That he was in hiding in some place in the district I did not doubt.

Chigwheal was about nine miles from St. Issey, and he evidently lived near enough to that village to receive postal communications; but where he lived, or what disguises he might a.s.sume, I had not the slightest idea. That he was a man with a quick brain and of great resource I had no doubt whatever, and I felt sure he would know how to defend himself in case of danger. In addition to that, too, I felt that I should be acting against the interests which had been born in my heart, if I disclosed his possible whereabouts. I knew instinctively that he was kindly disposed towards me, and to tell of what had occurred would possibly hinder me from the course of action I had decided upon. Added to all this was a kind of secretiveness which hindered me from making known his visit to me.

As may be imagined, I had plenty of food for thought. It was evident that his interest in me was no new thing. Months had now elapsed since Fever Lurgy had given me the same warning. Doubtless the poor thick-witted lad was but a messenger from this mysterious old man. I carefully thought over every sentence he had uttered, and weighed their possible meanings.

My danger, if danger there was, lay not in the fact that any one harbored evil thoughts concerning me, but that I lived in this little hut. Evidently the hut itself occupied a position of advantage. It was at the centre of some operation. The old man had built it for some purpose, and then, for reasons unknown to me, had left it. I called to mind the fact that immediately after my arrival I had seen figures in the near distance who looked as if they might be watching my actions; but why? It was well known that I had no purpose in coming to Cornwall save to find a healthy spot where I might conserve my poor feeble life as long as possible.

One thing, however, Father Abraham had done for me. He had set me on my guard. I had for some months now taken an intelligent interest in what was going on, and had read the papers carefully. Like all other British people, too, my eyes had been opened to what militarism had done for Germany, and to the depths of meanness and baseness to which they were prepared to sink, in order to carry out their purposes. As I have said previously, I had visited Germany on more than one occasion. I also understood the language and could speak it and read it fluently. While in Germany I had talked with professors in the universities and officers in their army. I was aware, too, of their mastery of detail and of their thorough preparedness for everything they undertook. What I could not understand was how I, living in this obscure corner of the country, could be in a position of advantage, and how I could be a menace to my country's enemies.

I did not know then, neither did I dream, how my eyes were to be opened.

XIX

G.o.d ANSWERED OUT OF THE WHIRLWIND

Nothing happened for some days. At first I kept close to the house, and was constantly on the alert lest some evil thing should befall me. I watched vigilantly too. Remembering all that had been reported in the newspapers, my mind was filled with suspicions concerning the possibility of the enemy pursuing his work in this part of the country.

Especially did I watch the cliffs around the little bay; but in no way was I rewarded. I began to think that I was the victim of a hoax, or that Father Abraham was little better than a madman obsessed with mad fancies. Thus it came about that after a few days I became careless of the warnings given me, and pursued my old course of life.

At that time, I remember, the black cloud of war hung especially heavy on our land. The Prime Minister had stated in the House of Commons the number of killed and wounded in our Army and Navy, and the appalling figures which he gave were added to daily by the lists given in the papers. The village of St. Issey had not suffered greatly. It is true that three men had come home wounded, but their wounds were not serious, and as they had been bright and cheerful during their stay, we had been led to hope that we should escape lightly. Then, suddenly, the horror of the whole business came home to us. Two of our lads were killed at sea.

Then we heard that others had been taken prisoners and lay suffering in a German prison camp. Others still were lying wounded in the hospitals in France.

One morning--it was some days after Father Abraham's visit--I found on opening my newspapers that among the killed was one Edward Trelaske, who died in action. The name struck me, first because it was Cornish, and second because it was the name of our Vicar. I saw too that he was a captain in one of the battalions belonging to the D.C.L.I., and I wondered whether he were in any way a.s.sociated with St. Issey.

Scarcely had I read this than a knock came to the door, and I saw the Vicar enter the room. He looked ten years older than when I had first seen him. I think I said, when describing our first meeting, that he was a hale and handsome man, ruddy and inclined to stoutness. Now his face was haggard and bloodless, the flesh hung loosely on his cheeks, and I judged from his eyes that he was a stranger to sleep. Immediately I connected his appearance with what I had just read. I did not speak a word, I thought it best not to; but I held out my hand, which he gripped almost convulsively. Almost unconsciously I looked at the newspaper.

"Yes," he said, "it is there."

"It was your son, then?" I said.

"Yes, my eldest son; both were in the Army. One is still alive, thank G.o.d; but Ned, my boy Ned----" Then for a moment he broke down, his whole body trembling violently. He recovered himself in a few seconds, however.

"I do not complain," he said. "In a way I am proud."

"I think I understand," was my reply.

"I shall never be the same man again," he went on. "It seems as though a part of my life is buried with him, away in that little French cemetery; but at this moment there is no prouder man in England than I. My son, my eldest son, has given his life for honor, for truth, for G.o.d."

He spoke like a man inspired. Every word was weighted with a new meaning.

"I don't know why I came to you," he went on. "I received the news days ago, and ever since, ever since...." Then he stopped. There was a far-away look in his eyes.

"You have my deepest sympathy, Mr. Trelaske," I said. "Words are poor at a time like this----"

"No," he interrupted, "words are not poor, when they convey what the heart feels. I rather resented it when my son expressed the desire to go into the Army. I fully expected it of Harry, my second son, and had had him educated with that object in view; but it has always been a tradition in our family for generations that one of the sons should go into the Church. But he would not fall in with my wishes; he was not fit, he said, and he wanted to be a soldier. The living here belongs to our family, has belonged to it for more than a hundred years. Now I know it ought not to have belonged to us."

"Why?" I asked.

"The Church," he replied, "has been but little more than a name to me, the vocation of a clergyman I have regarded as little more than a profession; that is why--why...." He stopped, as if unable to express the thought in his mind. "'What is the use of my becoming a parson?'

said Ned to me. 'I have nothing to say to the people. How can I tell the chaps whom I have fought with, shot with, played cards with, about their souls, about G.o.d and about heaven?' I argued with him. I told him that when a man was ordained a priest his ordination gave him priestly rights. But he would have none of it, and insisted upon going into the Army. As I said, I was grieved and angry; but now I know that he served his G.o.d more truly than I, for what I have done has lacked a great conviction. I have looked upon my profession as--as a profession; but he, he gave his life for his country, and for truth, and for G.o.d.

Perhaps he did not say so in so many words, perhaps he did not even think of it, but that is what he did; and I am proud--oh, I am proud. He died a hero, too."

"How?" I asked. "Tell me."

"He was wounded, not badly, but his arm was broken. He made light of it, however, and among the German prisoners taken was a German officer, a major who was badly hurt. He asked for water. My son, although he was in great pain, fetched water and gave it to him, and while he was giving it to him the German got out his revolver and shot him through the heart."

"What happened then?" I asked.

"You may guess what happened," he replied. "Some of our men saw it. It was terrible--wasn't it? But how could I wish my son to die a n.o.bler death, even although that fiend shot him? Did he not die as a Christian, trying to bring succor to his enemy?"

There was a note of earnestness in his voice which I had never heard before.

"And you got this news days ago?" I said.

"Yes," he replied, "and I have been to see no one since it came until now. I haven't even been to see my old friend Treherne. At first, all the foundations of my life seemed to be broken up. I could not understand it. I thought I should never be able to bear it. Why should I, a man past my prime, with my work nearly over, be alive while my son, a lad of twenty-seven, should be killed?

"I revolted against it.

"I told G.o.d He was hard.

"By and by, however, my mind became clearer; I began to understand. Not that I could put my thoughts into words; I cannot now. Presently I began to pray. I do not think I had really prayed for years. I had read the prayers at Church, I had done my work as a clergyman, but I had missed the great reality of it all. But then I prayed. This morning I felt I must come to see you. You remember what you asked me when I came here first?"

"Yes, I remember," I said; "but please do not trouble about that now.

You have your own sorrow to think of."

"I am ashamed," he went on. "I, a clergyman, set apart to give help, comfort, to those who might come to me, and yet when you asked me one of the greatest of all questions, I had no answer to give. I was dumb."

I waited in silence. I longed to know what was in the man's mind, but I felt it would be sacrilege to ask him questions then. I could see that he had been pa.s.sing through deep waters, that the billows had gone over his head. He was no longer the ecclesiastic, no longer the man he had believed himself, set apart simply because a bishop's hands had been laid upon his head. He had seen beneath the mere conventions of his faith, he had got to the heart of things, or, at least, he had tried to get there.

"I am ashamed," he went on, "that I had no answer to give you. Even yet I have none to give. I am still in the dark, and yet--yet...."

He seemed like a man who saw something from afar, one who was stretching out lame hands of faith.

"I understand as I never understood before," he went on. "Do you remember that story of David standing by the gates of Jerusalem, waiting for news of his son, and who, when the news came, cried out, 'Oh, Absalom, my son, my son, would G.o.d that I had died for thee, oh, Absalom, my son!' I understand that now. I think I understand something more; I am not certain yet, but I feel as though--as though...."

And again there was a far-away look in his eyes. He rose and held out his hand.

"You will wonder why I came," he said. "I do too, except that I could not help coming. Do you remember what our Lord said about blind leaders of the blind? No, I am not blind, but I am like the man who was cured of his blindness by our Lord, who said he saw men as trees walking. It is a strange story, isn't it? But oh, man, what fools we are! What blind fools! And how G.o.d Almighty opens our eyes and shows us our foolishness!"

I longed to be able to utter some words of comfort, but I was in the dark myself. I had been asking questions ever since I came to Cornwall, but had received no answer. I would have given anything at that time to have been able to say something which would have been balm to the father's bleeding heart. But I could not. I could only tell him how sorry I was, and that seemed such a little thing.

That same afternoon, the weather being fine, I found my way into St.

Issey. I had practically forgotten Father Abraham's warning, and longing to see human faces, and to get away from the questions which haunted me, I turned towards the village. I had, by this time, learnt to know a great many of the people. I was no longer simply the stranger who had a few months before come to live in Father Abraham's hut. I had now been living in the neighborhood for several months, and was regarded by many of the people as a friend. I had also got into the habit of dropping into the cottages and talking with the simple folk. I had barely entered the village when I saw a woman standing by her cottage door.

"Oh, Mr. Erskine," she said. "Will 'ee come in a minute? I 'ave somethin' to tell 'ee."

"What is it, Mrs. Rosewarn?" I had seen her once or twice at the Chapel, and knew that her husband was a local preacher.