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

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

Good-night."

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

IX

AT THE VICARAGE

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

In many respects young Lethbridge was sensitive and self-contained, but in other ways he was so impulsive that he overstepped the bounds of good taste. I got to know him better afterwards, and found that, although he had spoken so freely to me, he was regarded by many as reserved.

Besides, he was hungering for sympathy, and because he thought I sympathized with him his confidences were so personal that I almost felt uncomfortable.

Nevertheless, I pondered a great deal over what he had told me.

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

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

Days and weeks pa.s.sed away, and very little of importance happened worthy of record. Often I reflected upon the uselessness of my life.

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

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

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

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

"You are quoting Hamlet," I said.

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

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

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

"How is that, Simpson?"

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

"Did he tell you so, Simpson?"

"Yes, sir, he did. He was a very ignorant man, sir, but he knew.

Besides, sir--excuse me for saying so--but aren't your opinions very foolish, sir?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean, Simpson?"

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

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

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

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

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

"At your expense? How is that?"

"He has found tin on my land."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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