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

In many respects young Lethbridge was sensitive and self-contained, but in other ways he was so impulsive that he overstepped the bounds of good taste. I got to know him better afterwards, and found that, although he had spoken so freely to me, he was regarded by many as reserved. Besides, he was hungering for sympathy, and because he thought I sympathized with him his confidences were so personal that I almost felt uncomfortable.

Nevertheless, I pondered a great deal over what he had told me. Evidently the household at Trecarrel was not altogether happy, and an estrangement existed between Mr. Lethbridge senior and his son. As for Isabella Lethbridge, she presented an interesting study to me. As I have said, she appealed to me as no other woman had ever appealed to me before. For the moment I had thought I was in love with her, but, on reflection, I knew I was not. I was able to study her character calmly and think of her in a kind of detached way. She formed no part in my life. She was an interesting specimen of humanity, whom I took pleasure in analyzing, but the feeling I had towards her was not love. Rather she repelled me even while she fascinated me. The thought of her never caused my heart to throb, nor made the blood course through my veins one whit the faster.

Besides, it was not for me to think about such things. I had come down to 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 happened worthy of record. Often I reflected upon the uselessness of my life. Why, after all, should I live? No one but Simpson was really interested in me, and only he would grieve when I had gone; then again the old revulsion against becoming nothing surged within me. I had hopes, longings, intimations which seemed to overleap the boundaries of time and sense. If this life were all, then life was a mockery, a promise without 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, or found its way across the great waste of waters, I asked a thousand questions and pondered over the problems of life and death, without ever receiving one single ray of light. Sometimes I became so lonely that I called Simpson into my room and talked with him, but I never allowed him to know how dark were the prospects which faced me. The questions I asked him, I remember, were almost flippant in their nature. I made a joke of death, as I tried to make a joke of everything else; so much so that I fancied Simpson was convinced that I did not trouble. After all, why should I worry the poor, simple-minded fellow with questions which he could not answer or understand? The best thing to do was to bear everything with a kind of stoicism, and to make a jest of what really haunted me night and day with strange persistency. Indeed, I think I sometimes rather pained Simpson with my flippant remarks, for I found that the beliefs of his boyhood were still powerful in his life. It is difficult to eradicate the impressions of youth.

"After all, Simpson," I said one day, "sleep is a good thing providing one has no bad dreams, and if I sleep for ever I shall know nothing about 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 somewhat indignant 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 all that. You were spoken of in the newspapers as one who would do great things 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 very foolish, 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 it keep time, doesn't he?"

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean, Simpson?"

"Well, sir, I have an old watch which my grandfather used to carry, and it keeps good time still. The watch was made by a man, and it has lasted nearly a hundred years. Now, I don't believe Almighty God would take so much trouble in making us and then let us last only twenty or thirty years. 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 had fulfilled his promise, but I had not been well enough to take advantage of his kindness. This invitation, however, he had repeated, and one night I found my way to the Vicarage. I had hoped for a quiet chat with him, but to my surprise I found three other guests besides myself. One was Squire Treherne, another was a young fellow named Prideaux, and the other was a clergyman from a neighboring parish.

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

"By the way, Squire," said Prideaux presently, "I hear that Lethbridge has made another big coup. The way that fellow makes money is simply marvellous."

"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 was discovered two years ago. I did not want to sell it, but I wanted the money, and as the farm was, in a way, outside my ring fence, I consented. Evidently, he knew of the tin, but didn't let on. Got it for a song, too. Now he has the whole thing."

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

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

"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 of the 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 a rabid dissenter, but it is hard to bear."

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

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

"Oh yes, I suppose so," was the Vicar's reply. "I believe, if he hadn't been 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 see that speech he made some little time ago up at Polzeath? He was crying down the Army and saying that our nation was being bled to death to keep up a useless institution. That is what I cannot stand."

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

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

I remember propounding this question quite suddenly, and it seemed to take 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 I was at Winchester, but for the life of me I can't see that it matters whether 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 down here two or three times. I went out of curiosity. You see, my lease of life is very short, and I was wondering whether any of them could tell me what lies beyond the grave."

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

"It seems to me that we have to leave such things as that," said the Squire. "The Bible and the Church teach us that there is a life beyond the grave, and we had better let it stand at that. As for the Church, it makes 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 good Churchman. 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 regard dissenters as a class apart—a people with a kink in their brains, who out of pure stubbornness adopted a form of religion which somehow made them outsiders. I dare say, if I had gone deeper into the matter, I should have found something which had not appeared in their conversation, but such was the impression I received.

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

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

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

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

I did not follow with very much interest what they were saying about the trouble in the Balkan States. What did interest me, however, was the tremendous difference between their attitude to war and that which Mr. Lethbridge took. To them the defense of their country was a sacred thing—indeed, almost a religion. I found that Mr. Trelaske had two sons, both of whom were in the Army, and that young Prideaux was a captain in the Territorials. They assumed, as a matter of course, that no man could keep out of the Army in time of national danger. It was not something to argue about; it was something settled as a fixed principle in their lives. No one seemed to believe, however, that trouble between Serbia and Austria could affect England. All of them appeared to think with Lord Salisbury, that we must retain our attitude of "Splendid Isolation," whatever might take place. Perhaps I ought to except young Prideaux, who, having no fixed beliefs, seemed to have doubts about the matter.

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

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

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

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

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

"I am not sure they weren't right about that," remarked the Vicar; "I don't mean about the war itself, but about giving self-government to South 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 South Africa before we could say 'Jack Robinson.' These Boers ought to have been kept under our thumb. Do you know, I had an awful row with Lethbridge about that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The girl is handicapped by her father," said young Prideaux. "In spite of 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 not associate with the people to whom Lethbridge belonged twenty years ago, and, on the other, they are not quite our sort. Still, I believe the people would have forgiven them, in spite of the father, if the girl hadn't been such a heartless flirt."

"A flirt?" I repeated.

"Yes. She's a dashed fine-looking girl, you know. Clever, too; and when she likes can be quite fascinating; but, like the rest of her class, she can'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 fell head over heels in love with her, and every one thought they were going to make a match of it, but she treated Tom shamefully. There was Nick Blatchford, too; she treated him just as badly. She led him to the point of an avowal, and then chucked him."

"That class of people have no sense of honor," said the Vicar. "Of course, we can't get away from them down here. Methodism of one sort or another is the established religion of the county, and they are nearly all 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 made upon me, and I reflected that the atmosphere of the Vicar's house was utterly different from that of Mr. Lethbridge's. In a way, both were entirely new to me. I was a town-bred boy, and knew practically nothing of country life, and as a consequence was utterly unacquainted with the thoughts and feelings of those who lived far away from London.

I had not time, however, to follow my reflections to their natural issue, for no sooner had the carriage, which I had hired for the evening, dropped me at the footpath at the end of the little copse than my thoughts were turned into an entirely different channel. I was perhaps a hundred yards from my little dwelling-place, when suddenly some 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 a change 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, who stood 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 voice was 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 the words 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 that the man was of huge proportions, and I judged that he had a serious purpose in speaking to me.

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

What he might mean by dogging my footsteps I could not explain, but that there 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 when I 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 words with wearisome iteration. He seemed to be obsessed with this one thought. He spoke unintelligently. He might have been a machine repeating 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 finish his 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 I am going to know everything."

He started back as I spoke, and then rushed from me. I heard him among the 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 my little house, wondering at the meaning of what I had seen and heard.