The Passion for Life

by Joseph Hocking

  IX

  AT THE VICARAGE

  On my return to my room, I naturally reflected upon what young HughLethbridge had told me. It may seem strange that, on such a shortacquaintance, he spoke to me so freely about his family, but what I havewritten down is, as far as I can remember, exactly what took place. HughLethbridge was scarcely twenty-three, and, although he looked older, waslittle more than a lad. He was the child of his mother rather than ofhis father, and was lacking in anything like secretiveness, especiallyto any one whom he liked. For some reason or another I had seemed tocaptivate him, so much so that he opened his heart and gave hisconfidence more fully than was natural on such a short acquaintance.

  In many respects young Lethbridge was sensitive and self-contained, butin other ways he was so impulsive that he overstepped the bounds of goodtaste. I got to know him better afterwards, and found that, although hehad spoken so freely to me, he was regarded by many as reserved.Besides, he was hungering for sympathy, and because he thought Isympathized with him his confidences were so personal that I almost feltuncomfortable.

  Nevertheless, I pondered a great deal over what he had told me.Evidently the household at Trecarrel was not altogether happy, and anestrangement existed between Mr. Lethbridge senior and his son. As forIsabella Lethbridge, she presented an interesting study to me. As I havesaid, she appealed to me as no other woman had ever appealed to mebefore. For the moment I had thought I was in love with her, but, onreflection, I knew I was not. I was able to study her character calmlyand think of her in a kind of detached way. She formed no part in mylife. She was an interesting specimen of humanity, whom I took pleasurein analyzing, but the feeling I had towards her was not love. Rather sherepelled me even while she fascinated me. The thought of her nevercaused my heart to throb, nor made the blood course through my veins onewhit the faster.

  Besides, it was not for me to think about such things. I had come downto Cornwall to die. In a few months the spark of my life would go out,and I should enter the great darkness.

  Days and weeks passed away, and very little of importance happenedworthy of record. Often I reflected upon the uselessness of my life.Why, after all, should I live? No one but Simpson was really interestedin me, and only he would grieve when I had gone; then again the oldrevulsion against becoming nothing surged within me. I had hopes,longings, intimations which seemed to overleap the boundaries of timeand sense. If this life were all, then life was a mockery, a promisewithout possible fulfilment, a hope born only to be disappointed.

  Sitting there alone night after night, hearing the cry of the sea-birds,listening to the wail of the wind as it swept over hill and dale, orfound its way across the great waste of waters, I asked a thousandquestions and pondered over the problems of life and death, without everreceiving one single ray of light. Sometimes I became so lonely that Icalled Simpson into my room and talked with him, but I never allowed himto know how dark were the prospects which faced me. The questions Iasked him, I remember, were almost flippant in their nature. I made ajoke of death, as I tried to make a joke of everything else; so much sothat I fancied Simpson was convinced that I did not trouble. After all,why should I worry the poor, simple-minded fellow with questions whichhe could not answer or understand? The best thing to do was to beareverything with a kind of stoicism, and to make a jest of what reallyhaunted me night and day with strange persistency. Indeed, I think Isometimes rather pained Simpson with my flippant remarks, for I foundthat the beliefs of his boyhood were still powerful in his life. It isdifficult to eradicate the impressions of youth.

  "After all, Simpson," I said one day, "sleep is a good thing providingone has no bad dreams, and if I sleep for ever I shall know nothingabout it."

  "But if one should dream, sir?" suggested Simpson.

  "You are quoting Hamlet," I said.

  "I don't know the gentleman you refer to," was Simpson's somewhatindignant reply; "indeed, I never heard of him. But don't you think,sir, that education and cleverness are very poor things?"

  "Doubtless, Simpson. But why do you say so?"

  "Why, sir, here are you, a gentleman who has been to college and allthat. You were spoken of in the newspapers as one who would do greatthings some day, and yet you don't know as much as my old father did,who never had a day's schooling in his life."

  "How is that, Simpson?"

  "Well, sir, he _knew_ there was a life after death. He saw the angels,sir."

  "Did he tell you so, Simpson?"

  "Yes, sir, he did. He was a very ignorant man, sir, but he knew.Besides, sir--excuse me for saying so--but aren't your opinions veryfoolish, sir?"

  "I dare say," I replied. "But to what particular opinions do you refer?"

  "Opinions about dying, sir. If a watchmaker makes a watch, he makes itkeep time, doesn't he?"

  "Yes," I replied; "but if one of the wheels doesn't fit, the watchstops, and somehow my inside wheels don't fit, or rather they are madeof poor material, Simpson."

  "Of course, sir, it is not for me to contradict you, but I don't thinkyou have been well educated, sir."

  "My teachers are doubtless to blame, but the worst of it is your Vicarhere seems to know nothing for certain, neither do your preachers atChapel. It is all a matter of guesswork."

  "Yes, sir, I know I cannot answer you properly, sir, but I do notbelieve Almighty God is a fool."

  "What do you mean, Simpson?"

  "Well, sir, I have an old watch which my grandfather used to carry, andit keeps good time still. The watch was made by a man, and it has lastednearly a hundred years. Now, I don't believe Almighty God would take somuch trouble in making us and then let us last only twenty or thirtyyears. Excuse me, sir."

  I mentioned some time ago that Mr. Trelaske, when he had visited me,told me of his intention to invite me up to the Vicarage. He hadfulfilled his promise, but I had not been well enough to take advantageof his kindness. This invitation, however, he had repeated, and onenight I found my way to the Vicarage. I had hoped for a quiet chat withhim, but to my surprise I found three other guests besides myself. Onewas Squire Treherne, another was a young fellow named Prideaux, and theother was a clergyman from a neighboring parish.

  Mr. Trelaske was a widower, whose household affairs were conducted by aman and his wife by the name of Tucker. He received me most kindly, andplayed the part of host perfectly. It happened, too, that young Prideauxknew a man who was at Balliol with me, and this fact led to manyreminiscences of college life. The fact, moreover, of my being atWinchester greatly interested Squire Treherne in me. He was an oldWinchester boy, and was eager to ask questions concerning the school andto compare it with the days when he was there. In fact, before I hadbeen in the house an hour, I found myself on a friendly footing withthem all, and they spoke quite freely in my presence.

  "By the way, Squire," said Prideaux presently, "I hear that Lethbridgehas made another big _coup_. The way that fellow makes money is simplymarvellous."

  "Yes," said Squire Treherne, "and he has made it at my expense, too."

  "At your expense? How is that?"

  "He has found tin on my land."

  "Has he? That's good. It will mean mining royalties for you."

  "Not a bit of it. He persuaded me to sell the farm on which the tin wasdiscovered two years ago. I did not want to sell it, but I wanted themoney, and as the farm was, in a way, outside my ring fence, Iconsented. Evidently, he knew of the tin, but didn't let on. Got it fora song, too. Now he has the whole thing."

  "That is bad luck," said Mr. Trelaske. "He makes money at every turn. Iwould not mind if one of our own set was lucky, but for that fellow--adissenter and a Radical--to do it riles me."

  "Well, he is a capable man, isn't he?" said Mr. Robartes, the otherclergyman.

  "Capable, if you like," replied the Vicar.

  "And public-spirited too, isn't he?"

  "Only in a way. The fellow isn't a sportsman, and, in the true sense ofthe word, isn't an Englishman. That is why I dislike him. As you know,too
, he opposes the Church at every corner. I suppose it is natural in arabid dissenter, but it is hard to bear."

  "Still, he is a great employer of labor," said Prideaux. "And as foryoung Lethbridge, he is quite a decent fellow."

  "I suppose Mr. Lethbridge still goes to the Chapel, doesn't he?" askedMr. Robartes.

  "Oh yes, I suppose so," was the Vicar's reply. "I believe, if he hadn'tbeen a dissenter, things might have been all right."

  "How? What do you mean?"

  "Oh, at bottom a dissenter is never really an Englishman. Did you seethat speech he made some little time ago up at Polzeath? He was cryingdown the Army and saying that our nation was being bled to death to keepup a useless institution. That is what I cannot stand."

  They went on talking in this way for a considerable time until I beganto get rather bored. It seemed to me that they discussed the Church andDissent as two rival institutions. They regarded the Church as somethingwhich should be supported because it was a State affair. As for anythingdeeper, it did not appear in their conversation. Churchgoing wasregarded as something that ought to be a national institution, and assuch should be kept up. A few months before I dare say I might havetaken an academic interest in the conversation, but as I reflected uponDr. Rhomboid's verdict upon me it all seemed paltry and foolish. Churchand Chapel, as institutions, did not matter a straw to me.

  "What does Almighty God, if there is an Almighty God, Who made all theworlds, care whether a man goes to Church or to Chapel?"

  I remember propounding this question quite suddenly, and it seemed totake them aback.

  "You are a Churchman, aren't you?" asked Mr. Robartes eagerly.

  "I suppose so, if I am anything," I laughed. "I was confirmed while Iwas at Winchester, but for the life of me I can't see that it matterswhether a man goes to Church or to Chapel."

  "But surely you have no sympathy with these dissenters?"

  "I hardly know," was my reply. "I have been to the Methodist Chapel downhere two or three times. I went out of curiosity. You see, my lease oflife is very short, and I was wondering whether any of them could tellme what lies beyond the grave."

  I saw Mr. Trelaske look on the floor as I spoke. He evidently rememberedour conversation.

  "It seems to me that we have to leave such things as that," said theSquire. "The Bible and the Church teach us that there is a life beyondthe grave, and we had better let it stand at that. As for the Church, itmakes a man a good neighbor, a good citizen, and a good Englishman.Besides, the Church doesn't cramp a man. He can be a good sportsman,enjoy a glass of wine, play a game of cards, and still be a goodChurchman. That is why I am glad the Methodists are still losing ground.Of course they must."

  There was nothing harsh in the way he said this. He seemed to regarddissenters as a class apart--a people with a kink in their brains, whoout of pure stubbornness adopted a form of religion which somehow madethem outsiders. I dare say, if I had gone deeper into the matter, Ishould have found something which had not appeared in theirconversation, but such was the impression I received.

  "By the way," said Mr. Trelaske presently, "this is bad news aboutSerbia, isn't it?"

  "Yes, very bad," replied the Squire. "I should not be surprised if itdoesn't lead to complications. These Serbs are barely civilized."

  I did not understand what he meant, for I had not taken sufficientinterest in what was going on to open a newspaper for several days, andI said so.

  "I tell you," said Squire Treherne, "it is a serious matter. Last Sundaysome Serbians murdered the Crown Prince of Austria, and I am afraid itwill raise a rumpus. You see, Serbia is backed up by Russia, and ifAustria threatens to take reprisals there may be a row."

  I did not follow with very much interest what they were saying about thetrouble in the Balkan States. What did interest me, however, was thetremendous difference between their attitude to war and that which Mr.Lethbridge took. To them the defense of their country was a sacredthing--indeed, almost a religion. I found that Mr. Trelaske had twosons, both of whom were in the Army, and that young Prideaux was acaptain in the Territorials. They assumed, as a matter of course, thatno man could keep out of the Army in time of national danger. It was notsomething to argue about; it was something settled as a fixed principlein their lives. No one seemed to believe, however, that trouble betweenSerbia and Austria could affect England. All of them appeared to thinkwith Lord Salisbury, that we must retain our attitude of "SplendidIsolation," whatever might take place. Perhaps I ought to except youngPrideaux, who, having no fixed beliefs, seemed to have doubts about thematter.

  "I wish these blessed Radicals were not in power," he reflected, betweenpuffs of his cigar.

  "For that matter, all of us do," said Squire Treherne, in response. "Butstill, there it is. They have got the upper hand of us now, and it seemsas if they are going to keep it."

  "What I can't stand about the Radicals," said Mr. Robartes, "is thatthey aren't gentlemen."

  "Oh, I don't know about that," said Prideaux. "There's Grey, forinstance, he's a gentleman, and a sportsman too."

  "Yes, but he is different from the rest. I wonder how he stays with thatlot! I expect if we were dragged into this trouble the presentGovernment would adopt a peace-at-any-price attitude. The great majorityof Radicals are dissenters, and nearly all dissenters seem to be fedwith anti-war ideas. You remember what took place at the time of theBoer War?"

  "I am not sure they weren't right about that," remarked the Vicar; "Idon't mean about the war itself, but about giving self-government toSouth Africa. The Boers have settled down remarkably well."

  "Nonsense, Parson," said Squire Treherne. "It was pure madness.Supposing war were to break out, we should have a revolution in SouthAfrica before we could say 'Jack Robinson.' These Boers ought to havebeen kept under our thumb. Do you know, I had an awful row withLethbridge about that."

  "How are the Lethbridges regarded in the neighborhood?" I asked, for Iwas anxious to avoid anything like a political discussion.

  "Regarded in the neighborhood?" replied Squire Treherne. "Oh, we have totolerate them, you know. Lethbridge is a man of great influence, and, ofcourse, he's very rich. That is where he has the pull. He is the largestemployer of labor in this district, and as a consequence people look upto him."

  "I don't mean that so much," I said. "How is the family regardedsocially?"

  The Squire did not reply, but the Vicar was very pronounced.

  "Oh, socially," he said, "they scarcely exist. You see, Lethbridge, inspite of his money, is a parvenu and rank outsider. It is true that hiswife comes of a decent family, but a few years ago he was a poor lad inthis district, and people can't forget it. Besides, the fellow is suchan aggressive Radical. He is constantly treading on the corns of peoplewho would otherwise be civil to him."

  "What about his children?" I said. "I happen to have met them both, andthey strike me as being well educated and presentable."

  "Yes, his children are not so bad, and but for their father woulddoubtless be well received. At least, Hugh would. He is quite a niceboy. As for the girl, I don't know anything about her."

  "The girl is handicapped by her father," said young Prideaux. "In spiteof everything, she is placed in a curious position."

  "How is that?"

  "They occupy a kind of half-way position. On the one hand, they do notassociate with the people to whom Lethbridge belonged twenty years ago,and, on the other, they are not quite our sort. Still, I believe thepeople would have forgiven them, in spite of the father, if the girlhadn't been such a heartless flirt."

  "A flirt?" I repeated.

  "Yes. She's a dashed fine-looking girl, you know. Clever, too; and whenshe likes can be quite fascinating; but, like the rest of her class, shecan't play the game."

  "No?" I said, thinking of what her brother had told me.

  "No, there was young Tom Tredinnick; fine fellow Tom is, too. He fellhead over heels in love with her, and every one thought they were goingto make a match of it, but she treate
d Tom shamefully. There was NickBlatchford, too; she treated him just as badly. She led him to the pointof an avowal, and then chucked him."

  "That class of people have no sense of honor," said the Vicar. "Ofcourse, we can't get away from them down here. Methodism of one sort oranother is the established religion of the county, and they are nearlyall Radicals. In fact, they are anti-everything. Anti-smoking,anti-drinking, anti-sporting, anti-vaccination, and all the rest of it."

  "I wonder," I said musingly.

  As I went home I tried to gather up the impressions the company had madeupon me, and I reflected that the atmosphere of the Vicar's house wasutterly different from that of Mr. Lethbridge's. In a way, both wereentirely new to me. I was a town-bred boy, and knew practically nothingof country life, and as a consequence was utterly unacquainted with thethoughts and feelings of those who lived far away from London.

  I had not time, however, to follow my reflections to their naturalissue, for no sooner had the carriage, which I had hired for theevening, dropped me at the footpath at the end of the little copse thanmy thoughts were turned into an entirely different channel. I wasperhaps a hundred yards from my little dwelling-place, when suddenlysome one crept out of the undergrowth and stood before me.

  For the time of the year the night was dark. It was now midsummer, but achange had come over the weather, and dark clouds hung in the sky.Still, there was enough light for me to discern the figure of a man, whostood directly in my pathway.

  "Be you the straanger?" he said.

  "What do you mean?" I asked; "and who are you?"

  "Be you the straanger wot d'live in Father Abram's 'ut?" The man's voicewas thick, and his enunciation anything but clear.

  "That seems remarkably like my own business," I replied.

  "Be you the straanger wot d'live in Father Abram's 'ut?" He repeated thewords almost feverishly, and his voice trembled.

  "What if I am?" I asked.

  "Then go away! Go away!"

  "Why should I?"

  "Ca'ant tell 'ee."

  "But why should I go away? Who are you?"

  "Never mind that! You go away! Go away to once!"

  By this time I had become more accustomed to the darkness, and saw thatthe man was of huge proportions, and I judged that he had a seriouspurpose in speaking to me.

  "I tell 'ee," he went on, "that you must go away; ef you do'ant ..." Herehe stopped as though he did not know how to finish his sentence. My mindworked quickly, and I remembered my previous experiences which had takenplace at this very spot. His presence explained those wild, staring eyeswhich I had seen in the copse, and the apparition which had puzzled meon the night I had talked with Hugh Lethbridge.

  What he might mean by dogging my footsteps I could not explain, but thatthere was some meaning I felt quite sure.

  "You have been following me for days," I said.

  He grunted an assent.

  "I found you watching me last Thursday week. You crept away from me whenI went after you."

  "I dedn't main no wrong."

  "Yes, but what do you mean?"

  "You must go away!--go away!" he repeated.

  "Come with me to the house," I said. "I want to talk with you."

  He gave a cry of abject fear.

  "I mustn't! I mustn't! I be afeerd!"

  "What are you afraid of?"

  "I ca'ant tell 'ee! You must go away!"

  "Go away where?"

  "Anywhere; but you mustn't stay in thicky house! I've tould 'ee.Summin'll happen to 'ee ef you do'ant!"

  "What will happen to me?"

  "I ca'ant tell 'ee, but you must go away!" The man repeated the wordswith wearisome iteration. He seemed to be obsessed with this onethought. He spoke unintelligently. He might have been a machinerepeating over and over the same words.

  "You are Fever Lurgy," I said.

  Again the fellow gave a cry as if of fear.

  "Do'ant 'ee tell nobody," he cried. "But go away!--go away! I tell 'ee,ef you do'ant...." Again he stopped, like one who is afraid to finishhis sentence.

  "Some one has sent you to me," I said. "Who?"

  "I mustn't tell 'ee--I mustn't tell 'ee!" he cried.

  "But you must tell me. Come, you are going with me to the house, and Iam going to know everything."

  He started back as I spoke, and then rushed from me. I heard him amongthe bushes; then he spoke again.

  "You must go away!--you must go away at once!"

  I waited for some time but heard nothing more. Then I made my way to mylittle house, wondering at the meaning of what I had seen and heard.