done."

Being an ingenious sort of fellow, he soon did as he had said, and ere long I was simply captivated. My interest in the subject, too, seemed to flatter the young fellow's pride in his work. It was not often, he affirmed, that any one came to the station who picked up the thing so easily.

After spending three hours with the young operator, we had lunch together, and being in a more communicative mood than usual, I told him why I had come to Cornwall, and why, in spite of the people's kindness at St. Issey, my evenings were long and lonely.

"Why not take this up as a hobby?" he said.

"What? Wireless telegraphy?"

"Yes. These things are easy enough to fix up. Any boy with a mechanical turn of mind can manage it. I will give you all the material necessary, and you can make a hobby of it. Of course, it will be no advantage to you, but it will help you to while away the time. When I first came here I didn't care a fig about it, but now my work is a source of ever-increasing interest to me. I am always trying new experiments. Why, you and Prideaux could have all sorts of larks."

"How is that?"

"Why, if you got one of these things at your place, and Prideaux fixed one up at his, you could be sending messages to each other, and you could bewilder people by telling them what is taking place at each other's houses. Don't you see?" And the young fellow laughed boyishly at the prospect which appeared before his mind. "Why, you can have a party at your house and tell your guests how, by your gift of second sight, you know exactly what is going on at Prideaux's house, and then Prideaux, when he comes over, could confirm all you say."

"But I should have to learn the code in order to do this?"

"Of course you would. That is easy enough. I have a book of codes. A chap with a good memory like you could learn everything in half an hour."

I could see that to him his work was at once a plaything and a wonder. He must have been over twenty, but he talked like a lad of fifteen.

"It is the most wonderful thing in the world," he went on. "See what lives have been saved by the invention. You remember the burning of the _Volturno_? A man I know was on board that ship, and he told me what he felt when it caught fire, and how, in spite of his danger, his heart thrilled with wonder when he saw the vessels which had been summoned by wireless to their aid. Every one would have died an awful death but for this discovery. Besides, supposing we went to war, can't you see the advantage of it?"

"I don't know," I said. "It seems to me that it might be a great disadvantage. Supposing, for example, we went to war with France, and we wanted to send a message to one of our ships, the French would receive the message at one of their receiving stations, and they would know all our plans."

"I've made a special study of that," he said, with a laugh. "I daren't let you know how; it would be telling; but I believe I know the secret codes of nearly all the countries. Look here, you get one of these things fixed up, and I will come over and see whether you have got it right. I can put you up to all sorts of dodges. You will never be lonely if this thing really grips you."

I must confess that I caught some of the boy's enthusiasm, and when we returned that evening I brought with me the material for fixing up a kind of amateur installation. Although not scientifically inclined, the wonder of the thing appealed to me, and I reflected that during my lonely hours I could occupy myself with this marvellous discovery. Indeed, for many days afterwards I was engaged in carrying out what the boy had instructed me to do. I found what seemed to me a convenient spot on the cliff, close to my house, yet hidden from the gaze of any passer-by, and here I almost forgot my troubles in perfecting it. More than once, too, young Martin--for that was the name of the lad--came over to see me, and told me that I was getting on famously.

"I am afraid your affair is not powerful enough," he said; "but I will try and send a message to you. It will be an awful lark, won't it?"

By the time young Martin and I had met three times we had become quite friendly, and so eager was he about the work I was doing that he gave me a little book, which he himself had compiled, containing secret codes.

"I don't know whether I ought to do this," he laughed, "but really, you know, it is so fine. It is so interesting, too, and it was by the purest chance that I picked them up."

By the end of a fortnight I boasted to myself that I knew practically all young Martin could tell me about wireless telegraphy, and that I had assimilated all his boasted knowledge about codes. Although I was not a scientist, I had a voracious memory, and was not long in storing my mind with what, a few weeks before, had but little meaning to me, but was now full of mystery and wonder.