I nodded, and the Squire went on:

"My G.o.d! what must he be suffering! Drove the boy from home too!

But--but, don't I wish he were my boy! Anyhow, there is going to be a change in that house."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"The atmosphere is different. Did you notice Mrs. Lethbridge's face? Did you hear what she said?"

When we reached St. Issey, I asked the Squire to tell the driver to drop me, as I could easily walk to my house; but the old man would not have it.

"No, no, Erskine," he said, "you must come up and spend the day with me; I have nothing to do. Do you know, I have often felt condemned at leaving you so much alone; but you seemed as though you did not wish for society. Still, I have got you now! Yes, yes, I will send word to that man of yours, telling him what has happened to you."

A few minutes later I was snugly ensconced in the Squire's library, while Mrs. Treherne and her daughter fussed about me as though I were an invalid. I must confess that it was pleasant to be ministered to by a woman's hands. Simpson was all very well, but I do not think that any man knows what to do in the time of illness as a woman does.

"What are you thinking about, Erskine?" asked the Squire presently, after he had placed a box of cigars before me.

"I was thinking about Mr. Lethbridge's face," I said. "I was wondering what he must be feeling."

"A hard man, Erskine, a hard man. A man who has lived to make money; a man who has always had his own way. Whatever he has touched has turned to gold, whatever he has willed has come to pa.s.s." The Squire sighed as he spoke. "He has pulled all sorts of people into his net," he went on, "and got all sorts of people into his power. He does not say much, but he could ruin lots of us if he willed so to do."

I called to mind what Hugh Lethbridge had told me, and I fancy I knew what the old man was thinking.

"Sometimes, deep down in my heart," went on the Squire, "I have called him a Shylock; but I am not going to think about that now. He is pa.s.sing through deep waters."

After lunch, I again announced my intention of returning home, but was again dissuaded; not only the Squire, but neither his wife nor his daughter would hear of my going.

"We will have an informal dinner at six o'clock," said the old man, "then you must come with me to the prayer-meeting."

The idea seemed so incongruous that I could not help smiling.

"Yes, I know what you are thinking," said the Squire, with a laugh. "I have never been to a prayer-meeting in my life, and I had no thought of going until you kind of suggested it to me yourself after last night's service; but when I came to think about it, it seemed natural and right.

We are in for a stiff job, Erskine. I never realized it as I do now.

Those Germans stand at nothing! Nothing is too devilish for them to do!

Poisoned gases, poisoned wells, sinking pa.s.senger ships, killing defenseless women and children, murdering our soldiers, even when they are in the act of doing them a kindness,--nothing is too bad for them.

But they are strong! They are strong! We do not realize yet how strong they are. They have utilized all the resources of their country to beat us, to crush us, and we shall have to use every ounce of strength we possess to come out on top. As the Prime Minister said, we must be prepared to shed our last drop of blood.

"But that is not all, Erskine. I know I have not been a religious man in the ordinary sense of the word, although I have gone to Church and tried to act straight, but it seems to me as though G.o.d wants to teach us a lesson. He is wanting to bring us to our senses. Never in my life have I realized the need of G.o.d as I do now, and if we are to fight His battles we need to go to Him for help. I have seen, too, how paltry is the spite which exists between the sects. G.o.d bless my soul! What, after all, does the Almighty care whether we go to Church or to Chapel? And it may be that this war will teach us how silly we have been. That is why, in spite of my prejudices, I am glad that Trelaske announced the meeting for to-night. Yes, I am going, Erskine, and I hope you are going too."

At seven o'clock that night the Squire and I stood at the door of the village schoolroom, for we had both determined to go to the prayer-meeting.

XXII

A DISCOVERY

I must confess that it was with a strange feeling that I took my seat in the little village schoolroom that night. I had been born and educated in a Christian country, and yet I had never been to a prayer-meeting in my life. As I have previously said, until I came to St. Issey, I had not, except for a wedding, entered a Church for years, and here was I, an avowed agnostic, who had little faith in G.o.d and none in a future life, obeying the Vicar's call to prayer.

I was startled to find, on looking round the room, that not only Mrs.

Lethbridge and Isabella, but also Josiah Lethbridge had come. Their faces formed a curious contrast. Mrs. Lethbridge looked proud, almost triumphant, in spite of the marks of the sorrow which were plainly to be seen on her face. I noticed, too, that after the meeting commenced she entered heartily into the singing of the hymns.

Her daughter's face, on the other hand, was not easy to describe. In one sense she looked callous, bored, indifferent; in another, there was an expression of amazement, bewilderment, which I could not explain. But she made no sign of any sort. She sang none of the hymns, neither did she bow her head during prayer. As for Josiah Lethbridge, his face remained stern and immovable during the whole of the meeting.

Some one spoke of him afterwards as looking like a "graven image." Years before, I was told, Josiah Lethbridge used to pray in the prayer-meetings at the Wesleyan Chapel; but he had ceased doing so for a long time, although he had never severed his connection with the Church and had rigidly maintained his observance of the outward form of religion. More than once I wondered why he was there, for he must have seen the curious eyes that were cast upon him. Of course every one had heard of Hugh Lethbridge's death. Every one knew, too, that the father had driven his son from home because he had joined the Army, and because he had married the girl he loved. Besides all this, it was common talk that John Treleaven's daughter Mary had never been bidden to the great house at Trecarrel. The gossips had talked about it freely, and many remarks, not complimentary to Hugh's father, had pa.s.sed. Still he was there, his face as stern as ever, his eyes keenly alert to all that took place.

Just before the meeting commenced we were somewhat surprised to see not only the Vicar, but the Wesleyan minister ascend the platform together.

The Vicar explained this circ.u.mstance at the commencement of the proceedings. He repeated what he had said the previous night, and described how the Church and the Chapel had for years been regarded as opposing camps.

"My dear friends," said the Vicar quietly, "I have been a Churchman all my life, and shall remain one until my death; but the troubles through which we are pa.s.sing have taught me to see many things. I suppose we shall never see eye to eye, but we are all believers in the same G.o.d and in the same Saviour. More than that, we are all English people. Lads from the Church are fighting at the front, side by side with the lads from the Chapel. They are all fighting for a common cause. We all have our sorrows, too, and I have been led to see how foolish I have been in being so exclusive. Yes, G.o.d has taught me many lessons. That is why this morning I drove to Mr. Bendle's house. He is the minister of the circuit of which St. Issey Wesleyan Chapel is a part. We talked together, prayed together, and he has come here to-night to help me in this meeting."

I cannot say that I was much impressed by what took place, and yet in a way I was. I had no convictions of my own, but I could not help realizing the convictions of others. Somehow reality was taking the place of unreality. Most of the praying was done by the Chapel people, as none of the people from the Church had been taught to pray in public.

Indeed, only one Churchman, with the exception of the Vicar, took part in the meeting, and that was the Squire. I will not try to reproduce his prayer. It was very unconventional, and yet the fact of this man taking part in such a meeting was significant of much. I noticed, too, that the Squire was as nervous as a child.

When the meeting was over, Mr. Treherne took hold of my arm.

"Wait for me, will you, Erskine? I want to speak to Trelaske a minute, and then I am going to drive you up to your place."

The room was nearly empty at this time, and no one but myself saw Isabella Lethbridge come towards me.

"Mr. Erskine, you do not understand, and because you do not understand you are hard and unsympathetic," she said.

She gave me no chance of replying, and I was left wondering as to the meaning of her words.

The next morning the newspapers were again full of accounts of the work of the German submarines. Three trading vessels had been sunk, and many lives lost. This reminded me of the determination to which I had come on the previous Sunday night, and directly after breakfast I made preparations for carrying out my plans. If there was any truth in old Father Abraham's warnings, however, it was necessary for me to be careful, so I made a point of reconnoitring the coast before taking any definite action.

I dressed myself as if for walking, and arming myself with a walking stick, and putting the revolver, which Simpson had persuaded me to carry, in my hip pocket, I went to the highest point of the cliff. It was one of those dull days when a thick mist enveloped everything, and although this mist, unlike a London fog, did not entirely hide the view, it shut out everything except what lay in the near distance.

I had scarcely reached the summit of the headland when I heard a cry of pain. With some difficulty I located it, and after investigation discovered a poor little mongrel dog, lying wounded. The creature looked piteously up at me as I approached, as if to solicit my aid. On examining it more closely I found that it had received what seemed like a wound from a pistol or a rifle, but of this I was not sure. I did not think it was mortally wounded, although it bled freely. I had never seen the dog before, nor could I imagine who could be its master.

"Poor little chap," I said, as I patted its head. It gave a slight yelp, as if in recognition of my act of kindness. "Simpson has always been wanting me to keep a dog," I reflected. "I wonder if this little thing would live if I took it home and cared for it?"

For a moment the incident, slight as it was, drove from my mind the purpose I had in view. I was preparing to carry it back when I heard the sound of voices. Immediately the dog gave a cry of fear and pain.

Perhaps it shrank from my endeavors to carry it. I placed it upon the ground, reflecting that I would return to the house and obtain Simpson's a.s.sistance, but at that moment a man and a woman came within my view. I remembered in a moment that they were the people who had spoken to me, as I sat basking in the sunlight, a few days before.

"Ah, what have you there?" said the man.

"I have only just found it," I replied. "I came out for a walk, and heard the poor little thing moaning."

"The little wretch has been poaching, I expect, and somebody's gamekeeper has shot it."

"I should not think that likely," was my reply. "This is common land here, and no one, as far as I know, has attempted to preserve it. The only man who owns a gamekeeper in the immediate district is Squire Treherne, and his woods are at least two miles away."

The man looked at the dog, as I thought, indifferently, while the woman shuddered at the sight of blood.

"Have you any idea whose it is?" he asked.