"You are on good terms with him?"
"Of course I am. Why?"
"I am going to ask you to do a strange thing, Squire," I said. "I have got a scheme in my mind. I am not going to tell you what it is. I am afraid—I am afraid to tell any one. Why, I don't know; but it is a fact. It is possible that to-night I shall send you a message—possible that I shall ask you to do something which will not appeal to your judgment. But I want you to do it. Will you?"
"But what is it, my dear fellow?"
"I cannot tell you; I want you to trust me. I believe big things are moving, and if you will, I am sure you can help me to accomplish what I have in my mind. If the thing comes off, I will write down detailed instructions, and I want you to act on those instructions. You are a magistrate, and therefore have considerable authority."
"Magistrate!" he said. "Is it something to do with law, then?"
"It is, and it isn't," I said. "The message may not come to-night, may not come till to-morrow night or the next; but when it comes, I want you to act on it. Will you?"
"Then will you come and spend a week with me?"
"If I can."
"I never like acting in the dark, Erskine, but you are a cautious fellow, and I trust you implicitly. Yes, I will do it; but for the life of me I can't see what you are driving at."
"Maybe it will end in nothing," I said, "in which case nothing will be done. But I'll tell you this: if my plans bear fruit, as I think they will, then—then—you will be glad you trusted in me. I am not asking you to compromise yourself in any way; all the same, I tell you this: it seems to me a matter of life and death."
For a few seconds the old man looked at me as if he doubted my sanity, then he gripped my hand.
"I trust you completely, Erskine, and I will do what you ask. But I must go now. Good-night, my boy. God bless you!"
Directly he had gone I went out to relieve Simpson, and on visiting my wireless apparatus, I found that no message had come through. For the next two hours I was on tenter-hooks. My mind was filled with a thousand doubts. Fears of all sorts haunted me. What if my little apparatus were not powerful enough? What if I had misunderstood the whole situation? Everything seemed shadowy and unreal. I doubted myself, I doubted everything. That little apparatus which I had prepared to receive messages seemed as valueless as the toy of a child. How could messages move across great spaces and affect the little instrument which I had manipulated with such care? How could I expect to frustrate the plans of people who were skilled in plotting, and who had been plotting for years? Were not all my hopes and beliefs as baseless as the stuff of which dreams are made? What could a man with the Angel of Death flying over him expect to do under such circumstances?
Still I held on to my faith. Foolish as it might seem, I believed that my reasoning was sound, that I had discovered the truth, and that by carrying out my plans I might save hundreds of lives.
It was now dark; the moon, which was on the wane, would not rise till far past midnight. Although the night was windless it was cloudy. This fact made everything so dark that I did not dread watchful eyes.
Nine o'clock, half-past nine, ten o'clock, yet my little instrument was silent. Had I misunderstood what John Liddicoat had said? Was I mistaken when I heard him tell the woman that he must expect another message the next night? I was in an agony of suspense. Then my heart gave a great leap—the little instrument began to move, while I, with fast beating heart, wrote quickly.
Ten minutes later I had locked myself in my little room and was eagerly studying the slip of paper before me. I knew that the message, whatever it might be, had emanated from a spot within a comparatively limited radius, for the simple reason that my apparatus was not of sufficient capacity to receive long-distance messages.
It is impossible for me to convey on paper the state of my mind as I read the words which had been transmitted. My excitement was tense beyond words. I felt my heart beating wildly; I scarce dared to breathe.
And yet the message looked innocent enough. It was simply this: "One hour after midnight to-night. Completeness essential."
That was all; there were no explanations by which any one who was not in the plot could gain any information. It might be received by a score of wireless stations, and any one ignorant of what I knew would be none the wiser. It gave no clue even to the most subtle mind whereby action could be taken. It might be read by any one with perfect safety. No Government official, whatever his position, could understand it. Neither would he see any importance in it. The words were innocence itself, and yet, as I believed, they meant the safety or the destruction of perhaps hundreds of lives. So innocent did they seem that it appeared like madness to take action, but remembering what I had seen and heard, connecting incident with incident, and placing link to link as I did, my chain of reasoning seemed flawless. If I were wrong in my conclusions, I should not only be an object of ridicule, I might indeed be placing myself under menace of the law.
Still I decided to act. Rapidly I wrote a letter to Squire Treherne, giving him the minutest details of what I wished him to do. My brain, I remember, was clear, and I was very careful to insist on all sorts of precautions. This done, I summoned Simpson to me.
"Simpson," I said, "I want you to take this to Squire Treherne immediately; it is a matter of great importance. It may be that you will be in danger on the way; but that must be risked. You must speak to no one. Take the footpath through the fields, and don't delay an instant."
Simpson looked at me steadily as though he doubted my sanity, but evidently there was something in my eyes which told him how much in earnest I was.
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir," he said, and then he hesitated.
"What is it, Simpson?"
"You will be here all alone, sir."
"I can't help that; I shall be all right. Do as I tell you."
"Shall I find you here when I get back, sir?" he asked.
"No, Simpson, I was going to mention that. You will not find me here when you get back. But take no notice of that; wait here until a quarter past one."
"Quarter past one, sir! What, an hour and a quarter past midnight?"
"Wait here until a quarter past one," I repeated, "and then, if I do not appear, make your way down to the copse, by the footpath, to the beach. You know the cave which is almost immediately beneath the house; go straight to the mouth of the cave and look for me."
Again Simpson looked at me as though he doubted my sanity, but, like the well-bred servant he was, he made no reply but "Yes, sir; thank you, sir."
A minute later I heard Simpson leaving the house.
I felt that the air was laden with tragic events. It was now past eleven o'clock, and I had two hours in which to wait, but I could not stay indoors. Strange as it may seem, I felt no weakness, while the malady from which I suffered gave me no pain at all. I was still buoyed up by the same strange, unnatural strength. I crept towards my little wireless apparatus, but there was no further message. I remained in the near distance for some time, waiting and watching; once or twice I thought I heard a rustling among the bushes, but I was not sure. Although I had no reason for my suspicion, I believed that some one was near me, that furtive eyes were watching me; but I had no tangible reason for believing this. At midnight I went back to the house again; Simpson had not returned. The little dog I had rescued a few days before came and sniffed at my feet, wagging his tail as he did so. Evidently the poor little wretch was rapidly recovering from his wound; indeed he seemed quite well. I put on an overcoat and prepared to go out. The dog still wagged his tail, as though he thought he was going to accompany me.
"No," I said to him, "you must not come."
Whereupon he began to whimper piteously. I left the house, locking the door, but I had not gone more than a few steps before I stopped. The dog had begun to howl. "This will never do," I reflected. "I will let him come with me, he can do no harm." I opened the door again, whereupon the little brute rushed to me and capered with joy. "Be quiet," I said. "If you follow me you must make no noise."
He seemed to understand, for he followed closely at my heels, making no sound as I carefully made my way through the undergrowth. When I had passed through the copse I stopped and listened; at first I thought I heard a rustling sound behind me, but evidently I was mistaken, for all was as silent as death. The night was still dark, although here and there between the clouds I saw stars twinkling; not a breath of wind stirred, and no sound reached me save the soughing of the waves. Some miles out at sea I saw the revolving light of the Dead Man's Rock Lighthouse. My descent to the beach was precipitous and somewhat dangerous, but I knew the pathway, and noiselessly made my way down, the dog keeping close to me all the time. A few minutes later I had reached the beach, and again I listened. My eyes had become sufficiently accustomed to the darkness to see that the dog was also listening. Once or twice he gave a slight whimper, but at a whispered command he was silent.
I found my way to the shelter of a rock close to the fissure by which the outer cave was entered. Creeping into the hollow of the rock, I took a little electric lamp from my pocket, and in its light saw that it was nearly half-past twelve. Minutes at that time seemed to me an eternity. Again I passed through all sorts of doubt, and more than once called myself a madman who had followed a will-o'-the-wisp of a wild fancy. Still I held fast to my resolution. From my hiding-place I could see the fissure which led to the cave. At least it would be difficult for any one to approach it without my seeing him. All the time the little dog sat close by my side with eyes and ears alert. I think he understood the condition of my mind.
Minute after minute passed slowly by, and there was neither sound nor sight that gave me warning of any one's approach. I looked anxiously to the right and to the left, seeking in vain to pierce the darkness of the night; but nothing happened; I was alone and in silence.
I think I must have fallen into a kind of waking dream, for, as it seemed to me, some moments passed when I had no consciousness of my surroundings. Then suddenly the dog at my feet gave a savage yelp. It was well he did so, for I saw two forms close by me, both of which seemed to be in the act of pouncing upon me.
I have read somewhere of a man who, when facing a great crisis, felt that he lived a lifetime in a few seconds. I realized now that this can be true. Within a few seconds of the time when the dog yelped, the whole panorama of the past twelve months, and all the details of that panorama, flashed before my eyes. It came to me with a vividness which I had never realized before. That I was indeed at the heart of a scheme whereon depended the lives of many people; that these tins of petrol were intended for German submarines; that this little cove had been used as a storehouse for the fuel whereby the Germans had been able to do their fiendish work; that in some way unknown to the authorities, hundreds of cans of this spirit had been stored there from time to time, and then, as they were needed, taken to those deadly monsters which operated beneath the sea; and that I had, partly by chance, partly by reasoning, but more by intuition, got at the heart of it all. I felt, too, that on me depended the failure or success of the German scheme. By some means or other Liddicoat, or one of his minions, had discovered or suspected what I had done.
It was one of those moments, so tense, so weighted with vital issues, that the human body and the human mind are made capable of what in ordinary circumstances would be impossible. Without waiting a second, without giving time to think, and yet feeling all the while that I was acting upon reason rather than upon impulse, I leapt upon what seemed to me the form of a man, and was instantly engaged in a deadly struggle. Even now that struggle does not seem to me real. It is like the memory of a dream rather than something which actually took place. But that it did take place I have tremendous proof. I do not remember making any noise of any sort, but I do remember the deathly grip which was laid upon me and the fight which I knew was to the death. I cannot explain why, but life never was so dear to me as at that moment. I felt, too, as though Dr. Rhomboid had been somehow mistaken in his diagnosis; that life was strong in me, but that passion was swallowed up in a greater passion, a nobler passion—it was to render service to my country, to save the lives of my fellow-countrymen.
Even while I struggled I saw what the success of my plans meant; what their failure meant. I remember, too, that I wondered why the second person I had seen took no part in the struggle; why, although there were two who prepared to attack me, only one fought me. Yet such was the case; it was man to man. Who the man was I was not sure, although I had a dim consciousness that I was fighting with the man Liddicoat; neither had I any clear conception as to the meaning of that deadly struggle; all the same, I knew that I must struggle till I had mastered him. I did not remember the precautions I had taken or the agencies I had set on foot; everything was swallowed up in the one thought—I must master the man who I was sure meant to kill me.
How long the encounter lasted I have not the remotest idea; indeed, as I think of it now, I was robbed of all human personality. I was simply Fate, and as Fate I must accomplish my purpose, heedless of everything.
I fancied that I was gaining the upper hand of him; fancied, too, that others were coming upon the scene of action; but of this I was not sure, for a great darkness came upon me suddenly, and I knew nothing more.
And now I have come to that part of my experiences which I find difficult to relate. It is probable that if these lines are read by eyes other than my own, they will be disbelieved, yet I will set them down as I remember them. This is no easy matter, for I feel as though I were recalling the incidents which happened in a far-off dream rather than something which actually took place. And yet not altogether. What I am going to tell is very real to me, even although the reality is utterly different from what I ever experienced before. Even as I remember, I find myself thinking out of ordinary grooves, and my thoughts are of such a nature that I find no language sufficient to express them.
I was dead. I knew that my spirit, my essential self, had left my body, and that I was no longer a habitant of the world in which I had lived.
My first sensation, for I can find no better word to express my thought, was that of freedom, and with that sense of freedom came a consciousness of utter loneliness. I felt as the Ancient Mariner in Coleridge's immortal poem must have felt:
"Alone, alone, all alone,Alone on a wild, wide sea,So lonely it was that God Himself,Scarce seemèd there to be."
"Alone, alone, all alone,Alone on a wild, wide sea,So lonely it was that God Himself,Scarce seemèd there to be."
I felt no pain, no weariness, and I was free; but I was alone.
I do not know that I felt fear; no terror possessed me; I did not think of my past life with dread, neither did past scenes haunt me. My thought of the past was rather the thought of emptiness, of purposelessness, of vacancy; it seemed to me as though my life had been a great opportunity of which I had failed to avail myself.
I had a feeling, too, that it was very cold. I seemed to be floating in infinite space, through sunless air.
Kipling, I remember, in one of the most vivid poems he ever wrote, described a man who, when he died, was carried far away:
"Till he heard as the roar of a rain-fed ford, the roar of the Milky Way.Till he heard the roar of the Milky Way die down, and drone and cease....
"Till he heard as the roar of a rain-fed ford, the roar of the Milky Way.Till he heard the roar of the Milky Way die down, and drone and cease....
Then Tomlinson looked up and down, and little gain was there For the naked stars gleamed overhead, and he saw that his soul was bare. But the wind that blows between the worlds had cut him like a knife...."
But the poet's imagination never saw in his vision an experience like mine. No winds blew between the worlds; there was no roar as of a rain-fed ford; all was silence. Not the silence of narrow spaces, not even the silence of night, when the ears of listeners are filled with noise made by silence; it was the silence of illimitable spaces, the silence of eternity.
I thought my spirit was mounting; at least that was the impression left upon me; I was going upward, not downward. But here words fail me again, because, as it seemed to me, there was no upward and no downward. More than that, there seemed to be a lack of standards whereby one could measure anything. There was no more time, and as a consequence there was no past, no present, no future. Everything, as I thought, was formless, meaningless.
I know I have failed to give a true idea of what I saw and felt. As a boy, I was for a short time fascinated by the study of astronomy, and I remember being made afraid by the thought of the distances between the worlds. Now all that was changed; I was floating, it appeared to me, between unnumbered worlds, but in a way they were near to me, so near that I could see what was happening on them.
How long I was alone I do not know, for, as I have said, time had no meaning. In a sense I felt as though I wandered through the silences for æons, although scenes flashed before me with the speed of light. My experiences make me think of the words of the old Hebrew poet:
"A thousand years in Thy sight are but as yesterday,when it is passed, and as a watch in the night."
"A thousand years in Thy sight are but as yesterday,when it is passed, and as a watch in the night."
I have said that the worlds I saw were near me, so near that I could see their inhabitants and watch their movements and activities. But even in this I convey a wrong impression, for while I had this sense of nearness, I had also the consciousness that they were separated by vast distances. It was just as though I had a glimpse of the Universe. There were millions of worlds around me, and all were inhabited; everywhere was life, life that expressed itself in thought and action. On every hand were sentient thinking beings who played their part and did their work in the world from which they drew their life.
A sense of unutterable awe possessed me. I was between the worlds. I could watch what was being done on those worlds, and I felt myself to be the merest speck in infinity.
As I have stated, the thought which possessed me was that I was utterly alone, and that while I suffered no pain, and while I had a consciousness of freedom which made me exultant, my loneliness was beyond all thought....
I felt a presence; at least that is the only word I can think of to express my thought. I had no consciousness of a person being near me, and yet that Something was all around me, an Intelligence, a Will, a Power. What it was I could not tell, but that Something answered the questions which came to me....
The one predominating thought or consciousness which flooded and overwhelmed everything was the consciousness of God. While I had been in the body, something hid from me the reality of God; now everything was God. I lived in God; everything was submerged in this one great Fact of Facts, and I wondered at my blindness when I was alive. And yet I was overwhelmed by what, for want of a better word, I call the immensity of everything. I remember asking myself how God could care for such a life as mine; how He could take an interest in the myriads of beings who inhabited the worlds; how He, Who controlled planets and suns, could care for the little lives of men. For I seemed so infinitely little; I was but a speck in infinite space, less to the Universe than the tiniest insect which crawled upon the face of the globe on which I had lived.
But even as the thought came to me came also the answer: because God was infinite in thought, in love, in power, so His Being enveloped all; that because He governed the infinitely Great, so He cared for the tiniest speck of life He had created....
I saw the world from which I had come; I was able to locate my own country. Europe stretched out before me like a plain, and there I saw the nations at war. At first the war appeared only like the struggle of ants upon their little hills, and it seemed of no more importance as to which army should conquer the other than if they had been so many insects at war.
"How little we must be to God!" I thought. "On earth we regarded the European War as something beyond all thought, all comprehension, yet seen from here it is less than a struggle of gnats. What does it matter to God whether England or Germany wins in what we call the Great World Struggle?" But even as the thought flashed through my spirit came the answer that God did care; that because we were the breath of His life we had a destiny to fulfil, a work to do; that the energies of God were on the side of those who sought to express His will.
It was all infinitely beyond me; I could not understand, and yet I had the consciousness that God watched the struggle of the creatures He had made, and that He was on the side of those who, perhaps unknown to themselves, were moving towards His own purposes. As I watched, the world seemed to become nearer to me, and such was my power of vision that I was able to visualize all the struggle and all the deadly warfare from Russia to France. I heard the boom of guns, I saw the flash of bayonets, I could plainly see the men in their trenches and could hear them talking with each other. I saw shells flying from the mouths of the guns, I watched their passage through the air. I beheld them as they fell, and I saw the stain on the battle-fields. I realized everything as I had never realized it before. I saw men in their death agony, I heard their groans, their shrieks of pain. I saw thousands of torn, mangled bodies, bodies which a moment before were full of life and vigor.
Then, as it seemed to me, I beheld the agony of the world. I saw blighted homes, broken lives, bleeding, broken hearts.
"O God!" I cried out, "let me not see! I cannot bear it!"
For death was horrible to me, and life a mockery. How could God care when He allowed these young lives, so full of hope and promise, to perish in a moment?
Then out of all the mad carnage and above the din and horror of war came a voice that filled my being and rang through the worlds:
"Fear not them who can kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul."
I saw that the great tragedy of the world was not the tragedy caused by war, but the tragedy of men killing their souls even while their bodies lived; that the death of those on the battle-fields was as nothing compared to the death of those who seemed to live and yet who were dead, because they had sacrificed truth and honor and love, and that death was impossible while honor and truth and love lived.
Then I looked again, and behold, the heavens were full of the spirits of those who had offered their all on the altar of duty, and that for them there was no death. I saw that instruments of war had no power to touch the real life of these men; that each had a Divine Spark of life, and that that life was still under the overshadowing wing of the Eternal love....
Ages appeared to pass; how long I knew not, cared not, for time had no meaning. I saw that the Eternal Love and the Eternal Life, which was everywhere, was bringing out of all that at first seemed a meaningless chaos an infinite order; that even the War of the World in which men lost their lives by thousands and hundreds of thousands, in which unholy passions seemed to prevail, and in which Death stalked triumphant: I say I saw evolving out of all this, confused and contradictory as it all appeared, a higher life and a higher thought—a movement towards the Eternal Will and towards the Eternal Purpose which was behind everything.
I know I have badly expressed all this, because I find no words wherewith to make clear that which came to me; for in truth thought was lost in consciousness, and language fails to express that consciousness. I only know that I saw order coming out of chaos, light out of darkness, love out of hatred, divinity out of bestiality, life out of death.
For life and love were all.
I did not see God—that is, I was not able to visualize His Presence. I did not talk with God as a man talketh with his friend, and yet my whole being seemed to be filled with His Light and Love and Peace. I felt that I was breathing God, because God was all; that nothing was outside His Care, that nothing was too small for His Love. I wondered at my doubts and at my absence of faith, for God was everywhere, in everything; in all purposes, plans, desires. I was conscious that He was shaping and directing and controlling all the thoughts of men, and that everything was moving towards His Eternal Purposes.
In the light of what I saw, pain and wrong and misery were being overruled by the Eternal Love, so that even they were speeding men towards the greater, fuller life, and that in the march of untold ages Life and Love were everything.
A sense of triumph, of exultation filled me, bore me up as if on the wings of eagles. I saw everything from a new perspective. I realized as I never realized before the meaning of the words of the Apostle:
"Our light affliction, which is but for amoment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and Eternal weight of glory."
I saw that all things—all wrong, all pain, all darkness, everything which made life dark and terrible—were only for amoment, and that they were overruled by the Eternal God, so that those who suffered them merged through the ages into Eternal Love and Eternal Light.
How long I was in this state I do not know, for, as I have said, time had no meaning to me. All life's standards seemed to melt away. I only knew that I was, that I felt, that I was filled with an overwhelming joy, because I knew that darkness would end in Eternal Light, that pain would end in Infinite Peace.
Then slowly everything began to fade away; the worlds by which I was surrounded ceased to be. I lost the power, of visualizing; my thoughts became dim and indistinct. Presently all became darkness save for one speck of light. Sometimes that speck of light became very small; sometimes it grew larger, but it was always there, and I was conscious of an unspeakable peace.
The first thing I can remember after coming to consciousness was the feeling that strangers were around me. I could not see them, but I knew they were there. I remember trying to open my eyes, but I could see nothing; I heard whispered voices, however.
"Is he dead?"
"I am not quite sure. No, he's not dead, his pulse still beats!"
"Will he live, do you think?"
"Difficult to say. He came out of it all right, but his vitality is very low."
"Was the operation severe?"
"Yes, very severe; it is a miracle that he has lived as long as he has. I must go by the Riviera express to-morrow morning, but I will call about eight o'clock."
"Have you any further orders to give?"
"No, you can only do what I have told you. His life hangs on a thread; he may live, but I doubt it."
I listened in a detached kind of way, scarcely realizing what I heard; I was perfectly indifferent, too. It had nothing to do with me, and even if it had, I did not care. Then darkness came upon me again and I no longer saw the bright speck shining.
After that I had quickly fleeting moments of consciousness; things around me became real for a moment and then passed away. Doubtless I was in a semi-comatose condition; sometimes I imagined I heard fragments of conversation, but I can remember nothing definite.
After that followed a time of intense weariness. I felt as though I were too weak even to lie down; I could not move my limbs, and the weight of my own body on the bed seemed to weary me, but I was not sufficiently conscious to realize the full extent of my weariness. I have a vague remembrance of being fed; I call to mind a woman standing by my bedside holding something to my mouth; but as I reflect now these things seem only phantoms of the mind.
After a time I became conscious of intense pain, and I have a recollection of being able to move my limbs, and I remember hearing a voice saying:
"He is stronger anyhow, but I never saw a man so utterly exhausted."
A long space of time, how long I do not know, but it seemed to me interminable. Day appeared to follow day and week to follow week, and yet I have no distinct remembrance. In recalling it all, I am like a man trying to remember a far-off dream.
Suddenly I became awake. I was fully conscious that I was living; I could outline the room in which I lay, I could see the sunlight streaming in at the window, I could hear the birds singing. I was very weak, but I was alive; I was able to think, too, able to connect thought with thought, although my memory was dim. Incidents of my life passed before me like shadows; I saw them only in part, but I did see them.
The room was strange to me. This was not my little bedroom by the sea; the apartment was bigger than the whole of my cottage. The ceiling was high, and the window through which the sun shone was large. I did not care so much where I was; all the same, I was curious.
"What has happened to me, I wonder?" I asked myself, "and why am I here?"
I could see no one in the room, and all was silent save for the singing of the birds and the humming of the insects. I had a vague consciousness that the feeling of summer was in the air, and a delicious kind of restfulness possessed me. I was no longer too tired to lie down, rather I felt the luxury of being in bed. I suffered no pain either, although at my side, where I remembered suffering exquisite agony, was a kind of tingling sensation which I associated with a wound in the act of healing.
I saw a woman come to the head of my bed; she wore a nurse's uniform, and had a placid, kindly face.
"Who are you, and where am I?"
I know I spoke the words, but I did not recognize my voice at all; it seemed far away, like a whispering among breezes.
The woman said something, I know, but what, I could not tell. I imagine the effect was soothing, for immediately afterwards I found myself going to sleep.
Again I was conscious, more vividly conscious than before. The outlines of the room were the same, and I was able to recognize some of the furniture which I had previously seen. I remembered, too, lifting my hand from the counterpane and noting how thin and white it was.
The door of the room opened and a man entered. I saw at a glance that it was Simpson, and I looked at him through my half-closed eyes. He came to my bedside and looked steadily at me, then he placed his hand gently on my forehead; his touch was as soft as that of a woman.
"Simpson," I said, and this time I was able to recognize my voice. "Is that you, Simpson?"
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir."
His old-time formula acted on me like a tonic; it made me want to laugh. Yes, I really was alive then, and Simpson was with me; but what was the meaning of this strange room?
"Simpson," I said, "am I really alive?"
"Yes, sir; thank God, sir."
I thought I saw the tears gather in his eyes, and I am sure I saw his lips tremble.
"Have I been ill, Simpson?"
"Yes, sir, very ill, but I believe we have beaten them, sir."
"Beaten who?" I asked.
But this time he did not answer. The woman came in again bearing something in her hand. There was a whispered consultation between them, and then I remember drinking something, after which I went to sleep again.
When I again awoke I felt sure it was morning. I had no reason for believing this, but I had no doubt about it; the air was morning air, the sounds were morning sounds. The birds were chirping in the trees, the cattle were lowing in the meadows, the poultry were cackling in a yard near by, a thousand whispering voices everywhere told me that I had awakened to the dawn of a new day. I moved in my bed; yes, I had strength enough for that, and the movement caused me no pain. In an instant I heard footsteps, and Simpson again came to my side.
"Can I do anything for you, sir? How are you to-day?"
"I feel like a man reborn, Simpson," I said. And it was true. A life was surging in my veins which I never remembered before; I felt as though my whole being had been made clean and all my powers renewed. I was unutterably weak, but I felt all a child's health and joy.
"Tell me what this means, Simpson," I said; "this is not my room, not my bed."
"No, sir, but I am your man, sir," and his voice was husky.
"Yes, I am glad you are with me, Simpson. It is good to wake up and find you here."
"I hope I shall never have to leave you, sir," and I saw him wipe away his tears.
"Tell me about it, Simpson—tell me where I am and what has happened to me."
"I am forbidden to talk, sir; the doctor won't allow me. You see——"
"What doctor?" I interrupted.
"Dr. Rhomboid, sir."
"Dr. Rhomboid? Dr. Rhomboid?" The name was familiar to me.
"Where am I, Simpson?"
"You are at Trecarrel, sir; Miss Lethbridge insisted on——"
"Miss Lethbridge! Miss Lethbridge!" Then like a flash the veil dropped from my memory. I called to mind the struggle on the beach, the hand-to-hand fight, the plot which I had determined to expose.
"Miss Lethbridge insisted on my being brought here, did she, Simpson?"
"Yes, sir; you see, sir, that man Liddicoat struck you with something heavy. I—I—but there, I mustn't tell you."
"Yes, you must, Simpson; I insist upon knowing everything. I remember all that happened now: I was leaning against the rock waiting, when the dog barked, and the man Liddicoat sprang upon me. I struggled with him for a long time, and then suddenly everything became dark."
"Yes, sir, after they had finished——"
"Finished what?" I asked.
"I can't tell you now, sir; but Miss Lethbridge insisted on your being brought here. And really, sir, the road is easier here than it is to our house, and I gave in."
"But how did Miss Lethbridge get there?"
"I don't know, sir. I expect she will be telling you herself as soon as you are strong enough. Then I insisted upon sending for Dr. Rhomboid, and, sir, as Providence would have it, he was staying at the Tolgarrick Manor Hotel. The Squire had heard of it, sir; that was why, as soon as you were brought here...."
I felt that my mind was weakening, and that I had no longer any strength to grasp the things which Simpson was saying. I lost interest in them, too, and I remember falling asleep with the thought in my mind that I was in the house where Isabella Lethbridge had insisted upon bringing me.
I awoke again, and I knew that I was stronger; everything was outlined more clearly to me. Not only the objects by which I was surrounded, but my thoughts seemed more definite. It was now night; the room in which I lay was only illumined by a candle, but I saw everything plainly. Sitting by my side was the nurse whom I remembered previously; she started up on hearing me move and looked at me anxiously.
"You need not fear, nurse," I said. "I am better; the cobwebs have gone."
The nurse smiled, then she placed her hand upon my wrist.
"Yes," she said, "you are better, stronger. Can you bear to have this in your mouth a minute?"
"I can bear anything, nurse."
Evidently she was pleased with me, for a minute later she smiled confidently.
"Your pulse is normal and you have no fever," she said.
"Why am I here, nurse? What has happened to me? Tell me everything."
"No, no; go to sleep now, and in the morning you may be strong enough to bear it."
"I should sleep far better if I knew everything," I replied; "don't be foolish, nurse."
"What do you want to know?"
"Dr. Rhomboid has been here, I am told," I said. "What did he say about me? When I saw him in London he wrote my death-warrant."
"Now he has given you a reprieve," was her reply, "and more than a reprieve. In fact, he said that if you got through the operation you would live!"
I was not surprised; I felt that life, and not death, was surging within me.
"Don't try to keep things back from me, nurse," I said. "I remember everything that took place. I remember the struggle on the beach and the darkness which followed. Simpson tells me that I have been brought to Mr. Lethbridge's house, and that, as if by special Providence, Dr. Rhomboid was staying at the Tolgarrick Hotel. What was his verdict?"
"He sent for a London surgeon," said the nurse, "and he told us that if you recovered from the operation you would live. You have recovered."
"Then he made a wrong diagnosis in London. That means I had something growing in me, and now it's cut out I shall live?"
The nurse nodded and smiled.
"That's all I must tell you now," she said; "take this and go to sleep."
I obeyed her like a child; a feeling of utter contentment possessed me, and I felt myself dropping into a deep, untroubled sleep.
When I awoke again I had a feeling that it was morning. I knew that the dewdrops were shining on the grass, that the day was new-born; I knew, too, that the sun was rising in a cloudless sky, that the time was summer.
I was in the same room, but somehow it was different. A new atmosphere pervaded it; I saw vases of flowers, flowers that were wet with the morning dew, flowers that had been gathered that morning. Their perfume was as sweet as the spices of Araby. A feeling of delicious restfulness possessed me; I was as weak as a child; but there was new life in my being, a life that would overcome everything. I closed my eyes with the consciousness that all was well; nothing troubled me, no thought of care weighed upon my brain or heart. I caught myself remembering those lines of Browning:
"The lark's on the wing,The morning's at seven,The hillside's dew-pearled,The snail's on the thorn;God's in His heaven,All's right with the world!"
"The lark's on the wing,The morning's at seven,The hillside's dew-pearled,The snail's on the thorn;God's in His heaven,All's right with the world!"
I heard a sob close by my side.
I did not know how it was, but the sob seemed to be in accord with my thoughts, for it contained no sorrow.
I opened my eyes and saw Isabella Lethbridge leaning over my bed. I didn't speak, I couldn't; my life was filled with wonder, a wonder which I cannot put into words.
She was dressed, I remember, all in white; this I thought strange, because I imagined she would show some kind of mourning for her dead brother; but I gave it only a passing thought, for it was of no importance; the thing that impressed me was the new light in her eyes, the new joy in her face.
The barrier which had always stood between us had melted away; she was transformed, glorified. There was no need to tell me that a wondrous change had come over her; that some joy to which she had hitherto been blind possessed her; that a new power was pulsating in her life: Isabella Lethbridge was transformed, beautified beyond all thought.
We looked at each other without speaking a word; there was no need for words; words at that moment would have seemed like sacrilege.
A thousand questions flashed through my mind, but I did not ask them; there was only one question which I longed to ask, a question which embraced everything.
Still we did not speak; we remained looking in each other's eyes, as if each were trying to find what we looked for.
Then I saw the tears well up, saw them trickle down her cheeks, saw her lips quiver, and then she could no longer hold back her words.
"Don't you know, don't you know?" she sobbed.
I held out my arms, and a second later our lips met, and we were uttering incoherent words which none but those who know the language of the heart can interpret.
"You know now, don't you?" she said at length.
"Yes, I know," I said.
And yet it was all a wonder to me. When last I had spoken to her an invisible barrier stood between us. I had admired her beauty, her keen intelligence; I thought, too, that I saw wondrous possibilities in her nature; but I did not love her. Something, I knew not what, forbade that love. I had told her so, told her that I did not love her, that I only loved the woman she ought to be. Now it seemed as though a magician's hand had swept away the barrier; that some divine power had illumined her life and filled it with a new and divine element. I saw her ennobled, glorified; the old repellent look had gone; those eyes which had flashed with scorn were now filled with infinite tenderness. Why was it? And what had wrought the change?
Presently she lifted her head, and I saw a look of fear come into her eyes.
"You said you didn't love me; is that true?"
"You know," I replied.
"But tell me, tell me!"
"I can't," I replied; "words only mock me; they would only suggest the faintest shadow of what fills my life. The barriers are gone! What has wrought the change?"
"Are you sure you are strong enough to hear? Oh, it is wrong of me to speak to you like this, and you so weak!"
"Your every word is giving me new life," was my reply; "tell me everything."
"And you are sure, sure—that—that——"
"That I see in you the woman God meant you to be," was my reply. "But what has wrought the change?"
"I can hardly find words to tell you, it seems so unreal, so—so beyond the power of words to express. But—but years ago I could not love; I longed to love and could not; something held me back, what, I didn't know. I tried to break down that something. I—I was called a flirt, you know," and she laughed nervously.
"Yes, yes, I remember," I said.
"I did it as an experiment. I fancied that somehow if I won the love of some one, the casement around my heart would break, would melt away; but it was no use. And all the time I knew that I was missing the joy of life. Then you came. Yes, you were right; I thought I saw in you one who might break the hard crust around my heart, and I tried to fascinate you, tried to—to—do what you said. You remember?"
"Yes, I remember."
"But you were right. If you had loved me then, I had nothing to give you. At the centre of my heart there was a burning fire; but that fire was confined; I didn't love you; I wanted to, longed to, but I could not. And yet all the time I knew that if ever love came to me it would be for you, only you."
She ceased speaking for a few seconds, and I heard her tremulous breathing.
"Do you understand? Do you forgive me?" she asked.
"Yes, I understand; go on, tell me."
"Then came that day, before—before—the awful night. You know when you told me that you believed you were going to die, and you hinted that that very night you were going on an enterprise which meant danger, possibly death, I think I went mad; I have no remembrance of anything except the feeling that I must watch you, save you! So all that evening I waited around your hut unseen. I saw you at your little wireless station; I saw you send Simpson away; I saw you go down through the copse towards the beach. I followed you, watching all the time. Even then I didn't know my secret; I acted as though I had no will of my own, as though I were driven by some power I could not understand. I didn't know your plans, but I felt that I must be silent and watch. Then when that man leapt on you something seemed to break within me, something was liberated, I didn't know what; but I knew that I loved you, I knew that the power of love had come to me, and that I was ready to die to save you. Without thought or comprehension of what I was doing, I flung myself upon the woman, and—and...."
"Oh, my love, my love!" I murmured. "Thank God for all His goodness!"
For some time we were silent.
"Tell me all the rest," I said presently.
"That's all, isn't it?"
There was a great deal more, but I cared nothing about it. At that moment it seemed to me that all I had tried to do and hoped to do for my country was swallowed up in the one great possession, the one great fact which overwhelmed everything.
"Am I doing wrong in telling you this?" she asked. "It seems as though there is nothing else in life now but that, because it has meant everything else—faith, religion, God. It has made the world new, it has broken down all barriers and glorified all life. Oh, my love, my love, do you understand?"
"I understand," I replied, "I understand."
And then the truth which had contained everything, the truth which was the centre and circumference of all that came to me during the time I thought I was dead, flooded my heart and brain.
"Life and love are everything, for these mean God."
I did not ask her the result of my struggle with Liddicoat, or the outcome of the plans I had made. I wanted to ask her, and yet I did not; somehow that did not seem to matter.
I heard the birds singing in the trees around the house; heard the lowing of the cattle in the meadows; saw the sunlight streaming through the window; breathed the sweetness of the morning air.
I had indeed entered the light and life of a new day; the world was flooded with a glory that was infinite; barriers were broken down because I had learnt the secret of life!
For some time we were silent; again there seemed nothing to say, because everything was too wonderful for words.
"During the time your life hung on a thread, and when the doctors doubted whether you could live, even then I had no fear," she went on presently. "That which had come to me was so wonderful that it seemed to make everything possible, and—I cannot put it into words—but while I was almost mad with anxiety, in spite of a kind of certainty which possessed me, I knew that all was well, I knew that somehow—somehow we should be brought together and that life's secret would be ours."
A knock came to the door and the nurse entered.
"How is the patient, Miss Lethbridge?" she asked.
"I feel wonderful," I replied; "far stronger than I was when you were here last, nurse."
"Yes, you are all right," said the nurse smilingly. "Miss Lethbridge came directly you fell asleep, and insisted on my going to bed. I am sure it was awfully good of her to relieve me."
"She has proved a good substitute, nurse," I replied; "but you must insist upon her going to bed now if she has been watching all the night."
"Yes, and you look as though you need washing and your hair brushed," laughed the nurse. "You must not get on too fast, you know."
"I shall be quite well enough to receive visitors soon," was my reply.
"Visitors!" laughed the nurse; "you will be inundated with them as soon as you are strong enough. A man has come all the way from London to see you; he wants to interview you for one of the London newspapers. You see, having succeeded in exposing that German plot, and causing the arrest of a lot of dangerous people, you have been the talk of the country."
"I was successful, then?" I said.
"Successful! Oh, of course you don't know; but you will hear all about it later, as soon as you are stronger."
"How long is it since it happened?" I asked curiously.
"I have been here just five weeks," replied the nurse.
Of course the facts are old now, and I need not detail them here. All the world knows that Colonel Laycock's soldiers came up in time to get hold of, not only Liddicoat and his accomplice, who proved to be dangerous German spies, but several others who had been in the enemy's service for the purpose of conveying petrol to the submarines. The little bay in which I had lived was of great importance to them, and the cave I had discovered was their principal storehouse for petrol. Indeed, since their plot was exposed and our Government officials got hold of the facts, submarines have done their work under increasing difficulty.
Of Father Abraham I heard but little. This, however, is the news which came to me: Years before, he had been sent from Germany to act as one of their agents, but later on, when he discovered what would be expected of him, he left the neighborhood; but before doing so he did his best to create the idea that he had been murdered, and that his body had been disposed of. It seems that he stood in deadly fear of the Germans, and believed that he was constantly watched. He was afraid to confess that he had been acting as a German agent, and that was why he didn't tell the English authorities what he knew. Why he was so anxious to save me from danger I cannot fully comprehend; all I know about him I have set down in this narrative, and those who read this must draw their own conclusions. Certain it is that he was never seen in the neighborhood of St. Issey again.
My own recovery was longer than I had hoped for. I grew gradually stronger, but the operation which I had undergone was more serious than I had imagined, and it was several weeks after I awoke to consciousness before I was allowed to leave my room.
Dr. Rhomboid, who came twice from London to see me, was very insistent on my taking no risks, and also kept the many visitors who desired to see me from entering the room.
Thus for some time after the incidents I have recorded, with the exception of the doctor, who, by the way, was not Dr. Wise, the only persons I saw were the nurse, Simpson, and Isabella. As may be imagined, however, I was well looked after, and was not at all sorry at being deprived of the companionship of my neighbors. Perhaps, however, I have said too much. I did want to see Squire Treherne, and I should have been glad of a visit from the Vicar; and bearing in mind what Squire Treherne had said, I wanted to have a chat with Josiah Lethbridge.
At the end of three weeks I was pronounced sufficiently strong to receive visitors, and the first who came was Josiah Lethbridge. I had expected to see a change in him, but not so great as had actually taken place. He knew nothing of what had passed between Isabella and myself, because we had arranged to keep everything a secret; but he could not have treated me more kindly had I been his own child. When I uttered my apologies for the trouble which I had given the family, his lips quivered and he seemed on the point of breaking down.
"Please don't mention that," he said. "If you only knew the joy it gives me to know that you are in the house, and that I am in the slightest degree able to be of service to you, you would not talk in that way. But I must not try to explain now; the doctor has only given me three minutes to be with you, so I will only say that I am glad you are here, and that I am eagerly looking forward to the time when we shall see more of each other and know each other better. I have a great deal to tell you, my lad. God only knows how much."
Of the visits of Squire Treherne and Mr. Trelaske I will not speak, save to say that I well-nigh broke down at the old Squire's behavior.
"God bless my soul!" ejaculated the old man; "we will give you a time when you get well! No, no, not a word from you; you must not talk; but wewillgive you a time! We will have the whole countrysideen fête! It is not only the German plot you have exposed, it is other things, my boy! God bless you!"
It was not until the beginning of August that I was allowed to leave my bedroom and find my way down-stairs. The nurse and Isabella walked each side of me, supporting me at each step I took, and when I reached the living-room I found Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge awaiting me. I had barely spoken to Mrs. Lethbridge when I heard a child's cry in the room, and, looking, I saw Mary, Hugh's wife, holding a baby in her arms.
"Yes," said Josiah Lethbridge with a laugh, "this is a secret that we have kept in store for you. This is Hugh's child!"
"Then—then...." I stammered.
"As soon as my son's wife was well enough I insisted upon her being brought to her true home. Mary, my love, bring your baby here where Mr. Erskine can see him. Isn't he a beautiful boy? He was christened a month ago."
"And what is he called?" I asked.
"There was only one name to give him," replied Josiah Lethbridge proudly—"Hugh."
As I looked into Mary's eyes a sob rose in my throat. I saw the joy of motherhood there, I saw infinite tenderness, and more than tenderness. It was a joy chastened by sorrow, by loss unspeakable, by hope eternal.
"I am so glad, Mary," I said, "so glad. It is as it ought to be, isn't it?"
"Isn't he just like his father?" said the young mother proudly. "See his eyes, his chin—why, he's Hugh all over again!" Then her lips became tremulous, and tears welled up into her eyes.
"He is a beautiful boy," I said, "and—and...."
"He's made the house a new place," cried Josiah Lethbridge. "I have made Mary sleep in the next room to mine so that I can hear him when he cries in the night. It does me good to hear a baby cry. Oh, my boy, my boy!" and his voice trembled as he spoke.
I knew what he was thinking about—knew that he remembered, with a great sadness in his heart, that he had driven his only son from home; knew that he suffered unspeakable sorrow; and I could see that he was a different man.
"Isn't God good to us?" he said huskily; "and—and—Mary's forgiven me too, haven't you, my love?"
He put his arm around the young widow's waist as he spoke and kissed her.
"It's the baby who has done everything," said Mrs. Lethbridge. "The news that he was born came in the middle of the night, and when Josiah heard that both mother and child were well, he could not stay in bed; he got up and tramped around the room like a man beside himself. 'She must come home,' he said, 'home, and bring her baby with her.' Oh, it's wonderful, wonderful!"
"And you, Mary," said I, "are you well again?"
The simple-hearted girl turned to me with a wan smile.
"When the news came to me first about Hugh," she said, "I thought I should have died; I wanted to die; life seemed hateful to me; then—then—when my boy was born, oh, he made all the difference! I know Hugh is not dead, he lives in heaven, and he is watching over us. You believe that too, don't you, Mr. Erskine?"
"I don't believe in death," I replied; "there is no death, only seeming death."
"Do you remember what I said to you, Erskine, when I saw you months ago in your little hut?" said Josiah Lethbridge. "I said that God Almighty must be laughing at us. Now I know I was wrong."
"Yes?" I said questioningly.
"God Almighty never laughs at us," said Josiah Lethbridge. "He is revealed to us by His Son, and Jesus wept at the graveside of Lazarus. He weeps at all the sorrow and pain of the world. Jesus wept even although He knew He would raise Lazarus from the dead, and God weeps at our follies and our madness even although He, in His Eternal Love, is working out for us all a greater salvation. Oh, we are fools, my lad! We measure His purposes by our little foot-rule; we explain His Will according to the standard of our puny minds; we measure events by days and years; but God lives, and works His own Sovereign Will. It has all come to me lately. I have gone through deep waters, my lad; the waves and the billows have well-nigh overwhelmed me; but that little baby has made all the difference; my boy lives again in him."
I was silent, I remember; there seemed nothing to say. What were words at such a time as that? Deep had called unto deep, and the Voice of God had been heard in the mysterious happenings of life.
I found my way to a chair close by a window, through which I looked out on the lawn, and at the flowers which surrounded it. It was about three o'clock in the afternoon, and the sun had begun to sink, although the day was yet glorious. Beyond the trees of the park I could see the wild moorland, and between two rugged tors I caught the shimmer of the sea.
The nurse had left the room by this time, and none but the members of the family except myself remained. I could not help realizing the change that had taken place. When I had first entered the house the atmosphere was cold, hard, unpleasant. Josiah Lethbridge was in the height of his prosperity, and he had his wife and children around him; his life did not seem to be touched with care or sorrow; no clouds seemed to hang in his sky. Now the death-reaper had come and had taken his only son; yet it was a far happier home than then. Josiah Lethbridge had been embittered towards his son, because the latter loved a simple-minded farmer's daughter; he had even driven his son from home, because the lad would be true to his heart and marry the girl he loved. Now he had taken this girl to his arms; he had brought her and her baby to his home. There was sorrow in the house, but it was a chastened sorrow, a sorrow illumined by faith and love.
"Oh, if my boy had only lived!" said Josiah Lethbridge; "if he had only been spared to see this day, I think my cup of happiness would be full; but God Almighty never makes a mistake."
"No," I said, "He never makes a mistake."
"Do you say that, Erskine?"
"Yes, I say it," I replied, thinking of my own experiences and remembering the life that had come to me. "Yes, I say it."
"It is a ghastly thing, is this war," he went on. "I become bewildered, maddened, when I think about it. I can't explain it, I can't even see a far-off glimpse of explanation, when I think of this life only. When I think of the suffering, of the waste of life, the sorrow, the unutterable sorrow of tens of thousands of homes;—it's all so foolish, so—so—mad. But that is not God's doing, my boy; besides, even in it all, through it all, He's working His Will. Life is being purified; men are learning their lessons. I know it, Great God, I know it! The nations of Europe were in danger of forgetting God, and now are realizing their foolishness. But oh, if my Hugh had lived! If I could see him coming across the lawn as I used to see him, if I could hear him laugh in his old boyish way! But he is dead."
"No, Mr. Lethbridge," I said, "he is not dead; there is no death, of that I am certain; there is no death. God lives, and because He lives His children live always. I agree with you about the ghastliness, the sinfulness, the madness of war; but this war has told me that the eternal life in man laughs at death. What we call death is not an end of life, it is only a beginning. This life is only a fragment of life; that at all events I have learnt."
I looked around the room and found that we were alone. Mary had taken away her baby, while Mrs. Lethbridge and Isabella had, for some reason, left the room.
"You speak like one who knows," said Josiah Lethbridge; "you talk like a man who has seen things."
"Yes," I said, "I have seen things."
"And you have rendered great service to your country too. Have you read what the papers have said about you?"
"No," I replied, "I don't know that I have troubled about them. After all, those were only incidents; there are more important things than those."
He looked at me curiously.
"I know what you have experienced and suffered," I said, "and I know what your suffering has done for you; but you know little of my story; I want to tell you more about it."
"Yes, yes, tell me!" he said eagerly.
And I told him—told him of the doctor's verdict; told him of my longing for life; told him much that I have set down in these pages.
"I can't explain it," I said, when I came to describe the experiences through which I had passed after the great darkness fell upon me, "but I KNOW, I SAW."
"You felt that, saw that?"
"God and immortality are not matters of faith to me now, Mr. Lethbridge; they are matters of consciousness; that is why I am so certain about Hugh. He is not dead. A lad who could do what he did had Eternal Life in him. God is here all the while; it is only our blindness that keeps us from seeing Him. Hugh is still your son. There are only two eternal things, Mr. Lethbridge."
"Two eternal things," he repeated, "only two?"
"Life, love. That leads me to what I want to say to you now."
He looked at me with keen interest.
"I love Isabella," I said simply. "Haven't you guessed it?"
"What! Do you mean——?"
"I do," I said. "Will you give her to me?"
"I—I have seen a change in her lately, and—and——But, my dear boy——"
"I am afraid I am what you will call a poor match," I went on. "The doctor says it will be months before I shall be fully strong again, although he promises me that I shall be able to resume my old profession in a couple of months from now. Perhaps my clients will have forgotten me; still, I think I can get some new ones; my reputation seems to be better than I thought it was. Besides, if I become fully strong again, I shall feel it my duty to offer my services to the country; so I shall be a poor match, I am afraid, but I love her."
"And she?" he asked.
"She knows all I have told you," I replied.
"And—and—that has made all the change in her then. Why—why——"
"Will you give her to me, Mr. Lethbridge?" I repeated. "Will you let me take Hugh's place as far as I can? I will give my life to make her happy."
His astonishment seemed too great for words; several times he attempted to speak, but broke down each time.
"But, Erskine, my lad," he said at length, "Erskine——"
"You will, won't you, dad? If you don't, I shall run away with Frank!"
I had no knowledge that Isabella had been there, but, turning, I saw her standing behind me with love-lit eyes.
"Oh, dad, you won't refuse, will you?"
"Refuse?" he cried. "God bless my soul!—but—but—it's the very thing I would have chosen!" and then this stern, strong man sobbed like a child.
"We are having tea on the lawn," said Mrs. Lethbridge, entering the room at that moment. "Why, what's the meaning of this?"
When she knew what had taken place, she threw her arms around my neck, and kissed me.
"I have seen it for months," she declared presently. "Oh, yes, you needn't laugh at me; I saw—trust a mother's eyes."
That was the happiest evening I had ever known. I will not try to describe it, words seem so poor, so utterly insufficient. We were like those who had come safe into harbor after a voyage across a gray, trackless, stormy sea. We shuddered at the thought of the voyage; but we were glad we had undergone the suffering.
"I never knew dad so happy in my life," said Isabella to me as she bade me good-night. "Do you know, that in spite of everything I was afraid that he might—he might refuse? Oh, my love, my love, if Hugh had only lived to see us all!"
"He does see us," I ventured.
"Yes, but if he could be here amongst us, if he could see how father treats Mary, how he loves the baby, how happy mother is, and how—I—I——Oh, how I hate bidding you good-night, but we shall meet again in the morning."
"Yes, we shall meet in the morning," I said, with a glad heart.
I thought my story had come to an end here, that I had no more to relate, but an event has just happened which I must set down, or this narrative will be incomplete.
I had returned to London and taken up my life where I had dropped it. I was still comparatively weak, but strong enough to do the work which fell to me.
As the weeks passed by, clients came to me as of old, and I found myself having to refuse briefs. I was glad of this, because I wanted to show Josiah Lethbridge, when I went to Cornwall for Christmas, that I was not helpless, and that I was able to provide a home for his child. I found, too, although the doctors refused me when I offered myself for the Army, that my strength was daily increasing. Indeed, so far had I recovered myself that near the end of the term I was able to carry through a difficult case, and in spite of being opposed by a barrister of national reputation, I was able to win it.
I had hoped to go to Cornwall at the beginning of the Christmas vacation, but I found that my success had led to so much work that it was not until Christmas Eve that I was able to get away.
"Simpson," I said on the Thursday night, "I want you to get my bag in readiness in time for me to catch the Riviera express to-morrow morning. You know what things I shall want, Simpson; I shall be away about a fortnight, I hope."
"Yes, sir."
But Simpson didn't leave me as usual.
"What is the matter, Simpson? Is there anything you wish to say?"
"Well, sir, as you are going to Cornwall, I thought—that is—you see, there might not be room at Mr. Lethbridge's house for me; but the little hut on the cliff is still empty, and I could sleep there."
"You want to go, do you, Simpson?"
"Well, sir——"
"All right," I laughed, "you be ready to come with me." Whereupon he hurried away with a glad look in his eyes.
Isabella met me at the station on Christmas Eve. It was about five o'clock when the train drew up, and when I stepped on the platform she sobbed like one overcome.
"What is the matter?" I asked.
"I—I was afraid you would not come—afraid lest something should happen."
"Why, what should happen?"
"I don't know, only—even now it seems too good to be true. But there, you have come. Let me look at you again and make sure."
"Have you any visitors?" I asked presently.
"No; dad would not have any, but he's inviting Mr. Treleaven and his wife over to dinner to-morrow. You see, he's so anxious to make Mary happy. Do you know, Frank," and she laughed joyfully, "he seems to think of himself as your guardian. He has asked me twenty times to-day what time you are coming, and whether I have had any telegrams from you, and hosts of other things. I have been waiting at the station for an hour. He ordered Jenkins to bring around the car an hour too soon. He has read all about that trial a dozen times, and he is—he is proud of you, Frank!"
Oh, it was good to be in Cornwall again, good to breathe the pure air, and to smell the salt of the sea. As the motor dashed through St. Issey I thought of the time I had first seen it, and remembered the weight that had rested upon my heart.
"I have spent all the morning helping to decorate the Chapel," said Isabella, looking towards that structure as we passed it. "We are going to have a special service there to-morrow. Oh, it is good to have you, Frank."
A few minutes later we drew up to the entrance of Trecarrel, where both Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge stood waiting to greet me, while behind them was Mary, holding her baby in her arms.
"Is he not a beauty, Frank?" she said, holding him up to me. "He is beginning to know such a lot of things too. He knows grandad, granny, and Isabella; you should see him laugh when they come into the room!"