"Your father has had all his convictions trampled upon, all his hopes destroyed," I replied. "The things Hugh has done came upon him suddenly, and overcome by disappointment and grief, he--he----"

"Do you excuse him, Mr. Erskine?" she interrupted.

"I have neither the right to excuse nor condemn. I was simply an onlooker, and had no right to be there at all."

She caught my arm convulsively.

"Don't say that," she said eagerly. "You--you have the right; that is, you are interested in Hugh. He is so fond of you, and he thought, of course he thought, you might influence my father. Besides----"

"Besides what?" I queried, as I saw her hesitate.

"Oh, I don't know. Everything is in a muddle; everything is so hopeless; and yet father talks about G.o.d--talks about the power of religion--talks about providence!"

I was silent at this, for her words were but an echo of my own thoughts.

"Why should not Hugh marry the girl he loves?" she went on. "He is young, and has the right to live his own life; if they love each other, what right has my father to stand in their way?"

"I thought you did not believe in love. I remember, when talking with you about it one day, you expressed the opinion that such a thing did not exist." I said this almost triumphantly, as though pleased to get the better of her in an argument.

"At any rate," she replied, "he has the madness of love. He is willing to give all, sacrifice all, risk all, for it. That is something anyhow.

Mr. Erskine, will you not come back to the house again and plead with my father? He might listen to you. Do you not think you owe it to Hugh, since you came up with him?" Then her mood altered. "After all, what is the use of it? Life can never be anything but a promise of something which can never be fulfilled. But I love him for what he has done. I am prouder of my brother than ever. It is worth living to know that one whom one loves as a brother, has dared everything, and sacrificed everything, for his love."

A strange feeling possessed me; at that moment I thought I loved Isabella Lethbridge; felt that here, at least, was a woman who, in spite of her contradictions, in spite of the fact that she had repelled me, was worth the love of a lifetime. As I reflected upon it afterwards, however, I knew that I did not love her. Between my life and hers was a great impa.s.sable barrier. Besides, what right had I, a man with one foot in the grave, a man whose days were numbered, to think of such things?

Again there was a silence between us, and during that silence such a longing filled my life as I had never known before. I longed to live, to live on and on indefinitely. I hated the barriers by which I was bounded. My whole being revolted against the thought of death. At that moment, too, I felt as though there must be something for which I could find no better name than G.o.d Who was behind all things, Who made all things, Who thought all things. Why should that Infinity give me life, only to stamp it out, according to His caprice? Why should I be the subject of such a hideous mockery?

With the longing of life, too, came the longing for something even deeper. For the moment my mind was bounded by no barriers. I saw infinite possibility, possibility which transcended all thought and imagination. It seemed to me that if man were a child of G.o.d, he possessed something of G.o.d's life, lived in Him, was part of Him, that he shared in G.o.d's Infinity and Eternity.

Then I looked at the woman by my side, and as I did so she seemed to shrivel up. She was a thing of a day, of an hour. She did not seem to share in this Eternal Life of which I had been thinking. All the time she clutched my arm convulsively.

At that moment I heard footsteps on the drive, and saw Hugh Lethbridge coming towards us.

"Where are you going, Hugh?" I asked.

"Going!" he cried. "I am going to the only place a man can go at a time like this. I am going to my wife."

"Your father has said nothing more to you?"

"I have not seen him. He has not come to me, and I could not go to him; but I have seen mother. She knows, she understands."

"Are you walking back, then?"

"Walking?" Then he laughed. "Oh, I see, you are thinking about the car.

It is not my car now. My father has disinherited me, disowned me; this place is no longer my home; but I would do it again, Erskine, I would do it a thousand times. Good-night, Bella, old girl. What have you and Erskine been talking about?"

"But I shall see you again, Hugh?" said Isabella Lethbridge, without seeming to notice the question.

"You will have to come early to-morrow morning, if you do," he replied, with a laugh. "I am under orders now, and must report myself to-morrow afternoon. Don't worry, old girl."

"I will make father forgive you, I'll simply make him."

Hugh laughed sceptically.

"You might as well think of moving Routor, or Brown Willie, as think of moving my father; and you know it, Bella; but mother's a trump. Do you know, mother sees more of this business than I have ever seen. I told her just now that I was going to the front almost immediately, and I don't think she ever expects to see me alive again; but she behaved like a saint in heaven. She sees into the heart of this war--sees why England must fight, why it is our duty to crush German militarism; sees why we must save Belgium. You and I have often laughed, Bella, but her mind, or rather her heart, has probed the thing to its very depths. She has made me believe more in religion during the last few minutes I have been with her than I have believed in all my life. She quoted some words from the Bible, which opened a new world for me--'Without shedding of blood, there is no remission of sins.' She spoke like one inspired. I cannot explain the meaning of it, I only know that as she repeated the pa.s.sage I _felt_ its meaning;--and she made me feel I was doing a great thing. I was no longer going to the war simply at the call of my country, but at the call of G.o.d. Good-night, Bella, old girl; shall I see you to-morrow?"

"Where can I see you, Hugh?"

"At my wife's home," he said proudly. "Will you dare father's anger, and come?"

Her only reply was to throw her arms round her brother's neck and kiss him, and then, without even looking at me, she rushed rapidly towards the house.

When I reached my little hut that night, I paid the penalty for the excitement through which I had pa.s.sed. At one time I thought I was going to die. Pain such as I had never suffered before racked me, and I was as weak as a child. It was not until morning that the pain subsided, and I was able to sleep. I, too, had intended to go to John Treleaven's house, and give Hugh a word of cheer as he left to join his regiment; but nature was too strong for me. I did not awake till after midday, and Simpson had been too wise to interfere with nature's healing balm.

I had expected during the time I was suffering so terribly that it would be many days before I was restored to my ordinary strength, and yet, strange as it may seem, I awoke refreshed. Evidently there was enough vitality in my system to enable me to recuperate quickly.

"There is bad news, sir," said Simpson, after I had dressed.

"Bad news! How? Where?" I asked.

"The Germans are driving us back everywhere, sir, driving the French too. Do you think the Army would take me, sir, if I offered myself? I'd like to have a smack at them."

"How old are you, Simpson?"

"Fifty-five, sir."

"It may be that they will be obliged to take you before the war is over."

"I am ready now, sir, if they will have me."

During the afternoon I tried to forget the interview of the previous night in some experiments with the hobby which had occupied my mind for several weeks. I had become quite efficient in the management of my little wireless apparatus, and I was greatly interested in the little book of codes which the young fellow from M---- had given me.

When evening came I determined, in spite of what I had suffered on the previous night, to find my way to the village schoolroom. As I have said before, I wanted to feel the pulse of humanity, longed to know what was doing in the world; and living here, in this out-of-the-way corner of the world, it seemed my only chance of fulfilling my desire.

When I arrived, the little schoolroom was nearly full. There were but few young men, not more than a score in all. The rest of the audience was made up of women and older men. On the platform was the Squire, who presided over the meeting, and near him were several of the leading people of the district. Both the vicars of St. Issey and St. Eia were there, together with one or two neighboring squires. Naturally, Josiah Lethbridge was absent.

I took my seat in a corner of the room, as far out of sight as possible, and tried to understand the little audience which had gathered together.

I suppose every county has its characteristics, and certainly a Cornish audience is different from any I have seen. Years ago, I had been informed, the people were exceedingly emotional, and easy to be moved.

That, however, was a thing of the past. There was no suggestion of excitement or enthusiasm, and while each and all seemed to listen carefully to what was being said, it was difficult to tell what their feelings were. On the whole, I think I never saw a less responsive audience, if one might judge from outward appearances.

A lady with quite a county reputation for singing was at the meeting, and while there are few parts of the country where there is stronger love for music than in Cornwall, she seemed to make little impression on her audience. Yet perhaps I am wrong in saying this. They appreciated the sweetness of her voice and the melody of her songs, but the sentiment which those songs expressed went for nothing. I have heard audiences spoken of as stolid. The audience at St. Issey was not stolid; it was stony. The people were keenly alert, they understood all that was being said, and in a way appreciated all the speeches; but they sat coldly critical, and unmoved.

Squire Treherne made a model chairman. He came to them, he said, as a friend and neighbor. He had known most of them all their lives, and he felt it his duty to point out to them, at this time of national danger, the needs of the times and the duties of the people. He spoke of what Cornwall had done in the history of the nation; he reminded them of stirring events in the life of the county, when Cornishmen had done their part and more than their part.

Then he went on to describe the circ.u.mstances which had led to the war.

He described Germany's preparations, told the story of what had taken place in the Balkan States, and related how Sir Edward Grey had done his utmost to avert the war; but the time had come when war could not be averted, and when England had to take her part in it. Her honor was at stake, her safety was in peril, all that we loved was in danger, and every man in the country was called upon to play his part. The Squire did not give a brilliant speech, but it was full of good common sense, full of patriotic fervor. The old man did not see how any Englishman could stand aloof at a time like this.

Other speakers followed, who simply repeated what the Squire had said, and presently came the appeal for young men to offer themselves to their King and Country.