The evening, as far as I was concerned, was painful; and yet I was glad I had accepted the invitation, glad I had been there when the news of Hugh's bravery had arrived. Shortly after ten o'clock I took my leave, vowing to myself as I did so that I would never go there again. Indeed, as I reflected on what had taken place, I could see no reason for my being asked. I had nothing in common with Josiah Lethbridge, while, in spite of everything, Isabella Lethbridge was farther removed from me than ever.

"I hope you spent a pleasant evening, sir," said Simpson, as he helped me off with my coat.

I did not answer him. Why it was I could not tell, but my mind and heart were full of strange, tumultuous thoughts and feelings.

The next morning, I was on the point of sending Simpson for a carriage to take me over to John Treleaven's farm when Hugh's young wife burst into the room with a radiant smile upon her face.

"Have you seen this, Mr. Erskine? Have you heard about it?" And she laughed and sobbed at the same time. "It is about Hugh. He has got the D.C.M., and they have actually written to me about it, and I have got a letter from Hugh too! Oh, Mr. Erskine, I am proud and happy!"

"It is splendid," I said, "simply splendid!"

"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 G.o.d 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.

G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 repet.i.tion of that which commenced the war. 'It is only a sc.r.a.p 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 gla.s.s 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, l.u.s.trous, 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 bl.u.s.terers, 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."