The Passion for Life

by Joseph Hocking

  IV

  THREE VISITORS

  On the day following nothing happened, and excepting Simpson I did notsee a single person. Indeed, but for one occasion, when out of curiosityI clambered down to the beach, I did not leave the house; but on theTuesday I had a regular influx of visitors. No less than three personscame to see me, to say nothing of Mrs. Martha Bray, who, in fulfilmentof her promise to Simpson, came over to see whether her services werefurther needed.

  My first visitor was an entire stranger. He came ostensibly to ask for adrink of milk, but really I believe out of curiosity, for when Simpsonhad, at my request, supplied him with the milk, he showed no desire toleave. Rather he appeared much interested in my reasons for coming toSt. Issey. He was a middle-aged man, say from forty-five to fifty, andlived, he told me, at St. Eia. He proved a rather cleverconversationalist, too, for in spite of myself I found myself talking tohim freely. There were all sorts of rumors about Father Abraham, he toldme. Some had it that he was mad; some said that he was a refugee;others, again, thought he had in the past committed some crime and washiding from justice, while more than once it had been whispered that hisend was the result of a kind of vendetta which was sworn against himbecause of something he did in his young manhood.

  "Have you any theories yourself, sir?" he asked.

  "No," I replied, "I have no theories. I must confess, however, to beinga little interested. The old man evidently had a purpose in building thehouse, and, I think, intended it to be a permanent residence. As yousee, although it is composed of wood, it is very carefully built, andwas intended to last. For the life of me, however, I can hardly believehe was murdered. Of course, there was blood found upon the floor, but itis not easy to dispose of a body even so near the sea. From what I canhear no one has been washed up here, and but for the marks of struggleand the blood no one would have thought he was murdered."

  "Exactly," replied my visitor. "But many things are going on of which weknow nothing, and many people have purposes in life which they have nodesire to make known. What is your opinion of European politics?"

  "I cannot say I have any very fixed ideas," I replied.

  "A section of the Press," went on my visitor, "would have us believethat we are on the verge of war, and certainly there have beenindications these last few years that we are standing on the brink of avolcano. Do you believe in the stories told about Germany?"

  "What stories?" I asked.

  "Oh, that the Germans are preparing for war, and that they mean to go towar with England."

  To this I gave no answer.

  "Have you read those articles in _The Daily_----?" he asked. "I meanthose articles which told us frightful stories of German preparationsfor war, of their avowed determination to bring about war with England,and of the toast which the military and naval people in Germany drink onevery great occasion."

  "You mean the toast to 'Der Tag'? Of course, one has heard such stories,but what do they amount to, after all?"

  "That is my own attitude," was his answer, "and as far as stories aboutGerman spies are concerned, I think they are worked up by the Press inorder to increase the circulation of the papers. By the way, have youever seen anything suspicious in this neighborhood? This," and he lookedtowards the bay, "would be a splendid spot for German boats to land ifthey wanted to do so."

  "Why should they want to land in a remote corner of the world likethis?" I asked.

  "Exactly," he replied, "only I was wondering whether you, who live herealone, had ever seen or heard anything which aroused your suspicions?"

  "No," I replied, not thinking it worth while to tell him anything aboutthe brooch I had found.

  "You have seen nothing and heard nothing, then?" he persisted.

  "I have only been here a short time," I replied. "Why do you ask?"

  "I only wondered, that is all. The people over at St. Eia say thatforeigners have been sneaking around trying to pick up information, andI wondered whether you had heard anything."

  "No," I replied, "nothing at all."

  "I suppose," he said, "that these cliffs here are honey-combed withcaves? Have you seen any of them?"

  "Yes," I replied. "I saw one the day after I came here. I came upon itsuddenly, for the entrance to it is only a fissure in the rocks."

  "Ah!" he cried. "Did you enter?"

  "Yes," was my reply, "but it was not at all mysterious. I could see allround it by the aid of a match, and it contained nothing. Of course, itwas very curious and very interesting."

  "But you saw nothing suspicious?" he asked.

  I shook my head.

  My visitor did not remain long after this, and although for a time Iwondered why he should be so interested, I soon ceased to pay attentionto his questions.

  Perhaps I should have thought more about him, but just before noon I hadanother visitor. This was a young fellow about twenty-two years of age,whom I knew to be an Oxford man before he had spoken a dozen words.

  "My name is Lethbridge," he said. "My people live up at Trecarrelyonder, and I came--well, I came really at my pater's request."

  "Indeed," I said, looking at him curiously.

  "Yes; you were at Chapel on Sunday morning, weren't you?"

  "I was," I replied.

  "Well, my pater and sister were there, and the pater wondered very muchwho you were. In the evening, contrary to his usual custom, he went asecond time, and saw your servant, who told him who you were. Directlythe pater mentioned your name, I remembered hearing it in Oxford. Youare an Oxford man, aren't you?"

  "Yes. I was at Balliol."

  "So was I. I left last June. You are often spoken of by the men. Indeed,I had your old rooms. You will excuse the liberty we took in talkingabout you, won't you? but really we have very little to interest us inthis corner of the world."

  "You are very kind to come," I replied.

  "When I told my father who you were, he suggested that I should comedown and ask you to come up to dinner. You see, we had heard of some onecoming to live in old Father Abraham's hut, and when it turned out to beyou, we got interested. You will forgive this informal method ofprocedure, won't you? But if you will come up and spend an evening withus soon, we shall all be jolly glad."

  "I am afraid I am too ill to come," I replied.

  "You do look a bit seedy," was his response, "but the air down here isripping. It will soon set you up again."

  "I am afraid I am too far gone for that," was my reply, "but if I amwell enough, I shall be only too glad to come."

  "Say to-morrow night," he said.

  "If you will leave it an open question," was my reply, "I will say yes,but if I am too ill, you will understand the reason for my absence."

  He looked at me closely.

  "Is it as bad as that?"

  "I am afraid it is," and I sighed when I spoke, for at that moment awave of desire for life rolled over me.

  "May I smoke?" he asked, pulling out his pipe.

  "Please forgive me," I said. "I will tell Simpson to bring some cigars."

  "Oh no, thank you. A pipe for me, please. By the way, I did not know youwere of the Chapel-going order. The one reason I doubted it was you wasbecause my father said you were at the little Wesleyan Chapel."

  "I went there out of curiosity, I am afraid. I was wondering whetherthese people had anything to say to a man whose days were numbered."

  "I go there twice a year," was his reply. "I used to go regularly when aboy. Do you intend to stay long down here, by the way?"

  "To the end, I expect," I said, shrugging my shoulders.

  "Come, now, we will not talk like that. I am sorry to see you looking soseedy. You were always spoken of in Oxford as an athlete. You got yourBlue, didn't you?"

  "Yes," I replied; "but one never knows what germs of disease one has inone's system. However, we will not talk about that. It is awfully goodof you to ask me to come up to your house."

  "Rather it will be awfully good of you if you come," he replied. "What ajolly fine view
you have here. The old man who built this hut chose oneof the most beautiful positions on the whole coast. How did you find itout?"

  "Simpson, my man, did that for me," was my reply. "He was a boy downhere, he says, and when I told him I had to get away from London, hecame down here on spec. I consider myself very lucky."

  "I am afraid you will find it a bit lonely in the winter, won't you? Thesea is all right when the sun is shining on it, but in winter, when theclouds are black, I know of nothing more dismal. Besides, those black,beetling cliffs are enough to strike terror into one's soul."

  I must confess to liking young Lethbridge. He was an athletic,healthy-looking young fellow, tanned by much exposure to the sun, andhis every look and movement suggested frankness and honesty. I did notjudge him to be very clever, but he was certainly likeable.

  "You were doing very well at the Bar, weren't you?" he went on. "Ourchaps at Balliol spoke of you as one who would bring added lustre to theold College."

  "I was only just beginning to see light," was the reply. "I was lucky inone of the cases I had, and won it by a fluke. That was why briefs werebeginning to come in. But I have got to the end of them now. What do youdo with yourself?"

  "That is the hang of it," he replied. "I am doing nothing. The paterwanted me to go in for the Law, and then try for Parliament. He has anidea that I ought to represent one of the Cornish constituencies, but Iam not cut out for that sort of thing."

  "What would you like to be?" I asked.

  "Oh, a farmer," he replied. "If, instead of spending all the money hehas spent in sending me to Oxford, the pater had bought a thousand acresof land and set me up farming, I should be as happy as a king, but lawbooks are just Sanskrit to me. I love an open-air life, and I lovehorses and animals generally. The pater won't see things in my light,however; that is why I am doing nothing. I wish you would tell him whenyou come up that none but brainy men can do anything at the Bar. Well,it is close upon lunch-time, and I must go. But you will be sure tocome, won't you? Look here, let's have an understanding. I will send themotor down to the end of the lane to-morrow evening at seven o'clock,and then, if you cannot come, you can send your man out to tell thechauffeur. But be sure to come, if you can."

  When he had gone I somehow felt better. His very presence was healthful,and I looked forward with pleasure to meeting him again.

  "You have been quite busy this morning, sir," said Simpson when he camein to lay the table for my lunch. "Two visitors in one day in aneighborhood like this is something wonderful."

  "Yes," I replied, "and I like young Lethbridge."

  "I hear he is a great trouble to his father, sir."

  I did not reply to this.

  "You see, sir, old Mr. Lethbridge wants him to marry into a countyfamily. The truth is, when I was a boy down here he was only a poor lad.How he has got on in the way he has is a mystery to every one. Somehowor other everything he touched turned to money, and now he is richerthan Mr. Treherne, the Squire. He is very ambitious, too, and wants toget in with the county people. That is why people wonder at his stickingto the Wesleyan Chapel."

  "But how has young Lethbridge caused him trouble?" I asked.

  "Well, sir, it is said that he's in love with a farmer's daughter, andthat the old gentleman says he will cut him off with a shilling if hedoesn't make up to Miss Treherne. Of course, people will talk, and maybeit is only gossip."

  I felt more interested than ever in young Lethbridge after this,although I was rather annoyed with myself that I had listened toservants' gossip. All the same, I believed there might be some truth inwhat I had heard. There was a look in the young fellow's eyes whichsuggested that the deepest longings in his heart were unsatisfied.

  Before the day was over, the old adage which says that it never rainsbut it pours was fulfilled in my case. Simpson had only just brought mytea when he came to me with an important look on his face.

  "Mr. Trelaske, the Vicar, has called to see you, sir."

  "Good!" I replied. "Show him in."

  "I hope you will forgive the liberty I am taking," said the Vicar onentering, "but, as you are one of my parishioners, and I was told youwere at Church on Sunday evening, I thought I might call."

  "It is very kind of you," I said. "You have just come in time for tea,too. Won't you sit down?"

  Mr. Trelaske did not look so imposing, as he sat in my little room, aswhen wearing his clerical robes in Church. He seemed a smaller man, notsimply physically--his personality seemed less as he drew a chair up tothe table and took a cup of tea from Simpson.

  "I suppose you know that you are the subject of a great deal ofdiscussion in St. Issey?" he said presently.

  "I'm very flattered," was my reply.

  "Well, for a man to come to St. Issey with a man-servant, and take uphis abode in old Father Abraham's cottage, has set all the gossips inthe village working overtime."

  "Mrs. Grundy lives here, then?"

  "Well, you know what we country people are. St. Issey is out of thebeaten track of tourists, although there isn't a prettier spot inEngland, and no healthier for that matter. As for the coast sceneryround here, it is, in my opinion, the most beautiful in the wholecountry. Anyhow, a stranger attracts a great deal of notice. Then, yousee, this hut is a mystery."

  "Yes, I have heard all about that," I replied, "but I dare say a greatdeal of the mystery has been magnified. Anyhow, it suits me entirely; itis situated in one of the most lovely spots in the vicinity. It isutterly quiet, and yet it is not altogether out of the world."

  "Might one ask, Mr. Erskine," he said, turning to me suddenly, "why youcame to this part of the world?"

  "I came here to die," I replied.

  He stared at me curiously.

  "To die, Mr. Erskine?" he said.

  "Yes," I replied. "I have been given a year to live--at the outside. Itmay be that I shall only last a month or two. When I told my man Simpsonabout it, and said I wanted to die in the most pleasant place possible,and to do it rather cheaply, he came down here and took this house."

  "Y-you do look rather seedy," he stammered. "But surely it is not so badas that?"

  "Dr. Rhomboid, who is at the head of his profession, examined me verycarefully, and that was the verdict he passed. That was why I went toChurch last Sunday night."

  "I don't think I quite understand you," and the Vicar looked at me asthough he doubted my sanity.

  "You are an Oxford man, aren't you?" he went on. "At least, that is whatI have heard; and you were a barrister, and have won some repute in thatdirection?"

  "With the exception of your last sentence, you have been correctlyinformed," was my reply. "What I have told you is quite true,nevertheless. It is also true that I went to Church last Sunday nightbecause of what Dr. Rhomboid told me," and I looked at his facecuriously, because I wanted to see how he would take it.

  "No," I continued, "I am not an illustration of the old rhyme:

  "The devil was sick, the devil a monk would be, The devil was well, and the devil a monk was he!

  It is not that at all; but do you know, Mr. Trelaske, when a man issuddenly told that he has only a year to live, and may possibly die in afew weeks, he is, to say the least of it, somewhat curious to know whatwill happen after he is dead. I repeat, that is why I went to Churchlast Sunday night."

  "Yes, yes, certainly," and I thought he seemed a little bit uneasy.

  "Mr. Trelaske," I said, "what happens to a man after he is dead?"

  He was silent for a few seconds, and again he looked at me as if hedoubted my sanity.

  "I am not joking," I persisted. "After all, it is a matter of someinterest to me, and as you are a clergyman, and as a belief in a futurelife is one of the articles of the faith you preach, I thought I wouldask your opinion about it."

  "But surely, Mr. Erskine," he said, "you are not a heathen. You are anold 'Varsity man. You took an arts degree, and would, to say the leastof it, have had to study the Greek Testament. You know what is taughtthere."


  "Excuse me," was my reply, "but that doesn't quite meet the situation.It is quite true, as you say, that I had to study the New Testament atOxford, and also while at school at Winchester I was in a ConfirmationClass; but all that kind of thing is a long way off. It is simplytraditional, and when a man comes down to the depths of life traditionsdon't count. It is true that I have not read the New Testament lately,not, indeed, since I left Oxford. I am like thousands of other fellows,who, on going out into the world, give these things the go-by. Years agoI suppose I held to the traditional faith, although I have troubled verylittle about it; but now, as things are, I am interested--I am more thaninterested. What will happen to me a few months hence, when I am dead?Anything?"

  I could quite see that he was surprised at the course the conversationwas taking, and that he had no expectation of being asked suchquestions; but now that I had spoken, I meant to know all that he couldtell me.

  "Our state in the future," was his reply, "depends on the life we havelived here."

  "Isn't that rather begging the question?" I asked. "You are assumingsomething which, as it seems to me, is a matter of doubt. No, do notmistake me, I haven't lived a bad life. I have not descended to thevulgar vices which are supposed to be so common to men in these days. Ihave, as my acquaintances say of me, 'gone straight.' I listened veryattentively to your sermon on Sunday night. You see, I was more thanordinarily interested. Your text was, 'If a man die, shall he liveagain?' Will he, Mr. Trelaske?"

  "Of course," was his reply.

  "Are you _sure_?" I asked, emphasizing the word.

  "Hasn't it been the teaching of the Church from its earliest history?"and he looked a little indignant.

  "Excuse me, but if you will forgive me for saying so, the teaching ofthe Church is the very thing in question. As you may imagine, I do notask the question out of idle curiosity; I am deeply interested, vitallyinterested. Mr. Trelaske, are you sure, if I were to die to-night, thatthere would be anything after? Mind you, I do not ask for a mereopinion; we all have those, but is it a matter of certainty with you?"

  "As I said on Sunday night," he replied, after some silence, "spiritualthings are spiritually discerned; and immortality is a matter of thespirit, isn't it?"

  "I am afraid I don't follow you," I replied. "As you said just now, I ama lawyer, and my business for several years has been to test evidence.After I have tested the evidence that has been brought in support of anyparticular case, it has been my business to convince the jury that theevidence is conclusive. If I don't convince the jury, of course I failto win my case. Your answer suggests that I lack the qualities tounderstand the proofs in support of the doctrine you taught on Sundaynight. Perhaps you are right; probably I have so neglected what you callthe spiritual part of me that it has become atrophied. I will put it inanother way, then, and, believe me, it is furthest from my desire to beimpertinent. Supposing you were to die to-night--you, an ordainedclergyman--are you _sure_ there is a life beyond?"

  Mr. Trelaske was silent.

  "Forgive my asking you," I said. "I am afraid I have been frightfullyrude; but you see, living here alone, with the doctor's verdictconstantly before me, I am curious to know."

  "Not at all, not at all," he said hastily, "I am very glad you asked me;but the question is so sudden. I do not think that during the whole timeI have lived in St. Issey any one has asked me such a thing before, atleast not in the same way."

  "I was wrong," I said; "please forgive me."

  I could see that I had made him miserable. The look in his eyes told methat. As I said before, Mr. Trelaske was evidently a gentleman, and hewanted to be absolutely honest with me. All the same, his silence mademy heart heavy.

  Although I had, in a way, made up my mind that there was nothing afterdeath, the thought of becoming nothing was grim and repellent.

  "Look here, Mr. Erskine," he said, after a somewhat painful silence,"you must come to the Vicarage and see me. I will think over what youhave said, and then perhaps I shall be better prepared to meet thesituation."

  From that time the conversation drifted to general matters, and when theVicar left me, it was on the understanding that I should, at an earlydate, spend an evening with him.