Next morning I took a walk into the village, and just as I was entering it saw a group of youths reading a placard on the wall. It was headed by the British Coat of Arms, and contained an appeal from Lord Kitchener for five hundred thousand men. The youths looked at it stolidly. They did not seem to think that it affected them. Farther on I saw a woman brushing the little pathway which led to the front door of her cottage. By this time I had become on friendly terms with many of the people in the village, who spoke of me as "the poor young man, staying up to Father Abraham's hut." They evidently knew why I had come to Cornwall, and looked on me pityingly as I passed by.

"Mornin', sur."

"Good-morning, Mrs. Crantock."

"This es ter'ble news, sur."

"Yes, very terrible."

"I d' think et es judgment from God."

"Why do you think that, Mrs. Crantock?"

"Ah, sur, w've a forgot God, sur. Things be'ant what they used to be, and God's goin' to teach us a lesson."

She was a woman perhaps sixty years of age, and had a patient, kindly face, even although it was not without signs of determination and vigor.

"What reason have you for saying that we have forgotten God?" I asked. I reflected that she was an intelligent woman, and represented the class to which she belonged.

"Ah, sur, I've lived in Cornwall all my life, and I ca'ant 'elp seein' the deffurence between things now and what they used to be."

"Oh," I said, "and how is that?"

"Ah, sur, the young people be'ant the same. Why, sur, when I was a young woman, we didn't spend all our time gaddin' about, like young people do nowadays. We wad'n all for pleasure then. Why, sur, every Sunday mornin' I used to go to seven o'clock prayer-meetin', and there would be thirty or forty of us. The people had'n forgot 'ow to pray then, sur."

"And have they now?" I asked.

"Why, sur, there ed'n no seven o'clock meetin'; we d'ardly ever 'ave prayer-meetin' like we used to. There ed'n nobody to pray, so to speak, and when they do pray, 'tis deffurent. Ah, sur, we 'ad power then. We felt the power, too. As for the Chapel, it was full nearly every Sunday, and nearly everybody went."

"And they don't go now?" I suggested.

"No, sur, they do'ant go now. That is, nothin' like they used to. Young people do'ant seem to have no relish for the House of God."

"What is the reason of it?" I asked.

"Worldliness and pleasure, sur. Everybody be a thinkin' 'ow they shall enjoy theirselves. Yes, sur, we 'ave forgotten God, and He is goin' to bring us back to our senses. Yes, war is a ter'ble thing, but ef et will do that et'll be good for us. We d'need strong physic sometimes."

I waited, for I could see that she was in a communicative mood, and was pleased with the attention I gave to her.

"Then ther's the class-meetin's," she went on; "when I was a young woman, all the professin' Christians went to class-meetin', and everybody did give their experience. It was a means of grace to go then, sur. Men and women 'ad somethin' to tell of what God had done for them, and now, it do'ant seem as ef anybody 'ad any experience to give. Why, sur, we 'ad cottage prayer-meetin's all over St. Issey, and we was 'appy. We knawed then that God loved us, but now we do'ant seem to think about God. Religion wad'n a formal thing then, sur, it was everything to us. Yet, I dunno; people seem to have more worldly goods than they 'ad then, we 'ave better wages, and more of the good things of this life, but then we knawed God; now we do'ant."

"Do you mean to say that every one has forgotten Him, Mrs. Crantock?"

"No, sur, I do'ant go so fur as that. There be a few who 'aven't removed the ould landmarks. There's Tommy Yelland, and Mary Tresidder, and a few like they, to whom the Word of God is precious, but there be'ant many. You can remember, sur, the story of Sodom and Gomorrah. The Lord destroyed those cities because there wad'n ten righteous men. I do'ant say things is so bad as that wi' we, but we have lost certainty, sur, and we 'ave lost power. Be you a professin' Christian yerself, sur?"

"I am afraid I am not, Mrs. Crantock, but I am very interested in it."

"Ah, sur, I wish you 'ad come down 'ere in the ould days, when we 'ad Revivals. I've knawed the time when every one in St. Issey who went to Chapel was converted."

"Revivals?" I said, for I scarcely understood her.

"Yes, sur, the Spirit of the Lord used to move mightily, and after a Sunday evening service I 'ave knawed lots of people come out and be soundly converted; but that is all over now."

"Why is that?" I asked.

"Ted'n the Lord's fault, sur; His arm is not shortened, neither is His ear heavy. We have resisted His Spirit, sur, and come away from Him. We are fulfilling words of Scripture, 'Ephraim is joined to his idols; let him alone.' Why, sur, at our last special services nobody wad'n converted."

"Special services?" I queried.

"Yes, sur, we call it a 'mission' now, and we 'ad a special preacher down, but there wad'n no results."

"And are things no better at the Church?" I asked.

"Well, sur, they d'think of things deffurent up there. We do'ant look upon they as thinking about religion, like we Wesleyans do, or used to do," she added, correcting herself. "Now, sur, we be all alike. There do'ant seem any deffurence between the Church and the world. That is why God 'ave allowed this ter'ble war to come; for 'twill be ter'ble, do'ant you think so, sur?"

"Yes," I replied, "I am afraid it will."

"I d'ear they Germans be ter'ble fighters, and that every man in the country is a sojer. Es that true, sur?"

"Yes, practically true."

"Ah, 'tis a wisht thing ed'n et, then? but ef all the people would return to the Lord I shudd'n fear, but we seem to 'ave forgot the power of prayer. Be you better then, sur, makin' so bold?"

"Not much better, I am afraid," I replied.

"You do look fine an' slight, sur," she added, looking at me pityingly.

At first I scarcely understood what she meant, but I discovered that the word "slight" was commonly used among the Cornish people when they spoke of people looking ill.

"Pardon me," I said, for although the old dame was comparatively ignorant, and lived in a narrow world of her own, her conversation had greatly interested me. She had made me realize the power of Methodism in the county half a century before, and I wondered whether, in the simplicity of her mind and heart, she had got hold of a greater truth than I had realized. I remembered some words of the Founder of Christianity, "He hath hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hath revealed them unto babes." "Have you lost the knowledge of God, which you once possessed, with the rest of the people?"

"No, sur; that is," she added, correcting herself, "I do'ant think I have. Sometimes I am in danger of forgetting Him, and then He d'seem a long way off like, but I know et es my own fault, for direckly I spend a lot of time on my knees the Lord d'come real again to me. I d'remember my ould man's death-bed, too, and, sur, he was like Enoch of old, he walked with God, and when he came to die it was like heaven to hear him talk. He was triumphant, sur, triumphant."

As I left Mrs. Crantock, and made my way into the village, I could not help reflecting on what she had said. I had now been in St. Issey ten weeks, and had had time to form some impression on the life of the people. I could not help being convinced, too, that the old woman, in her simple way, had spoken the truth. As far as I could see there was no religion in Cornwall such as she had described. The people were, on the whole, well conducted, but, as I understood the word, there was no deep sense of religion at all. Both at Chapel and Church the people were listless, and, to a large extent, indifferent. The fact of God was not real. That consciousness of the presence of God, which, as far as I could judge, had been common to the people fifty years before, no longer existed.

And yet, perhaps, I am not altogether right in saying this. The ideals and the thoughts of the people were largely because of what religion had been in the olden days. Whether the distinctive doctrines of Methodism were largely superstition I am not going to argue here, but they had, in the past, permeated the county, and their effects had not altogether died out. On the other hand, however, they were no longer a present possession, neither was religion, in a large number of cases, a distinctive factor in their lives. The people were comfortable, well fed, well housed, and, generally, well conditioned, and, as a consequence, they did not feel the need of God. The fear of hell, which was prevalent in the old days, had died out, and with its death the realization for the need of religion had died out too. They were so comfortable, so self-satisfied, that everything appertaining to the spiritual world was a long, long way off. No one seemed to be stirred to the depths of life, never anywhere was there a deep calling unto the deep; and thus, while the majority of people were respectable and well behaved, they sought for satisfaction in the life around them.

As I walked through the village I came upon a number of miners lounging around, with, apparently, nothing to do. They were, they informed me, working afternoon "core" that week, and thus had their mornings at liberty. They greeted me heartily as I came up, and willingly entered into conversation with me. The subject of conversation was the war, and the two things which impressed me were, first of all, that it would soon be over, and, second, that they had nothing to do with it. In the majority of cases they did not seem to feel that Lord Kitchener's appeal was to them at all. They imagined that soldiers would be forthcoming, and that England would be able to get all the men she wanted, but the idea that they should leave their homes and go away for training did not seem to occur to them. I am speaking now of those early days of the war, before the terror of it really gripped the country.

"I d'give they Germans about six weeks," said one miner to me. "What can Germany do 'gainst Russia and France and we? I tell you what, maaster, they have bite off a bigger piece than they can chow, tha's what they've done; do'ant you think so?"

"I hope they have," I replied; "but I think you are over-confident. You see, in Germany, every man is trained to be a soldier, and thus they have an army nearly twenty times as big as we have."

"But you do'ant think they'll bait we, do 'ee, maaster?"

"I think we shall have difficult work to beat them," was my reply, "and the sooner you chaps enlist the better."

"What! we go for sojers; do'ant you believe it. I never fired a gun in my life."

"Then I think the sooner you begin to learn the better."

But I could make no impression on them. The war, to them, was a long way off, and they had only a kind of detached interest in it. They quite agreed with me that, as we were in it, we should have to see it through, only some one else must see it through, not they. The thought of their becoming soldiers seemed utterly alien to them. I discovered, too, that all of them had a kind of feeling that they would lower themselves in the social grade if they donned the King's uniform. In the past, the Army had largely been recruited from men of the extreme lower orders. Of course, I am referring now to privates. When a young fellow got into trouble, or had disgraced himself in any way, the Army was a kind of harbor of refuge. Indeed, it was quite common for magistrates to give incipient criminals the choice between joining the Army and being sent to prison. As a consequence, these Cornish miners, who in their way were exceedingly proud, thought it beneath them to don the King's uniform. Besides, as Mr. Lethbridge had said on a previous occasion, the whole spirit of the county was utterly alien to anything like militarism.

As, towards noon, I found my way back to my hut, a great feeling of bitterness came into my heart. "Wouldn't I enlist, if I were able?" I said to myself. "I would to heaven that I were strong and well, and able to do something; but I am nothing but a useless hulk. If the spirit shown by these young fellows is the spirit of the country, the Germans will smash us in a few weeks."

For I was not blind to the problem which faced us. I knew that France was not prepared in the same way that Germany was. I remembered that, forty-five years before, Von Moltke with his perfectly trained army had swept down like an avalanche, and carried away the French army as if by a flood. I knew, too, that the German forces were far stronger now than they were then, and that, with the thoroughness which characterized them, they had prepared everything to the minutest detail. I reflected that at that time the German guns were thundering at the LiÈge forts, and that, except some miracle happened, the German hordes would sweep towards Paris, as in the great dÊbÂcle of 1870. I knew we had a little army of, perhaps, 200,000 men, but what could they do against such a mighty host? I wondered, too, whether our guns were equal to those of the Germans. Altogether, I was very pessimistic.

After this, some days passed without anything happening. For some reason or other I seemed to be left severely alone. No one visited me, neither did I go out of the house. The weather was somewhat inclement, and I was too depressed to brave the angry clouds which hung in the sky. I went neither to Church nor to Chapel, but hung around my hut, sometimes listlessly walking along the cliffs, but, in the main, staying in my little room.

"I suppose, sir," said Simpson, one evening, "that there is going to be a recruiting meeting in the village schoolroom."

"How did you find that out, Simpson?" I asked.

"Saw a bill, sir. Squire Treherne is going to take the chair, and the Vicar and several others are going to speak."

"When is the meeting to be, Simpson?"

"To-morrow night, sir."

Although I felt far from well, I determined to go. I was far away from the centres of life, and felt utterly incapable of doing anything; but I wanted to feel the throb of humanity's pulses, longed to take my share in the great world struggle.

I had not time to ask any more questions, however, for at that minute Hugh Lethbridge walked into my room, and I saw by the look on his face that he was much perturbed.

I did not ask him any questions, for at that moment Simpson was busily clearing away the dinner utensils. It was evident, however, that something had excited him greatly. He could not sit still, and his hands were constantly clenching and unclenching themselves.

"Erskine," he said presently, when Simpson had left the room, "I want you to help me."

"Help you, my dear fellow, how?"

"I have been and done it," he said.

"Done what?"

"I could not help it, my dear chap. You have seen the placards all over the place. You know the call there has been for men. What could I do? Here am I, healthy and strong, and just the kind of man that is needed. How could I hang back like a coward?"

"Then you have enlisted?"

"Yes," he cried, "I have enlisted; I could not help myself."

"As a private?"

"Yes, as a private. I am not fit to be an officer."

"But didn't you belong to the Officers' Training Corps when you were at school?"

"The pater would not allow me. No, it was no use my thinking anything about it, so I went to a recruiting station and joined up. I shall have to go to the front immediately."

"How is that?" I asked. "What is the use of your going to the front without training? They won't allow you. You will be kept in England at least six months."

"No, I shan't. You see, I know the Colonel of the regiment I have joined very well, and he is off to the front immediately, and I am going too."

"But how?"

"Well, you see, for one thing, I know French and German, and for another, I am not a bad hand at mechanics. I know all about a motor-car, inside and out, and they can find work for me."

"Then you are not going as an ordinary Tommy?"

"In a way I am, and in a way I am not; but there it is. They are going to make a special case of me. I am off to-morrow to join my regiment, and from what I can hear, the regiment is off in two or three days. I don't know exactly what my duties will be; but there it is, I am off."

"What will your father say?" I asked.

"That is what I have come to see you about. I never realized until I had done it what the pater would say. You know I am fond of him, even although we have never got on well together. He has never understood me, and I am afraid I have never understood him—there is no link of sympathy between us; but then, you know, he is my pater after all. Yes, I have joined; but that is not all, Erskine."

"Not all?" I queried. "What is there besides?"

"I have been and got married," was his reply.

"Got married!"

"Yes. I expect it was a mad thing to do, but I could not help myself. You don't know what it is to be in love, Erskine, and I could not bear the idea of leaving Mary without knowing she was my wife."

"And, of course, your father knows nothing about that either?"

"No, he knows nothing. You see, I got married by special license. I was afraid to tell the pater what was in my mind,—afraid he would interfere somehow and stop me,—so I thought I would do it first and tell him afterwards."

Our conversation was not nearly so connected and straightforward as I have described it here. What he said was uttered in quick, disjointed sentences. Sometimes he would break off in the middle of what he was saying, and talk about something else. That he was greatly excited was easy to see. It was evident, too, that his duty towards his father troubled him greatly.

"I don't mind mother," he said; "she will be all right—mother understands me. Of course, Bella and I laugh at her, and all that sort of thing, because she is always making plans for us, and mapping out our day's program, and telling us what we ought to do. We call her the general manager; but she is a good sort is mother, and she understands us, too. But the pater is different. Somehow, he cannot understand us, and we cannot understand him. I suppose, in a way, he is just, and in many things he is generous to me, but in others——Well, there it is. I wondered what I ought to do. At first I thought I would go away without telling him anything, but that would be acting like a sneak. Mind you, Erskine, I would not undo anything I have done. If ever a man had a call to serve his country, I have, and I think it is a splendid piece of luck that I can be useful at a time like this, without going through the training of an ordinary soldier. I jumped at the chance of going to the front straight away; but then, there was Mary. How could I leave her without being sure that I had her? I was afraid the pater would take steps to hinder me from ever getting her. You have some idea what he is—and I was afraid. Besides, she was willing, and so I—I——God forgive me if I have done wrong, Erskine, but I could not help it."

"Well, what can I do to help you?" I asked.

"There it is, and that is why I have come to-night. I have always had the reputation of having a fair amount of pluck; I do not fear death a bit, and I haven't a single qualm about going to the front; but it's the pater, you see."

"What about your father?" I asked.

"I am afraid to tell him, Erskine. I simply dare not go home and tell him what I have done."

"Nonsense!" I said; "he cannot eat you; you have done nothing to be ashamed of. For that matter you have done what thousands of other fellows have done. You have joined the Army at the call of your King and Country, and it was the right thing to do. I would to God that I were able to do it too!"

"Would you, Erskine?" he cried eagerly. "You think I have done right, then?"

"I think you should have gone to your father first and asked for his consent. Then, if he would not give it, I think you, being of age, and feeling it your duty, should go in spite of him."

"But he would not have consented."

"Exactly; still, you should have asked him. As for getting married——"

"Yes, yes, what about that?" and he looked towards me feverishly.

"Well," I said, "hundreds of fellows are doing it. I have seen scores of such cases in the newspapers. Hurried marriages have been arranged by young fellows going to the front."

"Yes, but, you see, they have been different. They have been married with their father's blessing, and all that sort of thing; but I, I am afraid to go and tell him, Erskine, unless——"

"Unless what?" I asked.

"The pater thinks no end of you," he said excitedly. "He doesn't say much, but I can see it. You see, you promised to do well at the Bar, and he thinks you are clever, and all that sort of thing. Of course he hasn't said much to you, but I know it."

"Well, what if he does?" I asked.

"Look here, Erskine, that is what I came for. Will you come with me? If you are with me, I believe I can tell him. I have got the car outside, and I can run you up in five minutes."

Although I ought to have seen what was in his mind all the time, his request came almost as a shock to me. Josiah Lethbridge was almost a stranger to me. It is true I had been to his house twice, and had met him on two other occasions, but he was not a man to whom one could speak freely. At least I thought so. As I have intimated before, he was a strong, capable man, and, like many of his class, was overbearing, almost repellent. He had risen from a poor lad by his own energy and determination and ability. He had swept difficulties out of his path. He had succeeded because he had made others yield to his stronger will. All these things had left their mark upon him. He could not bear opposition, and he took it as a personal grievance when others did not fall in with his way of thinking. I knew, too, his thoughts and desires with regard to his son, knew how he hated militarism, knew how ambitious he was that Hugh, his only son, should take a high place, not only in the county but in the nation. Therefore, when he was told that Hugh had not only joined the Army as a common soldier, but had married, against his will, a small tenant farmer's daughter, his anger would know no bounds.

Besides, what had it to do with me? I had known none of them before I came to Cornwall, less than three months before. Why should I be dragged into this imbroglio? Then I looked at Hugh Lethbridge's face, saw the quiver of his lips, saw the eager look in his eye. Although I had known him only a few weeks, I had conceived a strong affection for him, and, in spite of myself, could not help sympathizing with him.

"Will you help me?" he said pleadingly.

I nodded.

"You will come with me now and see the pater?"

"If you wish it."

"Thank you, my dear chap," and his voice became husky as he spoke.

A few minutes later we stood at the door of Josiah Lethbridge's house.