All this flashed through my mind in a second, then the match by means of which I had made my discovery went out. I realized the awful danger by which I was surrounded; doubtless all these cans were carefully sealed, yet I knew that one spark might ignite this highly combustible fluid, and I should be burnt to death. But that was the smallest part of my danger. I knew that the men who were engaged in this work would stop at nothing; that the spies who had sought out this lonely cave would be ready to do anything in order to keep a secret.
A hundred wild fancies surged through my brain. I saw now why Father Abraham had been driven from his hut. What his connections with the Germans were I had no idea, but evidently he had been regarded as dangerous to their plans. That, doubtless, was the reason why the old man had warned me. His words came flashing back to my mind, and revealed to me the fact that I had been under constant surveillance. Then I thought of the man and woman who had lately visited me. What was the meaning of their interest in me? Were they what they pretended, or had they some sinister motive in asking me questions?
My discovery made the necessity of action imperative. But what could I do? Here was I, a poor invalid, and, if Dr. Rhomboid was right, I had only a few weeks longer to live. I had, as it seemed to me, only kept myself alive by my strong will power and determination that I would not yield to death. But what could I do? I had by this time learnt something of the police officials in the neighborhood, and I knew how utterly incapable they were of dealing with the matter. I was acquainted with some magistrates in the district, but I feared to go to them; a man like Squire Treherne would be utterly incapable of dealing with such a delicate situation. I knew that in his blunt, straightforward, honest way he would muddle everything. It is true I might write to the War Office or to the Admiralty, but, rightly or wrongly, I did not form a high estimate of their way of doing things; and yet I could see nothing else for it. Even now I might be watched. Even now German agents might be waiting outside the cave to pounce upon me.
I lit another match, and saw something which had hitherto escaped my notice. It was a slip of paper. I snatched at it eagerly and carefully read it, my heart beating wildly all the time.
The light again went out.
How long I remained there in the darkness I do not know, but it seemed to me as though I lived years in a few minutes.
A wild scheme flashed through my brain. I would deal with this matter alone! I could not fight for my country, but I would serve it in my own way.
I listened intently, but could hear nothing save the dull monotone of the waves outside. No whispering voices reached me. The darkness of the cave seemed to intensify the silence. I crept into the outer cave and again listened; still all was silent. Then I made my way into the daylight, taking every precaution before doing so. No, as far as I could tell no curious eyes were watching me. I was alone.
I seemed to have a fresh lease of life as I clambered up the rocky cliff towards my hut. I had no sense of weariness or weakness at all; it might seem as though all my fears had been groundless, and that Dr. Rhomboid had been utterly mistaken.
I expect this was because of the great excitement under which I labored. Every nerve in my body was in tension; at that moment nothing seemed impossible to me. My mind, I remember, seemed as vigorous as my body, and I felt as though I was walking on air. The possibilities of what I had discovered might mean putting an end to one of the greatest dangers which had been threatening our country. From what I could judge, this might be one of the principal store places of petrol. I realized, as I had never realized before, the cleverness of the German mind. No one, I imagined, would think of this out-of-the-way district as a possible centre of their operations. Naturally the whole of the East Coast from Dover to the extreme North of Scotland would be watched with the greatest care; but who would have thought they would choose this out-of-the-way spot on the North of Cornwall? It might seem as though Providence had led me thither.
More than once on my way to the house did I stop and look eagerly around me, but I was always assured that no one watched me, and that I was utterly alone; besides, I could not have chosen a more perfect day for my investigation. Although it was now near noon and the weather showed signs of breaking, a thick damp mist still enveloped the whole countryside, thus making observation from a distance almost impossible.
"Everything all right, sir?" asked Simpson, as I entered the house.
"What should be wrong?" was my reply.
"Nothing, sir, only you might have seen a ghost; you look terribly strange and excited, sir."
I laughed aloud.
"I have not felt so well for months, Simpson."
He looked at me dubiously, I thought, and seemed anything but satisfied.
"Are you ready for your lunch, sir?"
"Lunch?" I replied. "Haven't I had lunch?"
Making my way into my little bedroom, I caught a glimpse of my face. I hardly recognized myself! Pale as I had always been since my illness, my pallor had been nothing to the white, drawn, haggard face which I saw in the glass. But for the wild glitter in my eyes, it might have been the face of a dead man, and yet every particle of my being seemed instinct with life.
After pretending to eat some of the lunch which Simpson had prepared for me, an unusual languor crept over me, and throwing myself on the couch, I quickly fell asleep.
I was awakened by a sound of voices at the door, and I started up quickly. As far as I could judge, I suffered no evil results from the excitement through which I had passed. Whatever had caused me unnatural strength, its influence had not yet departed.
"Simpson," I said, "whom have you got there?"
"I beg your pardon, sir, but I have just told Mr. Lethbridge that he could not see you. I did not think you looked well, sir."
"Show Mr. Lethbridge in. I am perfectly all right."
"I am afraid I should not have called," said Mr. Lethbridge, as he entered the room. "You do not look well."
"I am better than I have been for months," was my answer. "Sit down, won't you?"
He gave me a quick, searching glance, and then took the chair to which I had pointed. There were marks of suffering in his face. Although he was calm and collected and showed no signs of emotion whatever, I thought I saw in his eyes a strange, haunted look.
"I am afraid I did not receive you very cordially yesterday," he said presently. "You see it—it was the shock."
"Of course it was," was my answer. "I understand how you must be feeling."
"Do you?" he replied wearily. "I don't."
"Don't what?" I asked.
"Understand. I understand nothing. I am bewildered. I am in hell."
He spoke very quietly although his voice was strained and somewhat hoarse.
"You didn't sleep last night," I suggested.
"No," he replied, with a sigh, "I didn't sleep. I suppose I am regarded as a hard man, Mr. Erskine?"
To this I made no reply. I knew he was passing through a terrible experience, and, strange as it may seem, I wanted to do nothing to lighten his burden.
"I don't know why I have come to you at all," he went on. "You are a comparative stranger to me—indeed, a few months ago I did not know of your existence—and yet something drew me here. I suppose it is because you were fond of him."
"I loved him almost like a brother," was my reply. "If I had been his father, I should be a proud man."
He looked at me steadily for a few minutes in silence.
"I have learnt one thing anyhow," he said at length.
"What is that?"
"That one cannot destroy the ties of blood. Yes! Yes! I know I had disinherited him; driven him from home; told him he was no longer a son of mine. Yes! told him that I had put him outside my life. But it was a lie! I had not! I could not! Oh, the tragedy of it!"
"Yes, tragedy in a way," I said.
"Oh, the tragedy of it!" he repeated. "No, it is not death that makes the tragedy, it is something else. I can't understand it. Mr. Erskine, I am a just man."
At this I was silent. I could not for the life of me assent to his words.
"Yes, I am a just man," he repeated. "That is, I have tried to be just. I did what was right, too; he ought to have obeyed me. I was his father, and it is the duty of a son to obey a father; besides, I had done everything for him. I sent him to one of the best public schools in England. After that I sent him to the University. I had great plans for him. But he disappointed me. He married the girl I told him he must not marry; he did that which I forbade him to do; therefore I was right in driving him from the house. But it was all of no use; he was my son still."
"Of course he was," I said.
"Ah, yes! but there is the tragedy of it. He has died feeling that he was not my son, remembering what I said to him. That is the tragedy! Oh, how God Almighty must be laughing at me!"
"Not if there is a God," I replied.
"Why, don't you believe in God?" he burst forth almost angrily.
"I don't know," I replied. "But if there is a God, He pities you."
He started to his feet and paced the little room while I stood watching him.
"God! how I loved that boy," he broke out, "and he didn't know it!"
"Yes," I said, "that is the tragedy. That is the unforgivable sin."
"Go on," he said. "Say what you want to say."
"Hugh was hungering for your love, just hungering for it; but he didn't believe you cared for him. You ask me to speak plainly, Mr. Lethbridge, and so, at the risk of offending you, I am going to do so. You had your hard-and-fast ideas about life; you worshipped success, position, power, and money; you wanted Hugh to conform to your iron rules and laws, and because he was a live, human boy you tried to crush him."
"Yes! yes! I know." He spoke almost eagerly. "But even now I cannot feel right about it. After all, war is murder. How can I, a Christian man, a believer in the teaching of the founder of Methodism, believe that my son was anything but murdered? After all, is not a soldier a paid murderer? I think if I could only get that right in my mind I should be happier. Look here! Do you honestly believe that Hugh did right?"
"I don't believe; I am sure," was my reply.
"Ah! but you don't believe in Christian teaching. You told me months ago that you were an agnostic. Legalized murder cannot be right."
"Mr. Lethbridge," I said, "supposing there lived in this neighborhood a band of men without moral sense, without honor, without truth; men to whom you could not appeal because their standards of life were utterly opposed to yours. And suppose that by rapine, cruelty, and murder they sought to rule this district, to rob people of their homes, to outrage everything sacred in life. What do you think it would be your duty to do?"
"Yes! yes! I see what you mean. But are the Germans like that? Aren't they as good and as honorable as we are?"
"Listen!" I said. "I have just been reading some German books and reviews, and this is what some of the leading men in Germany have lately said. Mark you, they are not men in the street. They express the thoughts which dominate the population of Germany. Here is one by a leading General: 'We have been called Barbarians; we are, and we are proud of it. Whatever acts will help us, we shall commit them, no matter what the world may say. Germany stands as the Supreme Arbiter of her own actions, and however the world may rave at our cruelty and our atrocities, our devilry, we shall commit these deeds, we shall rejoice in them, and we shall be proud of them.'"
"Who said that?" he asked.
"A leading General in the German Army," I replied.
"Here is another statement by a renowned Doctor of Philosophy and an educationist: 'Children in our schools and the youths of our universities must be taught a new doctrine, the Doctrine of Hatred. They must be educated to hate as a duty; it must form a new subject in our curriculum of education, "And now abideth Faith, Hope, and Hatred, and the greatest of these is Hatred."'"
"You don't mean to say that any man taught that?" he asked.
"Here is the article in a German book," I replied.
"My God!" he said.
"Here is another statement," I went on, "by perhaps the leading journalist in the German Empire: 'Our might shall create new laws. Germany has nothing to do with what other nations may think of us. Germany is a law unto herself. The might of her armies gives her the right to override all laws and protests. In the future, in all the temples, the priests of all the gods shall sing praises to the God of War.'"
He looked at me steadily without speaking.
"Hugh gave his life to kill that," I said. "Is not that a Christian thing to do?"
He sat, I should think, for five minutes without speaking a word, while I watched him. Then he rose to his feet and held out his hand.
"Thank you," he said, "thank you. My God! what a fool I have been."
He left the house without speaking another word.
I went to the door and watched him as he made his way along the footpath through the copse. I saw that the mists had now passed away and that the sun was shining brightly. Strange as it may seem, I did not at that moment realize the inwardness of my conversation with Josiah Lethbridge; I only reflected upon the fact that although he was a magistrate I had said nothing to him concerning my discovery of that morning. He at least was a keen, capable man, he could act wisely and promptly; yet I had not uttered a word. But after all I had done right; the problem he was facing was different from mine, and he would be in no way in a fit condition to help me. Besides, I had made up my mind to carry out my own plans.
No one else came to see me that day, and during the remainder of the afternoon and evening I remained alone, thinking of what I ought to do. I still felt strong and capable. I suffered no pain, neither did any sense of weariness oppress me.
"That little dog, sir," said Simpson, coming into the room about sunset.
"Yes, Simpson? What of it?"
"It is a lot better, sir. The wound was not a bad one at all, and now he is getting quite frolicsome."
The dog had followed Simpson into the room and was sniffing at my legs in a friendly way.
"Poor old chap," I said, patting his head; "you are not very beautiful certainly, but you look as though you had faithful eyes."
He gave a pleased yelp and licked my hand; after this he lay down on the rug and composed himself to sleep.
"Evidently he has adopted us, Simpson," I said.
"Yes, sir. He makes himself quite at home."
"Simpson," I said, "you have the name and address of that man and woman who came to see me this morning?"
"Yes, sir, here's the card: Mr. John Liddicoat. There's the name of the house, sir."
"Do you know where it is, Simpson?"
"Yes, sir; it is a house just behind Treveen Tor. It is a biggish house, sir, but lonely."
That night when Simpson had gone to bed, I left my hut quietly and made my way along the cliff footpath towards Treveen Tor, which stands at the back of the little town of St. Eia.
I still felt well and strong, no suggestion of my malady troubled me. I could not help wondering at this, as I walked briskly along, and yet in my heart of hearts I knew that my abnormal strength was but a transient thing; I knew I was buoyed up by excitement, and that presently I should suffer a terrible relapse. That was why I was eager to do what I had to do quickly. As I skirted the little town of St. Eia I saw that the lights were nearly all out. I looked at my watch, and found that it was eleven o'clock, and the people had nearly all gone to bed. It was a wonderful night of stars, and there was not a cloud in the sky. The moon had not yet risen, but I knew it was due to rise before midnight. During the whole of my journey I had not met a single person. The night, save for the roar of the waves, was still as death.
Leaving the cliff footpath, I struck across the country towards Treveen Tor, and went around the base of the hill towards the spot where Mr. John Liddicoat's house stood.
Had any one asked me the reason for going there, I should have been unable to have given them a satisfactory reply. But in my own heart I was satisfied. I had carefully thought out the whole series of events, linking incident with incident and word with word; and although I had no definite hopes as to the result of my nocturnal journey, I felt sure that by taking it I should at least clear my ground.
Presently I saw the house plainly; it was, as Simpson had said, situated in a lonely spot, and only approached by a lonely lane from the St. Eia side and the footpath by which I had come. The house itself was in complete darkness; not a glimmer of light shone from any of the windows. I saw that it was surrounded by a garden, perhaps half an acre in extent. This garden was, as far as I could judge, altogether uncultivated. The fence around the garden was low, and scarcely any vegetation hid my view. The district around here was almost treeless. The land on which the house was built was, in the main, hard to cultivate. I saw, however, that two stunted trees grew at some little distance from the house.
I waited about a quarter of an hour without making any attempt to climb over the fence. I reflected that if my suspicions were correct, I must use every precaution. At the end of a quarter of an hour I crept cautiously over the fence and made my way towards the house.
Still all was dark. I carefully examined the ground around the two stunted trees I have mentioned, and presently I caught sight of something which set my heart beating violently. I was on the point of making a closer examination of what I had already seen, when a ray of light shone from one of the windows and I could hear the sound of voices. Again looking around me eagerly, I saw what looked like a large clump of rhododendron bushes. These offered me not only a hiding-place, but a post of observation. I had scarcely crept between the leaves when the door of John Liddicoat's house opened and two people came out. They were the man and the woman whom I had seen that morning.
Almost at the same time the moon rose behind a distant hill, and a few minutes later the garden was flooded with its silvery light.
"Have you got it all?" It was a woman who spoke.
"Yes, all except ..." and I could not catch the last word.
"You bring it, will you?"
They made their way towards the stunted trees, where they dropped the things they had brought. Then the man left the woman and appeared a little later bearing a light ladder.
I saw the man place his ladder against the tree and mount it, carrying something with him, what it was I could not tell. The moon had now risen high enough to enable me to see more plainly and to show me that the two worked swiftly and dexterously, as though they were accustomed to their work. Presently they had evidently finished, for they stood still and waited for something.
"I do not expect we shall get anything to-night." It was the woman who spoke.
"There is no knowing," replied the man; "besides, we have our orders. It is a calm night, too."
"What time is it?" asked the woman.
"Close on midnight," was the reply. "Anyhow, we must wait here until half-past twelve; if nothing comes by that time we shall hear nothing until to-morrow night. My word, if that fool of a fellow who lives in the hut on the cliff only knew! For my own part, I am not sure he does not suspect."
"What makes you think so?"
"I thought he was very guarded this morning," replied the man, "and I must use every means to make certain; if we bungle this we shall be in a bad way. Anyhow, he is closely watched night and day."
After this there was silence, save that I thought I heard a faint clicking noise. The minutes dragged heavily. It seemed as though nothing were going to happen. The moon rose higher and higher, revealing the outlines of the man and woman still more plainly, and presently I saw that their waiting had been rewarded. There was a clear repetition of the sounds I had heard previously. Then the woman said, "Have you got it?"
"Yes," replied the man; "we will take it in, and then our work for the night is done."
A few minutes later the man climbed the ladder again; evidently he was detaching something he had placed on the trees.
I waited and watched perhaps for another ten minutes, and then they went back into the house which had remained in darkness all the time.
How I got back to my little hut that night I do not know. I have not a distinct remembrance of any incident on the journey, or of any spot that I passed. I was unconscious of all my surroundings; I must have walked two or three miles, being utterly oblivious all the time of where I was.
I felt no sense of weariness, being still upheld by the unnatural strength caused by my excitement. A part of my journey led me to a footpath which skirted the cliff, and for hundreds of yards I walked on the edge of a precipice. But I knew nothing of it.
What I had seen and heard told their own story. My life, which had promised to be so uneventful, proved to be exciting beyond words. I had by some curious chance happened to come upon a spot which was, in some respects, the centre of German operations. What had been a mystery had now become plain to me. The scrap of paper I had found in the little cave had made all sorts of things possible. It had led me to John Liddicoat's house; it had enabled me to understand actions which would have otherwise been enshrouded in mystery. Who John Liddicoat and the woman who called herself his sister were was plain—they were German spies. Whether they were English or German I could not tell. Certainly they spoke the English language as though they had been born and reared on the British Isles; but that they were paid agents of the Kaiser there could be no doubt.
I little thought at the time I had paid my visit to the wireless station at M—— that it would have been fraught with such vital import. It seemed to me as though the hand of Providence had guided me there, and had led me to form an acquaintance with the young fellow who had insisted upon teaching me the secrets of wireless telegraphy. What I had learnt offered me boundless opportunities. The little apparatus, which not long before I had regarded as an interesting plaything, became of vital importance. Vast avenues of action opened themselves up before me; by means of this little apparatus which I had found such interest in constructing, I might do very great things. The man Liddicoat, by means of the two stunted trees in his garden, and the apparatus which he had fixed there, had been enabled to receive messages from the enemy. He had been able to learn when new supplies of petrol were to be brought, and when consignments of this same commodity had to be taken to the German submarines.
Nothing could be more cunningly contrived; the little cove was hidden by huge promontories, which rose up almost perpendicularly on the rock-bound coast. The spot was far away from all centres of population, and was such an unlikely place that no suspicion would be attached to it. Liddicoat was an English name, and a name closely associated with Cornwall. St. Eia was a little town where visitors often came, and thus he would be able to do his work unhindered and unsuspected. Evidently the Germans in their vast preparations had learned of this cave long before the war and had seen its possibilities; what I had discovered was the outcome of a carefully prepared plan. Of course there was much mystery which I had not yet been able to solve. The part which Father Abraham had played was not yet clear to me, and I found myself hazarding all sorts of conjectures, as to why he had built the hut there and why he had left it. But everything resolved itself into one interpretation—the Germans had foreseen this war, they had conjectured the course it would take. They understood the means which would have to be used, and they had made their preparations carefully, scientifically, and with vast forethought.
But what could I do? Evidently I was suspected. Even now, my house was being watched night and day; Father Abraham knew this, and had warned me to leave it. Unseen enemies might strike me down at any moment. And worse than all, although at that time I was buoyed up by an unnatural strength, I was little better than a dead man. I realized that I was opposed to those who were entirely unscrupulous, and who would allow nothing to stand in the way of the accomplishment of their schemes.
Doubtless, my wise course would be to write an exact description of all I had seen and heard and send it to the Government authorities without delay. If, as I suspected, Liddicoat was associated with an unscrupulous set of people, he would not hesitate to end my earthly career. In that case, unless I communicated with the authorities at once, my discoveries would be valueless; and yet with a strange obstinacy I determined that I would not do this. As I have said repeatedly, I was at that time buoyed up by an unnatural strength, and my mind was abnormally active. That is how I account for a determination which, in the light of after events, seems insane. Government authorities would be in an infinitely better position to deal with this combination of circumstances than I. Not only would they have every facility at their disposal, but they would have a vast knowledge of German methods. I, on the other hand, had but few facilities. I was almost entirely ignorant of the means they were constantly using, and I was alone!
Yet I adhered to my determination with that strange obstinacy which characterizes a man who is in an unnatural condition of mind and body. I vowed that I would see this thing through myself; that I would put together all the pieces of this intricate mosaic and bring the guilty persons to justice; then, when I had done my work, I would present it to the Government.
This and a thousand other thoughts flashed through my mind during my midnight journey from John Liddicoat's house to my little hut. I was conscious of no danger, and I am afraid I was heedless as to who might be watching me. I found myself in my little room without realizing that I had opened the door and entered. Almost like a man in a dream I lit my lamp and threw myself in an armchair. I had no thought of sleep, and my mind was still preternaturally active. Then a sense of my utter helplessness possessed me and a great fear filled my heart. I went to the door, opened it slightly, and listened. It was a wonderful night; the moon sailed in a cloudless sky, and I could see the shimmer of the sea far out from land. No sound reached me save the roll of the waves on the sandy beach; not a breath of wind stirred, not a leaf rustled.
Locking and bolting the door, I drew some paper from a drawer and commenced writing. How long I wrote I do not know, but I did not stop until I had penned a fairly comprehensive precis of what I had seen and heard. Why I did this I cannot tell; I only know that I was driven to it by some force which, to me, was inexplicable. This done, I signed the paper, giving the hour and date when I had written it.
I heard Simpson turning in his bed in the little room close by.
"Simpson," I said, going to him, "are you awake?" He yawned drowsily.
"Simpson, are you awake?" I repeated.
"Yes, sir," he said, starting up. "Is anything the matter, sir? Are you well?"
"Quite well, Simpson."
"Is it time to get up, sir?"
"I—I—what time it is I don't know, Simpson, but it is not time to get up."
He looked at me like one afraid.
"Can I do anything for you, sir?"
"Simpson," I said, "I want you to take this paper and put it away in a place of safety. You must not open it unless something happens to me."
"Happens to you, sir? What can happen to you?"
"I don't know—nothing, most likely. But I am giving this to you in case there should. Don't be alarmed. If nothing happens to me, let it lie in a place of safety, and give it to me when I ask for it, but if anything should happen...."
"Yes, sir," he said eagerly, as I hesitated. "If anything should happen, sir?"
"Then—then you will take this to Mr. Josiah Lethbridge!"
"Mr. Josiah Lethbridge, sir?"
"Yes, take it to him immediately. You must not delay a second."
"But what can happen to you, sir?"
"I know of nothing," I replied. "I am only taking a precaution. That is all, Simpson. Good-night."
I held the lamp in my hand as I spoke, while Simpson sat up in his bed staring at me.
"Excuse me, sir," he said, "but—but——" and then he put his hand under the pillow and took out his watch. "It is half-past three, sir, it won't be long before daylight; and—and haven't you been to bed, sir?"
"Good-night, Simpson," I said, and then found my way into my little room. Five minutes later, I had got into bed, and blown out the lamp. I was still strangely awake, and was again living over my experiences of the night. I heard Simpson groping cautiously around the house, and I knew he was looking at the fastenings of windows and doors.
"I shall have a busy day to-morrow," I said to myself. "I must see that my little wireless apparatus is in good order. I must be careful, too, that I arouse no suspicion in placing it on the spot I have prepared." After this I began to arrange my plans concerning the work I had to do. Then, little by little, things became hazy and indistinct to me. "I am falling asleep," I said to myself. "This is wonderful; I never thought I should sleep to-night."
I seemed to be passing through one world into another, from the world of realities to the world of dreams, and yet the latter was as real to me as the former had been. I had a kind of consciousness that I was asleep, and yet the stuff of which my dreams were made was just as vivid as my experiences of that night.
I was far out at sea, but it was not such a sea as I had ever known. I felt the movement of the waters, and heard the roar of the machinery. But I could see nothing. A great weight seemed to weigh me down. I felt, too, as though I were moving amidst great sea-monsters, the like of which I had never imagined before. I had a difficulty in breathing; it seemed to me as though the air which passed through my lungs was artificial. I had the use of my senses, but those senses seemed to respond to new conditions. I heard, but my hearing was confused; I felt, but with a kind of numb consciousness. I heard sounds of voices, but the voices might have been hundreds of miles away. It was as though I were speaking to some one through a telephone, a long way off. I was in a kind of a room, but it was such a room as I had never seen before. It had neither shape nor dimension. Little by little, that which had been shadowy and unreal became more definite. I saw a table, with three men sitting beside it; in front of them was a chart.
"She will be there on Thursday," said one, placing his hand on a certain spot on the chart. "It's a long distance from here and we shall want more petrol."
"It will be easy for us to get it," said another; "we have everything in training. We must let him know."
As I said, the voices seemed to be hundreds of miles away, as though they were speaking through a long-distance telephone. Yet every word was plain.
I realized at that moment that they were speaking in German, and saw, too, that the men had German faces, and wore German clothes.
I was not in the least surprised or disturbed. It seemed to me as though it were all a part of a prearranged plan. The sense of wonder had altogether departed from me.
"There will be a greater yell than ever about German atrocities," laughed one of the men. "After all, it does seem a devilish thing to attack passenger vessels."
"What has that to do with us? We must obey orders."
"But what good will it do?"
"God in heaven knows, I don't. I suppose the idea is to frighten the people, so that they will sue for peace."
"The English are not to be frightened that way; besides, it won't even touch the British Navy. They are masters on the sea, whatever we may do."
Their voices seemed to become dimmer and dimmer; they still went on talking, but I heard nothing distinctly after that. Indeed, the things by which I was surrounded, which had at first been comparatively clear, now became indistinct and unreal. I felt as though I were losing consciousness, and then everything became dark.
The next thing I can remember was opening my eyes to see Simpson standing by my bed.
"Anything the matter, Simpson?" I inquired.
"No, sir, except that it is ten o'clock, and I didn't know what time you meant to get up, sir."
"Not for a long time yet, Simpson; I am very sleepy and very tired."
Indeed, at that time an unutterable languor possessed me, and I felt as weak as a child. Simpson did not move, but looked at me intently, and I thought I saw fear in his eyes. But I was too tired to care. Then slowly life and vitality came back to me. While I was in a state of languor I remembered nothing of what I had seen in my dream, but little by little everything came back to me, until all was as vivid and as plain as I have tried to set it down here on paper. When I again opened my eyes, I saw Simpson still standing by my bed.
"I am going to get up, Simpson."
"You are sure you are well enough, sir?"
"Well enough! I feel perfectly well."
And I spoke the truth. It seemed to me as though a great black shadow which had paralyzed me, rolled away from my life.
"Prepare breakfast at once, Simpson; I shall be ready in half an hour."
Simpson took a last look at me, and then left the room, with his old formula: "Yes, sir; thank you, sir."
I got up and looked towards the sea. The sun was shining brightly, and the waves were glistening in the sunlight. It was a day to rejoice in. The air was clear and pure.
I moved briskly around the room, feeling no sense of weariness. My long sleep had restored me; my mind, too, was as active as it had been on the previous night. I fell to thinking about my experiences, and philosophizing on what I had seen in my dreams. "The real I," I reflected, "was not lying at all on that bed all last night. My spirit, my thinking self, my understanding self, was hundreds of miles away, where I don't know, but I was not here. I saw what I saw, and heard what I heard, without my body. I had other eyes, other senses. My real self was not a part of my body at all during that time. Therefore I have a self distinct from the body, independent of it. My body is only a machine whereby my real self does its work, therefore the death of the body would not be the death of me."
I took pleasure in ruminating in this way, even although there were at the back of my mind many doubts. The wish was only the father to the thought, and the thought did not carry conviction to my consciousness. It seemed to me that I had intellectually realized something which went to prove the immortality of the soul, but which really proved nothing. I could only be certain of that through some deeper process, something which went down to the very depths of life.
All the same, I found pleasure in it, and I remember humming a tune as I dressed.
Directly after breakfast, Simpson put the morning paper before me. Mechanically I opened it, and turned to the list of casualties. My heart sank as I read, for I found the names of three men who had gone from St. Issey among the list of killed.
"Are you going out, sir?" And Simpson looked at me anxiously.
"Yes," I replied, "I am going to the village. I see that Mrs. Searle's boy is killed."
"You are sure you are well enough, sir?"
"Quite," I replied. "By the way, Simpson, you have that paper I gave you last night?"
"Yes, sir; I locked it away carefully, and I understand what you said, but I don't understand what you mean, sir. Are you afraid that——"
"That's all right, Simpson; be sure not to forget my instructions."
A little later, I found myself at Mrs. Searle's door, and on finding it open, I entered. A second later, I blamed myself for the liberty I had taken. It is not uncommon for these simple folk to enter each other's houses without giving notice in any way, and I had fallen in with the habit of the people. But I should have known better. Mr. and Mrs. Searle were both on their knees praying, and there was an expression on each of their faces which I shall not try to describe. Sorrow, pain, even anguish, were expressed there, but beyond all this was an unutterable peace. I suppose I must have made a slight noise, for they opened their eyes at my approach and rose to their feet.
"Have 'ee 'eerd the news, Mr. Erskine?" It was Mr. Searle who spoke.
"Yes," I replied; "I have just read it in the newspaper. I came to tell you how deeply I sympathize with you."
The man held out his hand and grasped mine, and I saw the tears trickle down his cheeks.
"Mr. Erskine," he said, "the Loard's ways seem very hard, but He doeth all things well. I'd bin gittin' cold; the Loard 'ad bin prosperin' me, and some'ow I was forgittin' God. Then, three weeks ago, we 'ad a letter from Jim, tellin' us that 'e was right up in the firing line and that the danger was ter'ble. Some'ow that brought us back to God; we felt the need of God, Mr. Erskine, as we 'adn't felt it for years. And we prayed as we 'adn't prayed for years."
He still held my hand, looking at me through the mist of his tears all the time.
"When the news came yesterday," he went on, "we felt as though the 'eavens were black, as though nothing mattered. But that is over now. God alone knows what we 'ave suffered at the loss of our boy. But it is only good-bye for a little while; he isn't dead, sir. Now we can say, 'Bless the Loard, O my soul, and all that is within me bless and praise His Holy Name.'"
"What would I give," I said to myself, as presently I walked from the house, "if I knew their secret?"
Evidently the news had affected the life of the village greatly, for I found groups of people standing together talking about it. I joined a number of miners, who were working "afternoon core" and as a consequence had their morning at liberty.
"Ter'ble, sir, edn't it?" said one man to me. "John Searle and his missis took it all right, because they've got their faith to sustain them; but there's Harry Bray, 'e's going about like a man maazed; 'e don't believe in anything, sir, and as a consequence there's no light in his darkness."
"No light in his darkness?" I repeated.
"No, sir; he became a backslider and gave up God! This is what we was talking about when you comed by. What comfort have the world to offer at a time like this? Here be thousands and tens of thousands of people, all over the world, grieving because their dear ones will never come back again. Mothers grieving about their sons, wives grieving about their husbands, maidens grieving about their sweethearts. You now, sir, you be a scholar and a learned man. Do you know of anythin', anythin', sir, 'cept faith in an Almighty God, that will 'elp people at a time like this? What can science do? What can philosophy do? What can money do?"
"Nothing," I said almost involuntarily.
"No, nothing. Tell 'ee what, sir, this war is bringing us all back to our senses; we've thought that we could do without Almighty God, sir, but we ca'ant. A man who was preachin' at the Chapel on Sunday night called this war 'The World's great tragedy.' He was right, sir; but God is overruling it. He is answering men out of the whirlwind and the fire, as He did Job of olden times. Forty boys have gone out from St. Issey, sir; how many of 'em will come back again?"
I shook my head.
"Exactly, sir. Here is a wisht story in the newspaper. A poor woman, sir, who 'ad lost her husband and three sons in the war, wrote to the editor and asked him to give her some explanation of it all, to offer some word of comfort. So the editor wrote to a lot of clever men, sending them copies of the woman's letter, and asking them what they 'ad to say. Here are their answers, sir. They are from a scientist, a politician, a philosopher, and a literary man, and that's what they 'ad to say by way of comfort. She asked for bread, and they gave 'er stone."
I took the paper, and saw that the man had spoken truly. The answers which our leading scientists, politicians, philosophers, and scholars had to give were utterly in the negative. They could say nothing that would help to heal the poor woman's bleeding, broken heart. All their scholarship, all their learning, all their philosophy was Dead Sea fruit. Only the man of faith, the man of vision, could give her comfort.
I left the village wondering: I realized as I never realized before the impotence of mere intellectualism, of material success, of the advancement of physical science, in the face of life's great tragedies.
Then suddenly my thoughts were diverted into another channel, for coming towards me I saw Isabella Lethbridge.
Our greeting was cold and formal; it seemed to me as though a barrier of reserve stood between us. I remembered what had taken place when we last met in a way similar to this. I also called to mind what she had said when she came to me at the little schoolroom in St. Issey.
"How are your father and mother?" I asked presently.
"Mother is wonderful, simply wonderful! As for my father, I can't understand him."
"No?" I said. "He called to see me yesterday."
"Indeed!" She seemed to take no interest in his visit, neither did she ask anything concerning his purpose in coming.
An awkward silence fell between us, and I was on the point of leaving her, when she broke out suddenly:
"I came out in the hope of meeting you! Seeing it was a fine morning, I thought you might be tempted to walk into St. Issey. If I had not met you, I think I should have gone to your house. I wanted to speak to you badly."
"What about?" I asked.
"I don't know," was the reply. "I have nothing to say now I have met you."
"Was it about your brother?"
She shook her head, and I saw her lips tremble.
"As you know, I have no brother now; he is dead. What a ghastly mockery life is, isn't it? But for mother, I think I should run away."
Each sentence was spoken abruptly and nervously, and I could see she was much wrought upon.
"Mr. Erskine," she went on, "you were very cruel to me a few days ago."
"Yes," I said, "perhaps I was. I meant to be. I am sorry now. Had I known about your brother, I would not have spoken."
"You were cruel because you were so un-understanding. You were utterly ignorant, and because of your ignorance you were foolish."
"Ignorant of what?" I asked.
"Of everything, everything!" And she spoke almost passionately. "Was what you told me true?"
A wild look came into her eyes, such a look as I had never seen before.
"I don't think I had any right to say it," I replied, "but was I unjust in my accusation? Did you not try to fascinate me? Did you not try to make me fall in love with you?"
"No, yes—I don't really know. And what you said is true, is it not—you don't love me?"
"You were very cruel," I said. "You knew why I came here—knew that the doctor had written my death-warrant before I came. It is nearly a year since I came here, and a year was all Dr. Rhomboid gave me to live. To-day I feel as though the doctor's prophecy will be fulfilled."
"That you will die before the year is out?" she almost gasped.
"Yes," I said. "That was why it was cruel of you to seek to play with a dying man's heart. But you didn't succeed; you fascinated, you almost made me love you. If you had done so, you would have added mockery to mockery. But I never loved you, I only loved the woman you were meant to be, the woman you ought to be."
I saw anger, astonishment, and yearning, besides a hundred other things for which I could find no words, in her eyes as I spoke. For a moment she seemed to be struggling to find some answer to give me. Then she burst out angrily, almost furiously:
"You are blind—blind—blind!"
"Blind to what?" I asked. "You care nothing for me, and you know it. You need not tell me so; I can see it in your eyes. You have won the love of other men only to discard it."
"Mr. Erskine," she said, "do you remember our first conversation?"
"The one when I first dined at your house?" I asked.
"No, the one when we met in the field yonder. It is nearly a year ago."
"Yes, I remember. You said you didn't believe that there was such a thing as love—although even then you were trying to make me lose my heart to you."
"I told you," she went on, "that some of us were born into the world handicapped, and I asked you whether, seeing nature had prevented us from getting our desires in natural ways, we were not justified in overstepping conventional boundaries."
"Yes," I replied, "I remember. But I never could understand what you meant."
"No," she went on, "you were blind, blind! I don't think a man can understand a woman. You were at the prayer-meeting the other night—do you believe in God?"
"I think there must be a God," I said. "I have just come from Mr. and Mrs. Searle's house. They have lost their boy; he has been killed in the war. They have no doubt about God's existence, they were even rejoicing in their sorrow; and it is all because God is real to them. Yes, I think there must be a God."
"If there is a God, He must be awfully unjust," she said bitterly. "If there is a God, why did He create us with barriers around us which we cannot break down, and which we long to break down? Why did He give us longings which we cannot satisfy?"
"What longings? What barriers?" I asked.
Again she seemed struggling for speech, and I knew there was something in her mind which she wanted to express but could not.
"Tell me," she said, "were you really serious when you said you thought the doctor's verdict was soon to be fulfilled?"
"Yes," I said, "perfectly serious."
"And you think you are going to die soon?" Her voice was hoarse and unnatural.
"Yes, I feel quite sure of it."
"And yet you are here talking with me about it calmly."
"What else is there to do?"
"It cannot be! It cannot be!" she cried passionately. "You must not die."
"If I could believe what John Searle believes, I should not care," was my answer. "If I could believe that this life is only a fragment of life—that death is only the door by which we enter another life, the fulfilment of this life; if I could believe that at the back of everything is an Omnipotent, All-Wise, Ever-Loving, Beneficent God, I should not mind death, I think I should laugh at it. Then what we call death would not be death at all. That is my difficulty."
"And you want to live?"
"Yes, I have an intense longing to live. I have a passion for life. But what can I do? When the poison of death is in one's system and science knows no means whereby that poison can be destroyed, all is hopeless."
"And the doctor gave you no hope?"
"No, he said nothing could save me. Yesterday I felt as though I could not die, as though life was strong within me. To-day life seems only a matter of hours."
"And yet you are able to think and talk and walk."
"Yes, that is the mockery of it. Do you believe in premonitions, Miss Lethbridge?"
"Premonitions?"
"Yes, premonitions. I have a feeling that within a few hours I shall be dead."
"From your illness?"
"I don't know, I suppose so."
She stood looking at me wonderingly. Never had I seen her look so fair, so wondrously fair, as she looked that morning, in spite of the fact that she showed marks of having suffered greatly. As she had said, I could not understand her. In one sense she seemed my ideal of what a woman ought to be. Even although I knew the shadow of death was creeping over me, I felt the power of her presence; felt that it would be bliss to love and be loved by such a woman. But I knew she had no love to give me; knew she had tried to play with my heart as she had played with the hearts of others.
"You would have made a poor conquest if you had made me fall in love with you," I could not help saying bitterly. "After all, I could only have been your slave for a few weeks."
"Don't, don't taunt me!" she cried; "it is cruel, bitterly cruel of you. Besides, I cannot believe that what you say is true. You are not near death—you must live!"
"What would I not give if your words were true, Miss Lethbridge! I never felt life so full of possibilities as now. If I could live only a month, a week, I feel as though I could render great service to my King and my Country."
Why I was led to say this I cannot tell, but something unloosened my tongue.
"How could you render service to your King and your Country?" she asked. "Have you discovered anything?"
"Yes, I believe I have. I believe I know more than all our Secret Service officers do."
"But surely you will not keep your knowledge to yourself?"
"Just now you called me blind," was my reply. "I don't think I am blind, but I am obstinate. Dying men have strange fancies, and I have a fancy that I can do what no one else can. I have a feeling that if I told my secret to the officials they would bungle my plans; that is why I am going to act alone."
"Are you going to place yourself in danger?"
"What matter if I do? I have only a little while to live, and if—if...." I stopped suddenly, for I realized that I had told her more than I meant to tell any one, that in my excitement I had been reckless and foolish.
"You speak in riddles," she said. "You have no right to put yourself in danger. I don't understand at all what you are saying. Tell me what you mean, will you?"
I shook my head. "Everything is so much in the clouds, so visionary, that it would be foolish to try to tell you anything. Good-day, I must be going now." And I walked away without another word, leaving her at the gates of her own home.
As I reflected afterwards, I had not played a very magnanimous part. I had been rude almost to a point of brutality, and yet I had not been able to help myself. Something in her very presence aroused my opposition, my anger. I cannot tell why, but when I was with her, feelings which I had never known at other times almost mastered me. I knew then, as I had known all along, that I had no love for her, and yet I was conscious that I was within an ace of throwing myself at her feet. Such was the power she had over me; but all the time I knew there was an unbreakable barrier between us. Something, I could not tell what, repelled me, made me adamant.
At that time, too, I was in a strange condition of mind. All I had told her was true; although I felt strong and full of life, I knew that the Angel of Death had spread his wings over me; that, in spite of my power to walk and act quickly, death was even then undermining the citadels of life. In a sense life was not real to me at all; everything was intangible, visionary. I was like a man in a dream.
It is now early in May, and, as I said to Isabella Lethbridge this morning, it is within a fortnight of the end of the year which Dr. Rhomboid gave me to live. I commenced writing this narrative last autumn, when the days were shortening and the long evenings were dreary and lonely. I feel now that I have got to the end of my story, and that I shall never tell of what may yet happen to me. I don't think I am a nervous or fanciful man, and, as far as I can remember in what I have written, there is nothing in my history to suggest that I am superstitious or carried away by old wives' tales. And yet I have a conviction that I have come to the end of my life; that I shall soon learn the great secret—if there is any secret in death. I don't feel ill, rather my body seems instinct with life; I am buoyed up by an unnatural strength; I am capable of thinking, of acting—yet something tells me that I am near the end.
I have been writing for hours, so as to bring my records up to this point. Why I have done so I cannot tell, except that I have obeyed an overmastering impulse.
At six o'clock this evening I arranged my wireless apparatus, so as to be ready for any news that should come to me. I have also sent Simpson to St. Issey with certain instructions which seem to be necessary, and I have taken all precautions of which I can think to render what I am going to try and do effective.
What will the future bring forth, I wonder? What will be the result of my plans? Will everything come to nothing, or will my dreams be realized? I know that if I acted according to the dictates of common sense, I should at once send Simpson with a long telegram to the authorities at Falmouth or Penzance. But with that strange obstinacy which possesses me I refuse to do this; I am acting according to impulse or intuition, rather than in obedience to reason.
Concerning the deeper things of life and death, I am almost as much in the dark as I was when I came here nearly a year ago; and yet not altogether. The subtle change which has come over the life of the village has affected me. The faith which has been renewed in the lives of so many people has created an atmosphere which I cannot help but breathe. Even now, although I feel death to be so near, I have a kind of intuition that I cannot die. I cannot say that I believe in God, but there is only a thin line of partition between me and that belief. Life is the same as it has been, and yet it is not the same. A new element has appeared, a new force has made itself felt, but what that force is I cannot tell.
During the last few weeks, although I have said nothing about it, I have been reading the New Testament, a book I had not looked at since I left Oxford. Especially have I studied the Gospels. They are very wonderful, in some parts sublime. But I have not learnt the secret of the Man Jesus. I cannot rid my mind of the thought that He was a visionary. And yet I don't know; there are times when I cannot get away from the belief that His words were founded on the Rock of Truth. When I came back from the prayer-meeting the other night, I felt as though Jesus said to me what He said to the man in olden times who asked Him questions, "Thou art not far from the kingdom of God." But everything was transitory and passed away in a moment, and I was left dull and unconvinced.
And here I leave it. I am a young man, little over thirty years of age, with life's work undone and life's problems unsolved. If this life is all, then it is a mockery, a haggard failure, an unfulfilled promise, an uncompleted plan. And yet I don't know; even although I were certain that there is nothing beyond, I am still glad that I have had my life. But if there be a Supreme Being, would He give me life and hope, and volition and possibilities, only to destroy that life? I felt as I never felt before—that my body is not my real self; that the essential I is distinct from the body. These premonitions of mine, what do they signify? Certainly they prove a sensitiveness to something which is beyond my power of understanding; but is that all?
Never did I feel as I feel now the utter uselessness of mere intellectuality, of material advancement, of scientific discovery, and the thousand other things which men strive after when divorced from faith, divorced from God. I feel that Science, Philosophy, have no answer to give me, and the wisdom of men is but as the voice of the wandering wind. If I believed in God, if I were sure of God, sure of the message which Jesus proclaimed, I could laugh at death; for I should know that out of discord would come harmony, and that out of incompleteness would come completeness. But that secret is not mine. I only dimly hope.
But I will follow my fancies no further. I have my work to do. I have to carry out the plans I have made.
Again I take up my pen to continue the narrative commenced long months ago. Since I last looked at these pages, wonderful things have happened, so wonderful that I do not expect to be believed; but I will set them down nevertheless, and I will record them exactly as they took place.
In order to do this I must go back to that May evening in the year 1915, when, as it seemed to me, I had come to the end of my life. As I have set down in these pages, I had, as I believed, made a discovery which seemed of importance to the nation, and pierced a mystery which had been baffling our Government. Events have proved that I was not wrong in my surmises, and that I had become of importance to the nation's welfare. As I said, I had placed my little wireless apparatus on what seemed to me a suitable place for receiving messages.
That I took every precaution in placing it may be imagined; I knew from the conversation I had heard between John Liddicoat and the woman who acted with him that I was a suspect, and that they had taken every precaution against me. I knew, too, if my suspicions were correct, and those suspicions almost amounted to a positive certainty, that I was constantly watched, and that I had, more by chance than by cleverness of my own, kept John Liddicoat in the dark.
It was a little after six o'clock in the evening, as near as I can remember, when I returned to my cottage after having visited my wireless apparatus, and made sure that no messages were being received. I had barely entered my room when Squire Treherne paid me a visit. I cannot say that I was glad to see him, much as I had grown to like him, for I felt that I was on the eve of great events and was impatient at interruption. Yet I knew he had not come without reason, and I could not tell him that his visit was untimely.
As I have said before, I treated Simpson more as a friend than as a servant, and while I had not in any degree taken him into my confidence, he knew of, and had become interested in, my little wireless apparatus. Indeed, he had rejoiced in my hobby, because he believed it took my mind away from unpleasant things. Moreover, he had proved himself, especially during the past few weeks, an exceedingly sensible fellow, and one who was able to keep his own counsel. Seeing Squire Treherne, therefore, I told Simpson to station himself in a spot from which he could not be observed, to keep a sharp lookout on my little instrument, and to warn me if any one should come near, and especially to take care that no one should learn of its location.
Having taken this precaution, I went back to Mr. Treherne, who, judging from his countenance, had important things to tell me.
"I hope you are well, Erskine," said the old man kindly, at the same time looking anxiously into my face.
"As well as I shall ever be," was my reply. "Do I look ill?"
"No, I can't say you do, but you look strange. Nothing the matter, I hope?" And again he looked at me anxiously.
"It is good of you to come and see me," was my response.
"Not a bit of it! Not a bit of it!" and his reply was eager. "The truth is, I want a chat with you. I have told them at home to put off dinner until eight o'clock in the hope that I may persuade you to come back with me. I have a trap close by."
I shook my head.
"I am afraid I am not up to it, Squire. But I hope you have no bad news?"
"Oh no, no bad news at all; quite the other way. But I say, my lad, I don't like the idea of your being alone here night after night, with only your man to look after you. You really don't look well. Come and pay me a week's visit, will you? I feel it would do you good."
"You are awfully kind, Squire, but do you know I am a good deal of a hermit. I have come to love this lonely life of mine, and every one is so kind that I don't feel as though I lived amongst strangers."
"That's right, that's right; but promise me you will come back with me."
"Not to-night, Squire; I really can't."
"Well, then, come over to-morrow. Come and spend a week with me; we should all love to have you."
"We will talk about that after I have heard your news," I said; "for I am sure you have news. What is it?"
"I don't know why I want to tell you, but I feel as though I must. Josiah Lethbridge has been converted."
"Converted! What do you mean?"
"The age of miracles is not past;" and the Squire laughed as he spoke. "You know what my opinion of Lethbridge has been; you know, too, that he is regarded as a kind of Shylock. I told you about our quarrel, didn't I?"
"Yes, I remember perfectly."
"I hate war;" and he spoke as though he wanted to change the subject. "I can't sleep of a night when I think of all the misery, all the agony it is causing. I know that we as a nation could do nothing but what we have done; but when I remember people like poor Searle, and the hundreds and thousands all over the land whose hearts are broken, I feel like going mad. It is simply hellish, man! Not that we can stop it. We must go on and on, no matter what it costs us, until war is made impossible for the future. No, Kaiserism, militarism must be crushed, destroyed forever! Still I feel, Erskine, that there is a tremendous alchemy in war. It is brutal, but it is purifying. It is hellish, but God uses it, and over-rules it for His own purposes."
"I hope you are right," was my reply. "But what is your particular reason for saying this now?"
"It is Lethbridge. You know what a hard man he is, don't you? You have heard how he has got people into his grip, and ground them to powder? You have been told how, like a spider, he has attracted them into his web and imprisoned them? I don't say that, in a way, he has not been a just man. He has never done anything that has violated the law. But he has been cruel and merciless. He has demanded his pound of flesh to the fiftieth part of an ounce. He has never forgiven an injury, and has always been impatient of any one's will but his own. But there, I needn't enlarge on that; you have heard, you know."
"I have heard a good many stories," I replied, "but as a lawyer I always deduct about seventy per cent. from the total. You see, people are given to exaggerate."
"Yes, yes, that may be. But Lethbridge was as hard as nails, as cruel as death; that is why the wonder of it comes to me now."
"The wonder of what?" I asked.
The Squire hesitated a few seconds, and then went on: "He got me into his meshes. Doubtless I was foolish, in fact I know I was. I speculated, and then, although I was bitten, I speculated again. I don't say Lethbridge encouraged me; but he made me feel that things would be sure to come out right. They didn't, and I had to mortgage my estate. I hated going to a bank for money, and Lethbridge helped me out. Little by little he got the upper hand of me, until—well, for the last few years I have been like a toad under a harrow. You can understand the position. I never thought I should tell you this, in fact I have always kept my troubles to myself. All the same, I have been mad at the thought that the estate which has been in my family for I don't know how many generations should be handed over to a man like Lethbridge."
I was silent, for there seemed nothing to say.
"This morning," went on the Squire, "he came to see me. At first I met his advances coldly, for although he has had me in his power I have always held up my head. To my unspeakable astonishment, he came with a proposal which will enable me to be my own man again in five years. Just think of it, Erskine! I feel as though an awful weight were lifted from my back."
"Why did he do it?" I asked.
"That brings me back to what we were talking about. There is some wondrous alchemy in war. It may debase some, but others it humbles and ennobles. He said he had had a talk with you, and you had made him feel that his son had died a hero, and was a martyr to his faith. In short, Hugh's death has changed Lethbridge—shaken him to the very depths of his life—revolutionized him. It seems that he has had further messages about Hugh. From what I can understand, Hugh gave his life for his enemy. At the risk of his own life he rescued a German officer, and was killed while he was in the act of doing his glorious deed. The message does not seem very clear, but that is the meaning of it. The thing happened in the night-time, and the soldiers who told Hugh's Colonel were not altogether sure of the details, but this they all insist on: young Lethbridge was a hero; he might have saved himself, but wouldn't; he rescued an enemy at the risk of his own life, and then paid the penalty of his action."
I gave a long quivering sigh. I could not help being sad at such a splendid life being cut off in the middle.
"Yes, yes," went on the Squire. "Hugh was a splendid boy. It seems awful that we shall never see him again—at least, this side of the grave. But that lad's not dead, Erskine. A boy who could do a deed like that could never die. He had eternal life in him. Anyhow, Josiah Lethbridge is not the same man. You should have seen the look of pride, and more than pride, in his eyes as he told me about it. And what he has done for me, he has done because he says he believes Hugh would have him do it. 'My boy is speaking to me from heaven,' he said; 'that's why I am doing it.'"
The Squire dashed a tear from his eyes as he spoke.
"Would to God I had a son like him! I tell you, Erskine, I would not have minded losing my estate so much if I knew that he was coming into it. But there, I have told you what I came to tell you. I thought you would like to know. It is a miracle, nothing less than a miracle. He has made me ashamed of myself. Here have I for years been going around thinking hard thoughts and saying hard things about Josiah Lethbridge, and now I feel as though I had been a mean, contemptible sneak. I have scorned him because he is a Dissenter, I have said hard things about people who are not of my way of thinking. I say, God Almighty is giving us a shaking up, and showing us what blind fools we have been. As though He cares what Church we belong to, what place of worship we attend, and what form of prayer we say! I don't read the Bible much, Erskine, but there is a passage which has been running in my mind all the way over here: 'What doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?' That goes to the heart of things, doesn't it? All the rest is trimmings, trimmings. But there, I must be getting back. Now, won't you come with me?"
"I can't to-night, anyhow," I said.
"Well, to-morrow; promise you will come over then. You will add to my happiness, my boy. You will really!"
The Squire's proposal put a thought into my mind which had not occurred to me before. I had determined on another plan, but our conversation had suggested a better one.
"I will come over to-morrow for a week, provided I am able, on condition that you do something for me," I said.
"Of course I will do anything for you, my boy. But what is it?"
"Do you know Colonel Laycock?"
"Perfectly well. I dined at his mess the other night."