Chapter VII: Part 7

"I got no further with him because I didn't stay. I have tried to be neighborly with the man, although I hate his views. But when one's country is at stake, when a man tries to hide his meanness and niggardliness by whining about taxes!--well, you see, we had nothing more to say to each other. He proved himself to be a bounder, a rank outsider. I told him so, too. I said, 'Henceforth, Mr. Lethbridge, we shall be strangers. I shall never enter your doors again, and naturally you won't want to enter mine.' Then he turned round and asked me what I had sacrificed for the country. I suppose he thought he was going to make a point against me there, but he didn't get much satisfaction out of it. I told him I had written to Headquarters and offered everything I have. If they wanted my house for a hospital, they could have it; if they wanted my land for a camping-ground, they could have it. At that he sneered, and said I was perfectly safe in making such an offer. Think of it, Erskine, think of it! What can you do with a man like that?"

"His only son has enlisted," I said.

"What, Hugh! You don't mean it?"

"Yes, I do. He has enlisted as a private, although I understand that owing to his knowledge of modern languages, and his skill in mechanics, besides being a very good shot, they are going to make a special case of him. All the same, he enlisted as a private."

"God bless my soul! That's good."

"I am afraid that is why Mr. Lethbridge is so angry," I went on. "You see, he is one of those men who hate war."

"Hates war! Well, what of that? We all do. We English are a peace-loving people, and we detest war, we loathe it, shudder at it. Did I not lose my only son in the Boer War? But in this case everything is at stake, our plighted word, our honor! If we slunk out of it, we should be a byword among the nations. Besides, think what these Germans mean to do. If they are not crushed we shall have no country, no home. Have you read what they are doing in Belgium? Have you read about Louvain, Malines, Aerschot? It is devilish, man, devilish. They have violated every law, human and divine. I never thought that any fiend from hell could do what they are doing. And if they can do these things in Belgium, what will they do in England, if they get here? What would become of our women and children? No, no, it is a call of God, my boy, it is a call of God. You put it straight to-night, hot and strong. I nearly lost my head when I heard you."

"Anyhow, Hugh Lethbridge has joined the Army. And what has hurt his father even more than that is that he has married that girl Mary Treleaven."

"God bless my soul! You don't mean that!" and the old man lapsed into silence. "I am glad he did it," he went on presently. "It serves his father right. And--and Hugh is a fine lad."

"He _is_ a fine lad," I assented. "But you can understand how his father feels about it."

"Yes, yes," said the Squire. "All the same, I am glad I gave him a piece of my mind. I could not help it, Erskine. I am a peaceful man, and I hate losing my temper, though, God knows, I am a bit given to it. But I was surprised to see his daughter there to-night," he went on, "and she was carried away by what you said too. Well, she has good blood on her mother's side. The Vivians are good people, and the family has owned land in the county for centuries. Ah, here we are. I hope you won't suffer for what you have done to-night, my boy."

"I do not think I shall," I replied. "I dare say I was very foolish, but I could not help it."

"I am proud of you!" and the old Squire gripped my hand heartily. "You have got good English blood in you, you have got the old Cornish feeling. By the way, I hope you will come over and see me sometimes. I am a poor man, Erskine, and we shall all of us have to retrench, but you will always find a welcome at my house."

Then he left me, and I found my way through the copse to my lonely little house.

For the next few days I was almost prostrate. I was paying the penalty for my foolishness. I knew I ought not to have gone to the meeting, and yet, I was glad I had.

So ill did I become that Simpson, without obtaining my permission, sent for the local doctor to come and see me. This doctor was a tall, gaunt Scotsman, who had, as he informed me, come to Cornwall rather for the purpose of building up his own health than for building up a practice. I was vexed that Simpson had sent for him, but I could not remain angry with the poor fellow, for I was so ill that he dare not be left alone with me without having some one to advise him. Dr. Wise was one of the most talkative men I ever met in my life, and after he had asked me a few questions about my illness, he assured me that I had not long to live, and that in all probability what I had done had curtailed the few months which otherwise would have been left to me. I found out, however, that his chief interest in me was not the malady from which I was suffering, or how he might get me better, but to have me as a listener to his views.

"The country is in a bad way," he said. "We have neither arms nor munitions. Even now the Woolwich Arsenal is only working two days a week."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Oh, I got it from a man who knows a man who lives near Woolwich," he replied. "I got a letter yesterday morning, telling me about it."

"Has your informant an entrée into Woolwich Arsenal?" I asked.

"Oh, I know it is true," he replied. "Our house-maid has a brother who works there too, and he says the same thing. Oh, the country is in a bad way."

"It must be," I replied.

"Yes, and then there is all this talk about the Russians coming over to help us; do you know there is a plot in that, a deep-laid plot?" he asked in serious tones.

"You don't mean it!" I said, for by this time the man had begun to amuse me.

"Yes, I do," he replied. "I have heard on good authority that the Russians mean to turn round on us. They are in league with the Germans, and they are sending over half a million men to attack our Army at the back. I am not at liberty to tell how I got my information, but it is true. Then there is the Army food. Do you know, it is in a terrible condition."

"How is that?"

"Our soldiers at the front haven't got enough to eat. I know it for a fact. One of the men who went out with the Expeditionary Force wrote and told me that if it were not for the food they took from the German prisoners they would be starving."

"That is terrible," I replied.

"You would not believe it, would you?" he went on, "but the whole country is governed wrongly, and they are allowing the Germans to hoodwink us at every corner."

"If that is so," was my answer, "it seems strange that the Germans should have been driven back from the Marne. How is it that when they got so near to Paris they did not take it?"

"Ah, that is because they hated the English so. They had Paris in their hands practically, and might have been there now if they had not hated the English."

"That is very interesting," I said. "How did it come about?"

"Well, you see, the German generals had made all arrangements to march into Paris, but they gave way to a fit of anger, and determined to crush the English instead. It was a false move on their part, and but for that we should have been done for."

"How lucky for us," I replied.

"Yes, but they are arranging to get to Calais by another road now. They have everything fixed up for the invasion of England."

"What, the Germans have?"

"What they are going to do is this," and he spoke very solemnly. "First of all they are going to take Calais; then they are going to bring their big guns and bombard Dover. After that, they are going to lay mines in two lines, allowing a lane for the German boats to land two hundred thousand men in Dover. They are going to be flat-bottomed boats, and I have it on good authority that the Kaiser is coming with them."

"What! that he is coming over in these flat-bottomed boats with two hundred thousand men?" I asked.

"Yes, that is it. He is going to march on London with all these men, and dictate terms of peace from there," he added.

"And can you inform me what the British Fleet is going to be doing all this time?" I asked.

"We have no coal, man," was his answer. "Besides, think of the German submarines. They will sink all our ships as fast as we can bring them up."

How long he went on in this strain I hardly know, but that he believed in all he said was evident, and that he took a delight in his mournful prognostications was just as evident.

"Simpson," I said, "Dr. Wise has done me good. I feel better than I have felt for days."

"Yes, sir; thank you, sir," said Simpson. "Has he given you any medicine, sir?"

"Oh, no," I replied. "But he has done me a world of good; only, Simpson, don't allow him to come again."

September passed slowly away, and although I gradually recovered from the effects of the excitement through which I had passed, I did not go far afield, and beyond going into the village, and roaming round the cliffs, I took little or no exercise.

I discovered, as far as the people of St. Issey were concerned, that no sooner had the first effects of the declaration of war passed away, than they settled down to the old mode of living. Indeed, the war was not real to them at all. It was something that was happening a long way off. Only a few of them read the newspapers, and in spite of the bad news which circulated, they had not the slightest doubt about the English soon bringing the Germans to their knees. They found, too, that the war did not affect them in the way they had expected. There was neither scarcity of money nor food; work went on as usual, the harvest was garnered, and there were no prospects of a famine, which they had feared, coming to pass.

Indeed, as I think of those days, and as I reflect upon my own experiences, I do not so much wonder at the general prevailing sentiment. We are far out of the world down here in Cornwall--St. Issey is some miles from a railway station--and removed as we are from the clash and clamor of the world, it is difficult for us to realize what is going on in the great centres of life. That the war existed we knew, that a great struggle was going on hundreds of miles away was common knowledge, but it did not come home to us.

The following incidents will give some idea of what I mean.

One day, while walking through the fields towards St. Issey, I passed a cottage, by the door of which a woman of about forty years of age was sitting.

"Look 'ere, maaster," she said. "I want to ax 'ee a question."

"Well," I asked. "What?"

"Well, 'tis like this," she said. "Me an' my 'usband 'ave come to words."

"I am sorry for that," I said. "But that is not so bad as coming to blows."

"Oh, we do'ant come to blows, maaster, and 'ard words break no boans; but that is ev et; we 'ave come to words about this, and we 'ave 'ad several arguments about et, and I d'old to one thing, and my 'usband to another; and I thought you bein' from London would be able to put us right."

"If I can I will, but I have my doubts."

"'Tis this," replied the woman. "'Tis about Lord Kitchener. My 'usband d'say that Lord Kitchener is for the Germans, and I d'say 'e ed'n. I d'say 'e's for the English. Now which is right, maaster?"

Later in the afternoon I met Martha Bray, who, it may be remembered, proffered her services to Simpson on the day of my arrival.

"'Ow be 'ee gettin' on then, maaster?"

"Oh, better than I deserve, Martha," I replied. "Thank you for the ham you sent over."

"Oh, tha's all right, sur. Es the war still goin' on?"

"Yes," I replied; "still going on."

"Ter'ble pity," was her answer. "It ought to be stopped."

"The question is, Martha, how can we stop it?"

"We could stop et all right," said Martha, "ef everybody made up their minds to send them no more money. They would have to stop et."

"Send who any more money?" I asked.

"Why, Lloyd George, maaster; ef everybody in the country refused to send 'un a penny, he'd 'ave to stop et, and then the war would be over."

I could not help laughing at Martha's method for ending the great struggle of the world, neither would I have mentioned it, but to give an idea of the feelings which obtained in certain sections of the country.

But although to many the great carnage of blood which was convulsing Europe was not real, the fact of war brooded over us like a great black cloud. In a sense we did not realize it, everything was so quiet and peaceful; but in another we did. It was in the background of all our lives, it colored all our thoughts.

Although I had given up all hope of getting any answers to the questions which troubled me either at Church or Chapel, I still went almost regularly. I could not understand how, but I had a feeling that it was here I should solve the problems which faced me.

For the first two or three weeks after war was declared there was a slight improvement in the congregations, and then things seemed to settle down to their normal condition again. And yet there was a difference, a subtle, indefinable difference. In a way I could not explain, it colored, as I have already said, all our thoughts and feelings. The services both at the Church and the Chapel were conducted just as they had been, except that some new prayers had been added to the Church liturgy, while the preacher at the Chapel generally made some mention of the war in some part of the service.

It seemed to me, too, that the people were thinking more than usual. Questions were being asked, which they had never thought of asking when I first came to the village. They did not go very deep, but they were suggestive of the new forces which were being realized. The change was so slight that a casual observer might not have noticed it; but it was there. I could not help thinking of the old Biblical story I had read at school, about the cloud the prophet saw which at first was no bigger than a man's hand, but which presently overspread the whole sky.

One day, when I went into the village, a woman stopped me rather angrily.

"Look 'ere, Mr. Erskine, I 'ave got somethin' to say to 'ee."

"What is it?" I asked.

"Well, a few weeks agone my boy Jim enlisted as a sojer 'cause of what you said at the meetin'."

"Very sensible of Jim," I replied.

"I ded'n like it at the time," said the woman.

"I'm very sorry."

"Well, none of my family have ever come so low as that before, and the mornin' after he'd enlisted I told my sister Betty, who comed over to see me about it. I said to 'er, 'Jim's goin' for a sojer,' and she says to me, 'God help us, Mary!' she said,'to think that one of our family should sink so low as that.'"

"Yes," I said. "And what then?"

"Well, sur, he went away, and a week agone he didn't get on very well with one of the officers."

"No," I said, "that is a pity. Didn't the officer behave nicely?"

"No, 'e didn', that is, what I call nicely. He spoke to my son 'bout what I call nothin' 't 'oal."

"Well, what then?"

"Well, Jim wad'n pleased, so he gived a fortnight's notice to leave."

"What! to leave the Army?" I asked.

"Yes. You see, down 'ere wi' we, when a man d'want to leave 'is job, 'ee d'give a week's notice; but Jim thought he would be generous, so 'e gived a fortnight's notice. He went to the officer, and he said, 'I d'want to give a fortnight's notice to leave.'"

"And then?" I asked.

"Well, first the officer laughed, and then 'e told Jim to go back to 'is work, and said ef 'e left the Army before the war was over, 'e would be shot. I do'ant 'old with things like that, so now Jim 'as got to stay, whether 'e d'like it or not."

"And Jim doesn't like it?"

"No, 'e ain't bin used to bein' treated like that, and it was all because of you, too. Ef et ad'n bin for the speech you made in the schoolroom, 'e would'n 'ave joined."

But although humorous incidents were often happening, the grave realities were slowly gripping our minds and hearts. Day after day, this and that lad was leaving his home to prepare for the war, while many of the Naval Reserve men were already away in the North Sea, or elsewhere, waiting to give their lives, if need be, for their country's safety. Indeed, the Navy was far more real to us than the Army. The Cornish have never been a military people, but have always been at home on the waters. Many a time, as I have watched those great steel monsters ploughing the Atlantic, I have reflected that they were manned very largely by the Cornish, and that they were the chief bulwark against enemy invasion.

"I wonder if my boy is on her?" said an old man to me, as one day I watched the smoke from a great warship in the distance. And that question was echoed by thousands of hearts all over the county.

Week after week passed away, until the days became short and the nights grew cold. Blacker and blacker grew the clouds, while the lists of casualties which daily appeared in the newspapers made us feel that it was no game we were playing, but that we were engaged in a death struggle.

I had not been to Josiah Lethbridge's house, neither had I seen anything of the family, since the night of Hugh's departure, and then--I think it was the beginning of November--I was greatly surprised to see Josiah Lethbridge come to my door.

XVI

NEWS FROM HUGH

I thought he looked ill at ease, and I noticed that he was less ruddy and more careworn than when I had first met him.

I am afraid I greeted him rather coldly, for I remembered what had taken place at our last meeting.

"I hope I do not intrude," he said.

"It is very kind of you to call," was my reply.

"Not at all, I ought to apologize for coming."

"Have you heard from Hugh?" I asked, for I was determined, as far as possible, to make him feel his duty to his son.

I saw his lips shut, and his eyes and face grow harder, as I spoke.

"I have heard nothing," he replied. "I do not expect to, neither do I wish to."

I was silent at this, for it was not for me to interfere in his relations with his son, but I could not help feeling angry. But there was pity in my heart too, for I could not help seeing that the man was suffering. Why he was suffering I could not tell, but suffering he was.

"You have not been to see us lately," he said. "I hope what you said when we last met is not final. I--I should be sorry if the neighborly relations which I had hoped were established came to an end."

"I have been nowhere," I replied. "The weather has been very wet lately, and I have scarcely ventured out of doors."

"You must be very lonely here."

"Life is not very gay," I said. "It can scarcely be."

"I suppose friends come to see you?"

"Yes, a friend came down last week and spent three days with me," I replied, wondering what was in the man's mind.

"The newspapers do not bring us very good tidings."

"No, I am afraid we shall have a great deal of bad tidings before the good comes."

After that there was an awkward silence for some time.

"I am a lonely man myself," he went on. "Of course I have my business, and my public work, but I should be very glad if you would come up to see us sometimes. If you would let me know when you would come, I'd always send a car for you."

"What is in the man's mind?" I asked myself. "Surely he did not come here simply to say this."

"Naturally I did not think my presence would be welcome after our last interview, and----"

"Nothing of the kind," he interrupted, almost eagerly. "I hope you will forgive me for coming so informally, but my wife and I were wondering whether you would come up to-night. Could you? Of course I will send a car for you."

I reflected a few seconds before replying. It is true I had told him in a fit of anger that I should refuse his hospitality in future, but I wondered whether he was not repenting of his action towards Hugh; wondered, too, whether by going I could not bring about a better relationship between them and soften his heart. After all, I owed it to Hugh. But, if the truth must be confessed, there was another reason which made me long to go. I knew it was weakness on my part, knew, too, that I was a madman to encourage such feelings. As I have repeated in this history so many times, with dreary monotony, I had received my death sentence, and as I looked at my face each morning in the glass, and saw it become thinner and thinner, I had no misapprehension about the truth of the doctor's words. Therefore it was worse than madness for me to think about Isabella Lethbridge as I did; and yet--let me repeat it again--I was not in love with her.

"I wish you would come up to-night," urged Josiah Lethbridge. "Ours is a very quiet household."

"Are you giving a dinner-party or anything of that sort?" I asked.

"Oh no, no. I believe Bella is having one or two friends; but nothing in the shape of a dinner-party. Come, will you?"

I wanted to accept his invitation more than words can say, and yet something held me back.

"Have you heard anything about your son's wife?" I asked.

Again the old hard look came into his eyes, and he seemed to be struggling with himself.

"I have no son," he replied. "I know nothing about the woman you speak of."

"Pardon me, Mr. Lethbridge," I said, "but you have. Your son may not have fallen in with your wishes, but he is your son. Nothing can undo that fact. As for his so-called disobedience, he acted according to his conscience, and----"

Josiah Lethbridge held up his hand, as if in protest.

"We will not speak of that, if you don't mind," he said. "I do not often alter my mind when it is once made up."

Again there was a silence, and I was on the point of refusing his invitation, when he, as if anticipating me, broke out almost eagerly.

"But you must come up to-night, Mr. Erskine," he said. "My wife is so anxious that you should. She is very fond of you. I never saw her take to a stranger as she has taken to you. Naturally, too, she is very anxious."

I tried to read his heart, tried to understand something of the thoughts which were surging through his mind.

"I suppose," he went on, "that you, who know influential people in London, know nothing more of this ghastly business than we do. That is, you know nothing more than what appears in the papers."

"No," I replied; "but what has appeared in the papers has surely made us feel proud that we are Englishmen. You have seen that we have again repulsed the German attack at Ypres?"

"Wholesale murder, I call it!" and his voice became hard as he spoke. "But there, we will not talk about that any more. I shall expect you to-night, then, and will send down the car at a quarter to seven. No, no, I shall accept no refusal. That is settled. I dare not face my wife if I had to go back and say you would not come." And a wintry smile passed over his face.

"I am like a moth fluttering in a candle," I said to myself as I put on my evening clothes that night. "Why should I be going to this man's house? Why should I eat of his dinner? Why should I throw myself into the society of this girl? She is nothing to me, never can be; in a way I positively dislike her, and yet I am always thinking about her."

"I am glad you are going out to-night, sir," said Simpson, as he helped me on with my fur-lined coat. "It must be very lonely for you night after night, sir, with no one to speak to. I hope you will have a pleasant evening, sir."

"It must be a little lonely for you too, Simpson, and I am afraid I try your patience sometimes." For the man had been with me for so long, and had served in our family for so many years, that I regarded him more as a friend than as a servant.

"No, sir, it is always a pleasure to serve you, sir."

He lit the lantern and walked ahead of me, as we went along the pathway through the copse.

"Shall I wait up for you, sir?" he added, as he held open the door of the car.

"I think you may as well, Simpson," I said. "I shall not be late."

A few minutes later I had reached Josiah Lethbridge's house, and was greeted warmly by Mrs. Lethbridge. I heard the sound of merry voices in the drawing-room close by, and was made somewhat angry that Mr. Lethbridge had asked me this evening, especially as, in spite of what he had said, they were evidently giving a dinner-party that night. When I went into the drawing-room, however, I found only three people. A young man and woman, whom I took to be brother and sister, were the only guests besides myself. They were the son and daughter of the managing director of one of the Cornish banks, and had motored some twenty miles in order to be present. The man, Edward Barcroft, was a young fellow of about five-and-twenty, and I knew him to be a rich man's son. There was nothing striking about him. He was of medium height, somewhat stoutly built, and carried himself with an air of confidence. I did not like him, however. He seemed to be too sure of himself, too aggressive. Miss Barcroft was one of those placid, even-tempered girls who made me think of a German frau.

Before the evening was very far advanced, I could not help concluding that Edward Barcroft was a suitor for Isabella Lethbridge's hand, while, as it seemed to me, she was much flattered by his attentions. I do not think I had ever seen her look so handsome as she looked that night. I was never able to describe a woman's dress, but I could not help noticing that her clothes fitted her to perfection. They seemed a part of her. She was very gay, too. She laughed frequently, but her pleasantries grated upon me. Why, I could not tell. She paid me very little attention; indeed, she did not treat me as her guest at all. I had simply come there at the invitation of her father and mother, while she devoted all her attention to young Barcroft.

I have said that I had never seen Isabella Lethbridge looking so handsome as she did that night; on the other hand, she had never repelled me more, even while she fascinated me. I understood, as I had not understood before, young Prideaux's description of her. She was a flirt. I saw that young Barcroft was greatly enamored with her; noted, too, that she laughed at his feeblest jokes, and, as far as I could judge, made him believe that she was as interested in him as he was in her. Yet I could not help realizing the artificiality of her every word and action.

As for poor Hugh, he was never mentioned. He might never have existed, although I knew by the look on Mrs. Lethbridge's face that she was constantly thinking of him, constantly grieving about what had taken place.

I could not tell why it was, but in spite of the fact that every one except Isabella Lethbridge was very kind and courteous to me, I was angry, and felt a sort of contempt for the self-assertive, unpleasant young Cornishman who made himself so much at home in Josiah Lethbridge's house.

"The war will soon be over, don't you think, Mr. Erskine?" he said.

"What makes you think so?" I asked.

"Why, the Germans have been able to do nothing for months," was his reply. "Never since their first blow have they been able to hurt us. See how we have been able to hold them up at Ypres. At present we are not ready to strike our decisive blow, but when we have more guns and ammunition, we shall be able to drive them like a flock of sheep. Besides, they are financially bankrupt, you know."

"Indeed," I said.

"Yes. It is a matter of robbing Peter to pay Paul with them now. They live by taking in each other's washing; but that will soon come to an end. On the other hand, the war hasn't been such a bad thing for us."

"No," I said. "How?"

"Oh, it has been good for business. Money has been circulated as it has never been circulated before. Instead of it meaning a financial crash to us, it has meant a boom. Have you not found it so, Mr. Lethbridge?"

"Money has certainly been circulated freely," was the older man's reply, "but I do not wish to talk about it. The whole thing is a crime." And both his face and voice hardened.

At that moment a servant entered and brought Mr. Lethbridge an official-looking document, which he opened eagerly. He read it through twice, and then calmly and deliberately folded it again and placed it in the envelope.

"What is it about, Josiah?" asked Mrs. Lethbridge.

I thought he looked pleased, but I could not tell. He did not answer his wife's question.

"Is it about Hugh?" she asked.

Still he was silent.

"Josiah, Josiah, tell me, is he wounded, killed?"

"No. I--I suppose it is all the other way. It is nothing to me. There, you can read it if you like."

With trembling hands Mrs. Lethbridge took the letter and read it.

"Oh, Hugh, my darling boy," she sobbed.

"What is it, mother?" asked Isabella. "What has he done?"

"He has received some order, some distinguished order for bravery. There, there, read it! Isn't it splendid? I was afraid he was killed or hurt or something. I didn't expect this. Oh, isn't it glorious? But it is just like him."

Josiah Lethbridge rose from the table.

"Shall we go into the library for our coffee and cigars?" he asked. He seemed to be making an effort to be calm.

"We must tell Mary," said Mrs. Lethbridge.

"You must do nothing of the sort," said her husband. "When I said, once for all, that we would have nothing to do with that woman, I meant it. Will you come this way, Barcroft and Mr. Erskine? Oh yes, the ladies can come with us if they do not mind tobacco smoke."

A few minutes later we were all in the library, where, in spite of Mr. Lethbridge's chagrin, we were not able to suppress our desire to talk about Hugh and what he had done. It appeared by the document received that he had, by his coolness and bravery, not only saved the life of an officer, but that he had rendered such important service to his battalion that a possible disaster had been turned into a victory.

"Ah!" I said. "How I envy him!"

"Envy him! In what way?" asked Barcroft.

"Envy his being able to serve his country," was my reply. "How a man with health and strength can stay in England at a time like this I can't understand."

"Are you referring to me?" he asked. And I noticed there was an angry look in his eyes.

"I was not referring to any one," was my reply. "I was simply stating what I felt."

"For my own part, I believe that a man who is looking after the finances of the country may be doing more for his nation than by wearing khaki," he replied. "Don't you think so, Miss Lethbridge?"

"I think too much is made of the so-called heroism of soldiers," she said, evidently with a desire to please him. "Of course it was grand of Hugh to do what he did, but he was always like that." And she looked smilingly into Barcroft's face.

Again the girl angered me, and in my heart of hearts I despised her. But why should I be angry? Why should I care about her evident desire to please this young Cornishman? And then, realizing that my words were bordering on discourtesy, said:

"I expect the War Office will have written to his wife. Anyhow, I will see that she knows to-morrow that her husband is a hero."

At this, Isabella Lethbridge looked at her father and laughed, while he, having given me an angry look, talked about something else.

The evening, as far as I was concerned, was painful; and yet I was glad I had accepted the invitation, glad I had been there when the news of Hugh's bravery had arrived. Shortly after ten o'clock I took my leave, vowing to myself as I did so that I would never go there again. Indeed, as I reflected on what had taken place, I could see no reason for my being asked. I had nothing in common with Josiah Lethbridge, while, in spite of everything, Isabella Lethbridge was farther removed from me than ever.

"I hope you spent a pleasant evening, sir," said Simpson, as he helped me off with my coat.

I did not answer him. Why it was I could not tell, but my mind and heart were full of strange, tumultuous thoughts and feelings.

The next morning, I was on the point of sending Simpson for a carriage to take me over to John Treleaven's farm when Hugh's young wife burst into the room with a radiant smile upon her face.

"Have you seen this, Mr. Erskine? Have you heard about it?" And she laughed and sobbed at the same time. "It is about Hugh. He has got the D.C.M., and they have actually written to me about it, and I have got a letter from Hugh too! Oh, Mr. Erskine, I am proud and happy!"

"It is splendid," I said, "simply splendid!"

"Did you know about it?" she asked. "I only got the letter last night."

"Yes, I knew," I said, before I had time to think of the meaning of my words.

"Has he written to you? Have you heard from the War Office?"

"No, I have not heard from Hugh for weeks," I said, "neither have I heard from the War Office, but I was up at Trecarrel last night."

"And have they heard up there?"

"A letter came while we were at dinner."

"And were they pleased? Oh, Mr. Erskine, I am so proud and happy, and yet I am miserable too. You see, I am constantly wondering whether I did right. I cannot bear to think about it, although I am so happy."

"Think about what?" I asked.

"About Hugh being disinherited. His father has never written him once, and--and--and you know what I mean, sir."

"I hope it will all come right in the end, Mrs. Lethbridge," I said.

"Oh, but you mustn't call me Mrs. Lethbridge; you must call me Mary. You are Hugh's friend. Do you really think it will all come right? I pray a hundred times a day that it may. Somehow I think it will, because God has answered my prayer in keeping Hugh in safety. Oh, Mr. Erskine, I never prayed in my life as I have been praying lately. Somehow I never felt the need of prayer as I do now. Now that Hugh has gone and left me alone, and while he is in such terrible danger, I am obliged to pray. God has become more real to me lately; and seeing that He has answered my prayer in keeping Hugh safe, perhaps He will do the other also. Why, Mr. Erskine, his father cannot keep a hard heart against Hugh when he is such a hero! Have you seen the paper this morning? They have told all about it. Hugh did wonderful things, simply wonderful! Oh, he can't help being proud of his son when he reads it, can he?"

I did not reply, because when I remembered the look on Josiah Lethbridge's face I felt I could give her no comfort.

Still, Mary's visit did me good. Her simple trustfulness and her devoted love were such a change from the atmosphere at Trecarrel that her presence seemed like a ray of sunshine on a dark day.

After this, days and weeks passed without anything happening which needs recording. We had become used to the war, and while we still read our papers anxiously, there was not the great excitement there had been in its early stages. Our hearts thrilled at the story of the battle of Ypres, especially when, presently, the details of that terrible struggle became known; but the keen excitement and feverish desire to read what had taken place somewhat subsided.

Meanwhile, as all the country knows, the spy fever became prevalent. On every hand we heard that agents of the German Secret Information Department covered our country like a plague, and even here, in Cornwall, all sorts of stories were afloat concerning people who were suspected of giving information to Germans. Personally, I paid but little attention to these stories. I did not see how we, situated as we were, away in the extreme end of the country, could be in any way utilized by the enemy. Neither did I see how any one in Cornwall could render them service.

I was soon to be undeceived in this matter, however.

XVII

THE PHANTOM BOATS

It came about in this way. One morning in the early spring of 1915, it was unusually fine. For more than a week the weather had been cold and dismal beyond words, then suddenly, as if by magic, the clouds disappeared, the sun shone brightly, and it seemed like summer.

So much effect did the weather have upon my health that no sooner did I finish my breakfast that day than I made my way towards a high point on the cliffs, and having ensconced myself in a sheltered spot, where I caught the warmth of the sun and at the same time had a glorious view of sea and coast, I gave myself up to pure enjoyment. I felt very happy, I remember. A letter had come to me from Hugh Lethbridge, telling me he had received a commission, in recognition of services he had rendered, and that he was well, and almost happy. The winter had about come to an end, and while I certainly was not so strong as when I had come to Cornwall, I did not feel like dying. The bright sunshine and pure air seemed to give me a new lease of life, and at times I caught myself wondering whether I had not enough vitality in me to overcome the malady from which I was suffering, and which I so much dreaded.

I had not been there more than a few minutes when I heard the sound of voices. A man and woman were talking in the most casual way about the war, and I gathered that something had appeared in that morning's paper which promised well for our arms.

"It is splendid, isn't it?" It was the woman who spoke. "A number of trenches taken, and the Germans driven back nearly half a mile."

"It won't be long now," said the man. "We shall soon begin to work in good earnest. Did not Lord Kitchener say that he did not know when the war would end, but he knew it would really begin in May? This is only a foretaste of the good news which will come presently."

"The Germans are such brutes," said the woman. "There doesn't seem to be a shred of honor in the country."

"They are not sportsmen," said the man. "I was talking to a man the other day who had been to school there, and he told me that no German boy knew the meaning of 'playing the game.' All they have done is a repetition of that which commenced the war. 'It is only a scrap of paper,' said the German Chancellor. 'Of course we signed the treaty, we gave our promise; but necessity knows no law.' That is Germany all over. Could anything be more devilish than to bombard those defenseless towns up north? As for their treatment of the Belgians--well, it is all a part of their gospel of frightfulness."

"It fairly makes me feel murderous," said the woman. "I am ashamed of having been friendly with Germans."

"That is exactly what I feel," said the man.

I heard every word they said plainly, although I was hidden from their view; and as everything they said agreed so perfectly with my own feelings, I felt like shouting "Hear, hear." Of course, I said nothing, but remained in the shelter of the great rock, basking in the sun and rejoicing in the soft spring air. A little later both the man and woman came within my view. Evidently they had not been conscious of my presence, for they started when they saw me.

"Excuse me," said the man, "but the sight of you was so sudden that it almost gave me a shock. You have discovered a delightful spot."

Then I remembered having seen the man before. He had come to see me immediately after my arrival, and I had had some little talk with him.

"Have you seen the good news this morning?" Apparently he was in a communicative mood.

"No," I replied. "I never get a paper until hours after other people have read and digested theirs."

"Ah!" he said. "Haven't I seen you before? Yes, I remember now. You live at yon little wooden hut, don't you? I saw you last summer, and your servant was good enough to give me a glass of milk. Have you not felt it very lonely through the winter?"

"Somewhat," I replied, "but I have got used to it now. Besides, such a day as this atones for a score of dreary ones."

"The news this morning is splendid," he said. "My sister and I have just been talking about it. I think we shall soon have them on their knees now, don't you?"

I did not reply. I was at the moment too much interested in watching the lady, at whom I am afraid I stared rather rudely. She was, perhaps, my own age, or it might be two or three years my junior. According to every standard of beauty I know, she was one of the most handsome women I had ever seen. Magnificently proportioned, simply dressed, a fine carriage, and a brilliant complexion, she would be noticed in any crowd. I wondered who she was; wondered that even I, living the secluded life I did, had not in some way heard of her. Her eyes, too, were very striking--large, lustrous, brilliant.

"I don't know," I said, turning to the man. "With such an enemy as Germany, we have all our work cut out."

"Ah, but surely," and he laughed gaily, "you are not what the papers call a 'dismal Jimmy,' you are not a pessimist. The Germans are no fighters, they are only boasters. I admit they are very thorough in their preparations, and there is no doubt about it, they have prepared for this war to the minutest detail; but when it comes to hand-to-hand fighting, they are nowhere."

"You think so?" I queried.

"I am sure of it," said the man. "I have been in Germany a good deal, and they are blusterers, boasters, cruel if you like, but not brave. My sister and I were talking about them a few minutes ago, and we both agreed about it. Of course, they are mean and treacherous, they have no sense of honor. There are no depths to which they will not sink, in order to gain their own ends."

"Yes, you have had evidence of that," I replied. "But what angers me more than their treachery, is the treachery of our own people who have given them information. I saw in yesterday's paper that only English people could have given them signals on the Yorkshire coast whereby they were able to do their baby-killing."

"Well, we are safe down here, at all events," was the man's reply. "There is nothing for which they need come to Cornwall."

"I am not so sure," replied the woman, and her voice startled me, it was so clear, so musical. "They seem to have a hundred deep-laid schemes which are apparently innocent, so nobody suspects them. Even in a district like this there may be spies about."

Both the man and myself laughed merrily. Looking out over the blue waters, which glistened in the sunlight, we could see three great warships evidently patrolling the coast.

"We have no fear for what they can do here, Rachel, with those steel monsters about," laughed the man. "The Navy has been our salvation, and will be our salvation."

"I have heard," said the woman, "that Germans know this country to its minutest detail, that there is not a lane, nor a creek, nor a cave along the whole coast from Land's End to John o' Groat's House, but what they are aware of it."

"Nonsense, Rachel. I think you are like the rest of the women, carried away by fairy stories. How long have you been living here, sir?"

"More than nine months," I replied.

"The war must have broken out soon after you came?"

"Yes," I replied. "I came in May."

"My sister is awfully frightened, and is constantly manufacturing schemes whereby the Germans can invade us, and she fancies that every stranger is a German spy. Have you, living so close to the cliffs for more than three-quarters of a year, ever seen anything of a German spy?"

I shook my head.

"Never seen a sign of a German spy, have you?"

Again I shook my head.

"There, Rachel," laughed the man, "surely that should quieten your fears."

A few minutes later they passed on, leaving me alone. I watched them follow the pathway which led close to my house, then they mounted the hill at the back, and were lost to my sight.

That night I went to bed early. I had exercised myself more than usual during that day, and felt rather tired, yet I could not sleep. I could not tell why it was, but my mind seemed abnormally active. Perhaps it was because the time allowed me by Dr. Rhomboid was fast drawing to a close. If he were right, I had not more than three months to live. I got up and lit a candle and looked in the glass. My cheeks were certainly pale and hollow, my hands and arms painfully thin, and yet I did not feel like a dying man. I remember blowing out the light and putting aside the curtain and looking out on the sea. There was no moon, but it was a wonderful night of stars, and I could see the long line of breakers as they rolled against the cliffs. The night was as still as heaven, not a breath of wind stirred. The very thought of war, of tumult, of the roar of big guns, seemed infinitely removed from me. The night contained the very genius of peace. I went back to bed again, and still I could not sleep. Hour after hour I lay restless. Why it was I could not tell, for on the whole I slept well.

I yielded to what seems now a mad impulse, and putting on my clothes, I went out into the night. Soon my heart beat wildly, for coming round the headline I saw several boats. They made no noise, and yet, in the light of the stars, I was sure I saw them. How many there were I could not tell, but there seemed to be many. Each cleared the corner silently, and then, passing near to the cliffs, was lost to my view.

As I have said, the night was windless, but not a sound could I hear. No splash of oars, no throb of machinery, and yet, I felt sure I had seen the boats pass. Of course, I might easily be deceived; for, although it was a night of stars, nothing on the sea showed clearly--the boats were like so many phantoms. Once, as I crept closer towards the cliff, I thought I heard a rustling noise, but I was not sure. No matter how still the weather might be, the murmur of the waves was always heard, and my mind, excited as it was, could easily conjure up foolish fancies. How long I stood there, I do not know. It might have been an hour, for I was unconscious of time. Presently I felt myself shiver, then, realizing how foolish I had been, made my way back to my little wooden hut. I had barely reached my door, when I was certain I heard a rustling in the bushes, just above the spot where a spring of water gushed out.

"It was a hare or a rabbit, or it might be a fox," I said to myself, and yet, in the excited state of my mind, I was not satisfied. I had a feeling that something was happening around me. I called to mind the story of Father Abraham. I remembered, too, the repeated visits of the idiot lad called Fever Lurgy. What had become of him? I had neither seen nor heard anything of him for months now. What lay behind this feverish warning? Why had he told me to leave? I went back to bed, and in a few minutes was asleep.

When I awoke, it was broad daylight, and hastily dressing myself, I went to the spot in which I had stood the previous night. All was quite calm and peaceful. The day was wondrous in its glory, even although the sun was yet low in the heavens. Sea-birds floated overhead, uttering mournful cries. Out at sea the great steel monsters ploughed their way through deep waters, ever watching our shores.