XXIX

CHRISTMAS 1915

Of course the facts are old now, and I need not detail them here. All the world knows that Colonel Layc.o.c.k's soldiers came up in time to get hold of, not only Liddicoat and his accomplice, who proved to be dangerous German spies, but several others who had been in the enemy's service for the purpose of conveying petrol to the submarines. The little bay in which I had lived was of great importance to them, and the cave I had discovered was their princ.i.p.al storehouse for petrol. Indeed, since their plot was exposed and our Government officials got hold of the facts, submarines have done their work under increasing difficulty.

Of Father Abraham I heard but little. This, however, is the news which came to me: Years before, he had been sent from Germany to act as one of their agents, but later on, when he discovered what would be expected of him, he left the neighborhood; but before doing so he did his best to create the idea that he had been murdered, and that his body had been disposed of. It seems that he stood in deadly fear of the Germans, and believed that he was constantly watched. He was afraid to confess that he had been acting as a German agent, and that was why he didn't tell the English authorities what he knew. Why he was so anxious to save me from danger I cannot fully comprehend; all I know about him I have set down in this narrative, and those who read this must draw their own conclusions. Certain it is that he was never seen in the neighborhood of St. Issey again.

My own recovery was longer than I had hoped for. I grew gradually stronger, but the operation which I had undergone was more serious than I had imagined, and it was several weeks after I awoke to consciousness before I was allowed to leave my room.

Dr. Rhomboid, who came twice from London to see me, was very insistent on my taking no risks, and also kept the many visitors who desired to see me from entering the room.

Thus for some time after the incidents I have recorded, with the exception of the doctor, who, by the way, was not Dr. Wise, the only persons I saw were the nurse, Simpson, and Isabella. As may be imagined, however, I was well looked after, and was not at all sorry at being deprived of the companionship of my neighbors. Perhaps, however, I have said too much. I did want to see Squire Treherne, and I should have been glad of a visit from the Vicar; and bearing in mind what Squire Treherne had said, I wanted to have a chat with Josiah Lethbridge.

At the end of three weeks I was p.r.o.nounced sufficiently strong to receive visitors, and the first who came was Josiah Lethbridge. I had expected to see a change in him, but not so great as had actually taken place. He knew nothing of what had pa.s.sed between Isabella and myself, because we had arranged to keep everything a secret; but he could not have treated me more kindly had I been his own child. When I uttered my apologies for the trouble which I had given the family, his lips quivered and he seemed on the point of breaking down.

"Please don't mention that," he said. "If you only knew the joy it gives me to know that you are in the house, and that I am in the slightest degree able to be of service to you, you would not talk in that way. But I must not try to explain now; the doctor has only given me three minutes to be with you, so I will only say that I am glad you are here, and that I am eagerly looking forward to the time when we shall see more of each other and know each other better. I have a great deal to tell you, my lad. G.o.d only knows how much."

Of the visits of Squire Treherne and Mr. Trelaske I will not speak, save to say that I well-nigh broke down at the old Squire's behavior.

"G.o.d bless my soul!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the old man; "we will give you a time when you get well! No, no, not a word from you; you must not talk; but we _will_ give you a time! We will have the whole countryside _en fete_!

It is not only the German plot you have exposed, it is other things, my boy! G.o.d bless you!"

It was not until the beginning of August that I was allowed to leave my bedroom and find my way down-stairs. The nurse and Isabella walked each side of me, supporting me at each step I took, and when I reached the living-room I found Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge awaiting me. I had barely spoken to Mrs. Lethbridge when I heard a child's cry in the room, and, looking, I saw Mary, Hugh's wife, holding a baby in her arms.

"Yes," said Josiah Lethbridge with a laugh, "this is a secret that we have kept in store for you. This is Hugh's child!"

"Then--then...." I stammered.

"As soon as my son's wife was well enough I insisted upon her being brought to her true home. Mary, my love, bring your baby here where Mr.

Erskine can see him. Isn't he a beautiful boy? He was christened a month ago."

"And what is he called?" I asked.

"There was only one name to give him," replied Josiah Lethbridge proudly--"Hugh."

As I looked into Mary's eyes a sob rose in my throat. I saw the joy of motherhood there, I saw infinite tenderness, and more than tenderness.

It was a joy chastened by sorrow, by loss unspeakable, by hope eternal.

"I am so glad, Mary," I said, "so glad. It is as it ought to be, isn't it?"

"Isn't he just like his father?" said the young mother proudly. "See his eyes, his chin--why, he's Hugh all over again!" Then her lips became tremulous, and tears welled up into her eyes.

"He is a beautiful boy," I said, "and--and...."

"He's made the house a new place," cried Josiah Lethbridge. "I have made Mary sleep in the next room to mine so that I can hear him when he cries in the night. It does me good to hear a baby cry. Oh, my boy, my boy!"

and his voice trembled as he spoke.

I knew what he was thinking about--knew that he remembered, with a great sadness in his heart, that he had driven his only son from home; knew that he suffered unspeakable sorrow; and I could see that he was a different man.

"Isn't G.o.d good to us?" he said huskily; "and--and--Mary's forgiven me too, haven't you, my love?"

He put his arm around the young widow's waist as he spoke and kissed her.

"It's the baby who has done everything," said Mrs. Lethbridge. "The news that he was born came in the middle of the night, and when Josiah heard that both mother and child were well, he could not stay in bed; he got up and tramped around the room like a man beside himself. 'She must come home,' he said, 'home, and bring her baby with her.' Oh, it's wonderful, wonderful!"

"And you, Mary," said I, "are you well again?"

The simple-hearted girl turned to me with a wan smile.

"When the news came to me first about Hugh," she said, "I thought I should have died; I wanted to die; life seemed hateful to me; then--then--when my boy was born, oh, he made all the difference! I know Hugh is not dead, he lives in heaven, and he is watching over us. You believe that too, don't you, Mr. Erskine?"

"I don't believe in death," I replied; "there is no death, only seeming death."

"Do you remember what I said to you, Erskine, when I saw you months ago in your little hut?" said Josiah Lethbridge. "I said that G.o.d Almighty must be laughing at us. Now I know I was wrong."

"Yes?" I said questioningly.

"G.o.d Almighty never laughs at us," said Josiah Lethbridge. "He is revealed to us by His Son, and Jesus wept at the graveside of Lazarus.

He weeps at all the sorrow and pain of the world. Jesus wept even although He knew He would raise Lazarus from the dead, and G.o.d weeps at our follies and our madness even although He, in His Eternal Love, is working out for us all a greater salvation. Oh, we are fools, my lad! We measure His purposes by our little foot-rule; we explain His Will according to the standard of our puny minds; we measure events by days and years; but G.o.d lives, and works His own Sovereign Will. It has all come to me lately. I have gone through deep waters, my lad; the waves and the billows have well-nigh overwhelmed me; but that little baby has made all the difference; my boy lives again in him."

I was silent, I remember; there seemed nothing to say. What were words at such a time as that? Deep had called unto deep, and the Voice of G.o.d had been heard in the mysterious happenings of life.

I found my way to a chair close by a window, through which I looked out on the lawn, and at the flowers which surrounded it. It was about three o'clock in the afternoon, and the sun had begun to sink, although the day was yet glorious. Beyond the trees of the park I could see the wild moorland, and between two rugged tors I caught the shimmer of the sea.

The nurse had left the room by this time, and none but the members of the family except myself remained. I could not help realizing the change that had taken place. When I had first entered the house the atmosphere was cold, hard, unpleasant. Josiah Lethbridge was in the height of his prosperity, and he had his wife and children around him; his life did not seem to be touched with care or sorrow; no clouds seemed to hang in his sky. Now the death-reaper had come and had taken his only son; yet it was a far happier home than then. Josiah Lethbridge had been embittered towards his son, because the latter loved a simple-minded farmer's daughter; he had even driven his son from home, because the lad would be true to his heart and marry the girl he loved. Now he had taken this girl to his arms; he had brought her and her baby to his home.

There was sorrow in the house, but it was a chastened sorrow, a sorrow illumined by faith and love.

"Oh, if my boy had only lived!" said Josiah Lethbridge; "if he had only been spared to see this day, I think my cup of happiness would be full; but G.o.d Almighty never makes a mistake."

"No," I said, "He never makes a mistake."

"Do you say that, Erskine?"

"Yes, I say it," I replied, thinking of my own experiences and remembering the life that had come to me. "Yes, I say it."

"It is a ghastly thing, is this war," he went on. "I become bewildered, maddened, when I think about it. I can't explain it, I can't even see a far-off glimpse of explanation, when I think of this life only. When I think of the suffering, of the waste of life, the sorrow, the unutterable sorrow of tens of thousands of homes;--it's all so foolish, so--so--mad. But that is not G.o.d's doing, my boy; besides, even in it all, through it all, He's working His Will. Life is being purified; men are learning their lessons. I know it, Great G.o.d, I know it! The nations of Europe were in danger of forgetting G.o.d, and now are realizing their foolishness. But oh, if my Hugh had lived! If I could see him coming across the lawn as I used to see him, if I could hear him laugh in his old boyish way! But he is dead."

"No, Mr. Lethbridge," I said, "he is not dead; there is no death, of that I am certain; there is no death. G.o.d lives, and because He lives His children live always. I agree with you about the ghastliness, the sinfulness, the madness of war; but this war has told me that the eternal life in man laughs at death. What we call death is not an end of life, it is only a beginning. This life is only a fragment of life; that at all events I have learnt."

I looked around the room and found that we were alone. Mary had taken away her baby, while Mrs. Lethbridge and Isabella had, for some reason, left the room.

"You speak like one who knows," said Josiah Lethbridge; "you talk like a man who has seen things."

"Yes," I said, "I have seen things."

"And you have rendered great service to your country too. Have you read what the papers have said about you?"