The Passion for Life

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

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

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

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

"And have they heard up there?"

"A letter came while we were at dinner."

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

"Think about what?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XVII

THE PHANTOM BOATS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You think so?" I queried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"More than nine months," I replied.

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

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

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

I shook my head.

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

Again I shook my head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After breakfast I clambered down the rugged footpath towards the beach. I felt a feverish desire to see the cave I had visited on first coming to St. Issey. The day was like summer; the sea rippled on the yellow sandy beach, and its music to me was like a long song. Everything caused my wild fancies to appear foolish. I looked carefully on the sand, but there was no sign of a foot-mark, no suggestion of a boat. Presently I found the fissure which led to the cave. This I entered, thinking as I did so of the quaint brooch of barbaric design which I had found there months before, and which I still possessed. Lighting a match, I looked at the sandy floor, and my whole body quivered with excitement. I saw many footmarks, and what seemed to me more important still, a piece of paper which had evidently been used as a wrapper of a bottle. On it was printed, in German, these words: "Bremen's Special Whisky, Manufactured in Dusseldorf."

What seemed suspicious was, that any one in Cornwall should be drinking German whisky nine months after the war had commenced. Not even in peace-time had the English people been in the habit of patronizing German whisky distillers. In war-time it was unthinkable. More than that, I was absolutely certain that this paper did not lie here when I last visited the cave. Moreover, the footmarks were fresh. They had been made within the last few hours. I felt as perturbed as Robinson Crusoe was, when, walking on the beach of his lonely island, he had seen a man's footprint on the sand. What did it portend? I ransacked my brain, but could think of nothing. What could Germans be doing here? What advantage could it be to them? And yet, what I had seen troubled me. Leaving the cave, I carefully examined every portion of the cliff, but could discover nothing. No footmarks appeared. No place seemed to exist wherein anything could be hidden. I spent hours thinking, wondering, watching, all to no avail. When I reached my cottage it was lunch-time.

That afternoon, I remember, the sky became cloudy, and the sea, instead of a wondrous blue, became dark and forbidding.

"I will not go to bed to-night until I feel sleepy," I reflected. "I won't have such a restless time as I had last night."

I undid the wrapper of a new novel which I had ordered to be sent to me, and prepared to read. Simpson had gone to bed. The night was chilly, so throwing some fresh lumps of wood on to the fire, and drawing up a chair, I made myself as comfortable as possible. The book was by one of our younger novelists who, as it appeared to me, struck a new vein. He possessed what very few novelists have – namely, vision. He looked deeper into the heart of things than any man I had read for some time. I became so interested that I forgot the lapse of time, until, looking at my watch. I found it was past midnight. I had scarcely noticed this when I heard stealthy footsteps outside. I sat up and listened. A moment later there was a knock at the door – not loud but cautious. I waited a few seconds, and the knock was repeated. Standing close to the door I spoke, not loudly, but sufficiently clearly to reach any one who might be outside.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

"Let me in, and I will tell you."

"Tell me who you are before I do that," I replied. "It is a strange time of night to come to one's house, and I shall not open the door until I know who you are."

"I mean only your good," was the answer.

"That is easily said," was my reply. "As it happens, my man is sleeping only a few yards away, and I have a loaded revolver close beside me. I am a good shot, too."

I scarcely know why I said this. Perhaps it was because I thought if the man were there on evil intent I might frighten him.

"I have something to tell you, something vastly important."

"Who are you? What is your name?"

"One name is as good as another. I mean only your good; let me in."

"Very well," I said, "I will open the door. If you do not play the game fairly, expect trouble."

Whereon I opened the door, and saw an old, white-bearded man. He wore a long ulster and a soft, broad-brimmed hat which partially hid his features. He came in without invitation, and I shut the door and locked it, putting the key in my pocket. He looked at me steadily, questioningly. He appeared like a man trying to form an estimate of me.

"Won't you take off your ulster?" I said.

Without a word, he divested himself of the heavy coat, and placing his hat upon it, looked at me steadily again.

He might have been Adam in As You Like It. He was doubtless very old, but he was ruddy and hale. His eyes were bright and piercing, and I noticed that they were largely shaded by heavy white eyebrows. His hair, also, was thick and white and glossy. A kindly-looking old man he was, but alert, capable, strong.

"There," I said, pointing to a chair. "Sit down, and tell me what you have to say."

"Do you know you are standing on a powder magazine?"

The words came from his mouth like a shot, so tersely, so suddenly did he speak.

"Do you speak literally or metaphorically?"

"Maybe both," was his reply.

"Anyhow, it hasn't exploded yet," was my answer. "Won't you sit down?"

"You are very cool."

"I see no reason to be excited."

He chuckled, as though he were amused.

"Since you are so kind," he said, "I will sit down. Ah, that is a good cigar you have been smoking."

"Yes," I replied. "Won't you have one?" and I pushed him the box.

He lit the cigar with a steady hand, and seemed to be enjoying it, but I noticed that he gave me several quick, searching glances.

I was beginning to enjoy what seemed like an adventure. Although my strength had ebbed away considerably during the past few months, my nerves were still steady, and I saw no reason for being afraid. I knew that Simpson was within call, knew too that, at his oft-repeated request, I had obtained a revolver, which was within easy reach. But I had no thought of using it. The man's visit was evidently of a friendly nature, and I believed he had something of importance to tell me.

XVIII

FATHER ABRAHAM

"If I were you, I should leave this house."

"May I ask why?"

"Because your life is in danger. Yes, I see you smile, but I know; I have reason to know."

"No," I replied, "my life is in no danger at all. I gather you are thinking of murder. I happen to be a lawyer, and have studied criminal cases for the last ten years, and I can never remember a murder to have taken place without some grave motive for it. No one has a sufficient motive to kill me. As far as I know, I haven't an enemy in the world, my death would benefit no one, and there is no reason why any would-be murderer would endanger his life by killing me."

The old man looked at me with an amused twinkle in his eye. He seemed to regard me as an interesting specimen of humanity.

"You are talking in the dark, my young friend," he said.

"No," I replied. "I am not talking in the dark, I am talking common sense. If I possessed a secret which was dangerous to any one, if I had it in my power to hurt any one, if I had money which some one desired, if some one hated me very much, if I had done any one any great injury, if I had stolen some young fellow's sweetheart, I could believe there might be truth in your words; but I have done none of these things. I have lived the most commonplace, humdrum life imaginable, and I haven't an enemy in the world. More than that, circumstances have made it unnecessary for any one to kill me. My death will come in a perfectly natural way in a very short time."

"What do you mean by that last sentence?"

"Just as I told you. If you do not believe me, I beg you to refer to Dr. Rhomboid, R-H-O-M-B-O-I-D, of Harley Street, London."

"I see. But you are a cool one!"

"I have no reason to be other than cool."

"You say you are a lawyer, but there is no need for you to tell me that."

"Still," I said, "I am interested in what you say. You have taken the trouble to come here at midnight, when every one else is asleep, and you tell me my life is in danger. I cannot believe that in the slightest degree; but the bump of curiosity, as the phrenologists say, is largely developed in my cranium. Tell me why you came."

"I have found out all about you that there is to know," he said between the puffs of his cigar.

"That didn't take you long," I replied.

Again there was a silence between us, during which he watched my face closely.

"Let me tell you this, my young friend. A man with sharp eyes, as yours are, and a brain quick to think, as yours is, is always in danger while a certain class of people exist."

"What class of people?"

He ignored my question entirely.

"You said just now," he remarked, "that the bump of curiosity in your cranium is largely developed."

"Very largely indeed."

"What is your interest in this coast? Why have you been seen creeping along the beach examining the cliffs?"

"Put it down to curiosity."

"Exactly! Curiosity. And let me tell you this, my young friend, that if your curiosity should be rewarded, you will be a dead man within twenty-four hours. You might, instead of living here in a perfectly defenseless way, surround yourself by a thousand safeguards; you might have as many sentries as the Kaiser himself, but your life would not be worth a pin's purchase."

"And a pin will not purchase much," I retorted.

"Exactly! That is why I tell you to leave here."

"You evidently know what you are talking about," I replied, "or at least you think you do. You will have noticed that I have not asked you any questions about yourself. There has seemed to be no reason why I should."

"Why? What do you know about me?"

"Practically nothing," I replied. "I am no Sherlock Holmes, and even if I were, I have not had sufficient energy to satisfy my curiosity; still, I can give you a rough outline of who and what you are. You built this little hut here, built it with care and intelligence, for which I am very grateful. You had as your man Friday, an idiot who went by the name of Fever Lurgy. You lived here like a hermit for years, and were a mystery to every one. Still, people did not trouble much about you, as a good many unconventional people live along the coast. I find that about a mile farther on from here, in another little bay, several artists have built little huts similar to this. One or two writing fellows also live lonely lives on this Cornish coast. You became known as Father Abraham; you showed yourself to practically no one; then, suddenly you left. There were signs of violence in the little room where you slept, and where I now sleep, and it was given out that you were the victim of foul play, that possibly you were murdered. Evidently, however, you were not. As a consequence, there was a good amount of honest sympathy wasted."