The Passion for Life

by Joseph Hocking

  VII

  ISABELLA LETHBRIDGE

  During the next few days nothing happened, and, if the truth must betold, I am afraid I got very lonely and depressed. Simpson did his bestto interest me, but failed. My books, too, seemed dull and colorless. Isuppose it was natural. I was passing through a phase in my life whichwas the inevitable consequence of what had hitherto taken place. Themalady from which I was suffering was taking rather an acute form justthen, and I had neither the strength nor inclination for exercise. Thus,although the weather was glorious and the air pure and bracing, I foundthat sitting day after day amid the same surroundings was anything butexhilarating. Moreover, although I cannot explain it, a sense of dreadpossessed me. I felt sure that something was going to happen, and that Iwas going to be at the centre of some untoward event.

  I expect I felt all the more irritable because my desire to live becamestronger and stronger. It appeared to me that I had nothing to live for,and yet I hung on to life, and the hope of life, grimly.

  "Simpson," I said one day, "you told me when we came here that an idiotlad, who went by the name of Fever Lurgy, waited on old Father Abrahamand did his errands. What has become of him?"

  "Don't know, sir."

  "Does no one know?"

  "Don't know at all, sir."

  "It seems strange, doesn't it, that this lad, who was the first to tellof what had happened to the old man, should not have come here when heheard that the house was occupied again?"

  "I did hear something of his running away, because he was afraid; but Iknow nothing."

  "Afraid? Afraid of what?"

  "You know what these idiot boys are, sir. I suppose he almost worshippedold Father Abraham, and when he knew his master was killed he feared tostay in the same neighborhood."

  "Is that your conclusion too, Simpson?" I asked.

  "I never thought of it before, sir."

  That day I went out for a walk. Somehow the lethargy which had possessedme for a long time was gone, and my body for the time was instinct witha new life. My fancies about Fever Lurgy had laid hold of me, and Ibegan asking myself all sorts of questions. I found my way into thevillage, and, seeing a group of men standing by the pump, joined them. Ifound them very willing to talk with me, and while at first they showedno desire to impart any information, they asked me countless questions.This, I have found since, is a characteristic of the Cornish people.They are exceedingly friendly, and are willing to show kindness to astranger, but they will not take him into their confidence. They arecurious to know everything he can tell them, but they will tell himnothing in return. While they believed I was simply a stranger from "upcountry," their only interest in me was to know who I was, where I camefrom, and all about my affairs generally. When they got to know that Iwas of Cornish descent, however, there was an entire change in theirdemeanor towards me. I was one of them.

  In the course of a few minutes we got talking about Father Abraham andof his tragic end.

  "It 'ave bin said, sur, that th' ould man's ghost do wander round theplaace, where you d' live, sur. Es et true?"

  "I have never seen him, anyhow. Have you?"

  "Well, sur, ted'n for we to say. Oal the saame, I heerd curious noiseswawn night near your house."

  "What kind of noises?" I asked.

  "Oh, a kind of moanin' and cryin', like a gull in pain."

  "Maybe it _was_ a sea-gull," I suggested.

  "No, sur, we d' know what gulls be like. Twad'n that. We be sure therewas foul play, sur."

  "What about that lad, Fever Lurgy?" I asked. "Does he live in theneighborhood now?"

  "Bless you, sur, Fayver Lurgy a'n't bin seen since th' ould man waskilled."

  "No!" I said. "Isn't that strange?"

  "Oa, he was a funny chap, was Fayver Lurgy. Do you know whay he wascalled Fayver Lurgy, sur?"

  "Not the slightest idea," I replied.

  "Well, sur, down 'long 'ere wi' we, when a great lousterin' chap wa'antwork, and do ait a lot, we d' say 'ee've got Fayver Lurgy. That es, twostomachs to ait, and noan to work. Tha's 'ow Fayver Lurgy got 'is name.He's as strong as a 'oss, but he wudd'n work. 'Ee wadd'n such a fool as'ee made out. 'Ee allays was a button short, was Fayver Lurgy, but 'eewadd'n no idiot, as people d' say."

  "So you think he was afraid of being killed?" I suggested.

  "Tha's what we d' think, sur."

  "Who were his father and mother?" I asked.

  "Nobody doan knaw, sur. He comed 'ere years and years ago, sur, weth anould woman, who said she was 'is grandmother. When th' ould woman died,sur, Fayver Lurgy jist lopped round by hisself. Sometimes he ded a bitof work, and sometimes nothin'; but 'ee scraped up a living some'ow.When ould Father Abraham comed, he kipt with 'im reglar, and direkly 'eewas killed, Fayver Lurgy left the neighbrood, and nobody doan knaw where'a es."

  "Did you ever see old Father Abraham?" I asked.

  "Yes, sur, I've seen 'im, but never to spaik to. Curyus ould chap hewas. He 'ad long white whiskers and ter'ble bright eyes. Wan man I d'knaw spoke to 'un. Billy Barnycote 't was. Billy did say as 'ow hebelieved that ould Father Abraham was a furriner."

  "I suppose he never went to Church or Chapel?" I asked.

  "What! ould Father Abraham? Not 'ee. 'Ee ded'n go nowhere, so to spaik."

  "And you," I said. "Do you ever go?"

  "Sometimes, maaster, when there is a good praicher; but why shud us gowhen the praichers doan knaw more'n we do? I a'ain't bin since lastSunday-school anniversary. They 'ad a praicher from up to Plymouth.Clever chap 'ee was, too. Ef we cud allays git praichers like 'ee, we'dgo every Sunday, but when a man like Tommy Coad d' git up and craake, weca'ant stand it."

  The day was beautifully fine, and, as I felt more than ordinarily well,I took a long route home. I had not gone far when, passing a stile, Isaw Miss Lethbridge leap lightly into the road. I could not helpreflecting how handsome she appeared in her light summer attire. Whenvisiting her father's house a few days before she had struck me as beinghard and repellent. Even now there was nothing winsome or girlish abouther, but that she presented an attractive figure I could not deny. Morethan ordinarily tall, and finely formed, she carried her well-fittingclothes to perfection. Her features, too, while not exactly beautiful,were striking; and, flushed somewhat as she was by her walk through thefields, she seemed a part of that bright, early summer day.

  "I hope you are better, Mr. Erskine," was her greeting.

  "Yes," I replied, "I feel well enough to take a fairly long walk. I havebeen down into the village talking with some of the people there, andtrying to discover some of the romance for which Cornwall is famous."

  "And have had your labor for your pains," was her reply.

  "Not entirely. I feel as though I have happened upon something whichwill lead to interesting developments."

  "Believe me, you will not, Mr. Erskine."

  "No? Why?"

  "If ever there was a false tradition, it is the tradition that Cornwallis romantic. I have lived here all my life, and there is no more romancein the county than in that mine-heap," and she nodded towards adiscarded mine which lay in the distance.

  "The Cornish people," she went on, "have no sense of the mysterious, nosense of the romantic. If ever they had it, it has all died. I supposethat years ago, when the people were entirely ignorant, they believed inall sorts of superstitions, but now that they are better educated theyhave discarded everything but what they can see, and feel with their ownhands. I am inclined to think they are right, too."

  "I am not so sure," was my answer. And then I told her of theconversation that had taken place a few moments before.

  "And do you imagine, Mr. Erskine, that any romance surrounds the old manwho built the house you live in, and lived like a hermit away there bythe cliff? Do you think that any romance is associated with the idiotlad who ran his errands and did his bidding?"

  "Why not?"

  "Because none exists."

  "Pardon me if I do not agree with you. After all, there is someth
ingromantic in the thought of that old man coming there alone and buildinghis hut in a lonely place, and spending years of his life there."

  "Yes, it may seem so; but, pardon me, is there anything romantic in yourcoming there, Mr. Erskine?"

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  "I am afraid not," I replied.

  "And I dare say the reason why he came there was just as unromantic. Asfor Fever Lurgy, every village has its idiot who is a butt for rusticjokes."

  "And what about old Father Abraham's mysterious disappearance?" I asked.

  "What you call a mysterious disappearance," was her reply, "I regard asa sordid crime. I expect the old man had a little money hoarded up, sometramps heard of it, and, for the sake of that money, murdered him andthrew his body over the cliff."

  "At any rate," I said, "it is more pleasant to think that some mysterysurrounded his life, and that he left the neighborhood from someromantic cause. Do you know, I am inclined to think that he is stillalive, that he will turn up some day, and that the whole thing will bethe talk of the countryside."

  "And yet you are a trained lawyer, and have lived in London!" shelaughed.

  "Perhaps that is why. Lawyers get weary of hard thinking. Besides, whenone comes to think of it, hard thinking is only responsible for a titheof the discovery of truth. Far more of it is discovered by intuitionthan by logic."

  "Do you know, you are very refreshing, Mr. Erskine. It is delightful tothink of a man coming from hard, matter-of-fact London to Cornwall, andbelieving in the things that we simple rustics have discarded for ageneration or more."

  "Then you don't find life either romantic or mysterious?"

  "I find it the most prosy, uninteresting thing imaginable. There is nomystery and no romance in the world; everything is hard, matter of fact,commonplace."

  "Come, come, now, you cannot believe that," I laughed.

  "One believes as one finds." And I thought her eyes became hard. "Theother day I read what is called a romantic novel. It had gone throughnumberless editions, and was, I suppose, the rage of reading circles. Ittold of all sorts of mysterious happenings and romantic adventures. ThenI reflected on what had actually happened to myself and to girls withwhom I am acquainted. I went to school in France and Germany, as well asin England, and, do you know, I really cannot find one bit of romancethat has ever happened to me or to the girls I have known. I can'tremember anything mysterious."

  "Isn't life one great mystery?"

  "Yes, mystery if you like, but simply because of our ignorance. When themystery is explained, the explanation is as prosy as that cottage." Andshe looked towards a cottage door, where a woman stood by her wash-tub."Do you ever find life mysterious, Mr. Erskine?"

  "Yes, it is mysterious from end to end. Sometimes, as I sit in my littlewooden hut, facing the sea, at night-time, and hear the wind moan itsway over the cliffs and across the waste of waters, when the solemnfeeling of night broods over everything, I feel that life is one greatmystery. What is behind it all? What is the meaning of everything? Isthere a Creator? What lies beyond what we call death? Surely, that ismystery enough. You may say, if you like, that this feeling of mysteryis because of our ignorance; nevertheless, it is there."

  "Yes," she replied. "But the trouble is that, in so far as we havediscovered mysteries, they turn out to be of the most prosy andcommonplace nature. Things that were once unknown, and appealed to theworld as romantic, now that they are known are just as prosy anduninteresting as the commonplace. Directly a thing is known it becomeshumdrum. I went to a lecture one night given by a scientist--anastronomer, in fact. He was lecturing on the planet Mars. He said thathe himself had examined the planet through a powerful telescope, and hehad seen what to him were convincing proofs that there were canals cutthrough a piece of land which was similar in nature to the Isthmus ofPanama. As a consequence the planet Mars was inhabited--inhabited bythinking, sentient beings, who lived in a world millions of miles fromthis world. It seemed very wonderful at that time, but, when I came tothink of it, it was all very prosy. What if it were inhabited? It wouldsimply mean that people somehow exist there, just as they exist here,and think and suffer, and struggle and die. Can anything be more prosyand unromantic than that?"

  "Isn't the very mystery of death itself attractive--wonderful?" I asked.

  "Do you think so?" And she looked at me curiously.

  "Sometimes," I replied, "although I dread the thought of death, I have akind of feverish curiosity about it, and I would like to die just toknow."

  "Yet it would be disappointing in the end. When that so-called mysterycomes to be explained, there will be nothing but great, blank darkness."

  "And that is your creed of life and death?"

  "We can only argue from the known to the unknown," was her reply.

  "And do you not long for something more?"

  "Long!" And there was passion in her voice.

  "Then, to you, religion, immortality, have no interest?"

  "Yes, interest," was her reply, "but, like everything else, it isbecause of my ignorance. I know I am very ignorant, Mr. Erskine, and Idare say you will laugh at me for talking in the way I do; but, so faras I have read of the origins of religions, they are simply the resultof a fear of the unknown. People are afraid to die, and they haveevolved a sort of hope that there is a life other than this. I know itis a cheerless creed, but don't facts bear out what I have said? Indifferent parts of the world are different religions, and each and allof them are characteristic of the people who believe in them. Wasn'tMatthew Arnold right when he said that the Greeks manufactured a godwith classical features and golden hair, while the negroes created a godwith black skin, thick lips, and woolly hair?"

  "Do you go far enough back, even then?" I asked. "You are simply dealingwith the shape of the god. What is the origin of the idea?"

  "I suppose man invented it," was her reply.

  "Yes, but how? After all, knowledge is built upon other knowledge.Imagination is the play of the mind around ascertained facts. 'No manhath seen God at any time.' How, then, have people come to believe inHim, except through some deeper and more wonderful faculty, whichconveyed it to the mind? For the mind, after all, is only the vehicle,and not the creator, of thought."

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  "You get beyond me there, Mr. Erskine. When you dabble in metaphysics Iam lost. Still, is it not a fact that the more intellectual the race theless religious it becomes? Take France, for example. Paris is the greatclearing-house of ideas, and yet the French are an unbelieving people."

  "Is that altogether true?" was my reply, for I was led to take up anattitude of the soundness of which I was far from being convinced. "Isnot France literally sick and tired of the atheism which surged over thenation at the time of the Revolution? France no longer glories in hardunbelief, and, as far as I know, the French people are simply longingfor faith, and, for that matter, are going back to faith. Not, perhaps,the faith which the Revolution destroyed, but to something deeper,diviner."

  She seemed thoughtful, and for some time neither of us spoke. Then sheburst out laughing merrily.

  "Don't things seem reversed?" she said. "Here are you, a scholar ofOxford, and a clever lawyer, upholding tradition, imagination,intuition, superstition, while I, an ignorant girl, am discarding itall."

  "Perhaps," I replied, "that is because life is long to you, short to me.When one comes to what seems the end of things, one looks at lifedifferently. There," I went on, for at that moment we had passed a ladwith his arm round a girl's waist, "that boy lives in heaven. He is withthe girl he loves. Suppose you tried to convince that boy and girl therewas no such thing as romance, would they believe you?"

  "Perhaps not," she replied; "but I could take you down the villageyonder, and show you men and women who, twenty years ago, were just asromantic as those two cooing doves; and to-day the men loaf round thevillage lanes, smoking, or, perhaps, are in the public-house drinking;while the women are slatternly, discontented, standing at t
he wash-tub,or scrubbing out cottages. Where now is the romance, or, for thatmatter, the love?"

  "Then you don't believe in love either?"

  She was silent, and I watched her face closely, and again I was struckby her appearance. Yes, no doubt, Isabella Lethbridge was more thanordinarily handsome. Her features, without being beautiful, were fine.The flash of her eyes betokened intelligence beyond the ordinary. Atthat moment, too, there was a look in them which I had not seenbefore--a kind of longing, a sense of unsatisfaction, something wistful.

  "Love?" she repeated. "No, I don't think I believe in it."

  "Surely," I said, "that is going a little bit too far."

  "Yes, perhaps it is," was her answer. "There is love--the love of amother for her child. You see it everywhere. A lion will fight for herwhelps, a hen will protect her chickens. But I suppose you were meaningthe love which man has for a woman, and woman for man?"

  "Yes," I replied, "I was. I was thinking of that lover and his lass whomwe have just passed."

  "I do not know," she replied. "All I know is that I never felt it, andyet I confess to being twenty-four. It is an awful age, isn't it? Fancya girl of twenty-four never having been in love! Yet, facts are facts. Ido not deny that there is such a thing as affinity; but love, as Iunderstand it, is, or ought to be, something spiritual, somethingdivine, something which outlasts youth and all that youth means;something which defies the ravages of time, that laughs atimpossibilities. No. I do not believe there is such a thing."

  "Then what is the use of living?" I asked.

  "I hardly know. We have a kind of clinging to life, at least the greatmajority of us have, although I suppose in the more highly culturedStates suicides are becoming more common. We shudder at what we calldeath, and so we seek to live. If, like the old Greeks, we surroundeddeath with beautiful thoughts----"

  "Ah yes," I interrupted; "but then we get into the realms of religion.The Greeks believed in an immortal part, and love to them was eternal."

  "True," she replied. "But where is the old Greek mythology now? It hasbecome a thing of the past. Mr. Erskine, will you forgive me for talkingall this nonsense, for it is nonsense? I know I am floundering in a deepsea and saying foolish things. Besides, I must leave you. There is ahouse here where I must call."

  She held out her hand as she spoke, and looked at me. I felt as thoughshe were trying to fascinate me. For a second our eyes met, and I felther hand quiver in mine. At that moment something was born in my mindand heart which I had never experienced before. I confess it here,because probably no one will read these lines but myself. I felt towardsIsabella Lethbridge as I had never felt towards any woman before. Evenin those days when I had flirted and danced and laughed with girls of myown age, and with whom I fancied myself in love, I had never felttowards a woman as I felt towards her.

  "Good-day, Miss Lethbridge," I said, as I walked away.

  "I hope you will come up to Trecarrel again soon," she said. "Pleasedon't wait for a formal invitation; we shall always be glad to see you.At least, _I_ shall," and she gave me a bewildering smile.

  I walked some little distance down the road, then turned and watched hertill she was out of sight. I tried to analyze the new feelings which hadcome into my life.

  "Why am I so interested in her?" I asked. "What is this which has cometo me so suddenly? Whatever it is, it is not love." And I knew I spokethe truth, even as I know it now. Yet she fascinated me. I reflectedthat her talk had been pedantic, the product of an ill-balanced mind,and, while she was clever, she was superficial. Yet she attracted me ina way I could not understand. She had moved me as no other woman hadmoved me, but I knew, as I know now, that I was not in love with her.

  I walked slowly along. We had come to the end of June, and the birdswere singing gaily. Away in the distance I could see the sheen of thewaves in the sunlight. The great line of cliffs stood out boldly; theworld was very fair. A weight seemed to have rolled from my shoulders.Oh, it was good to live--good to bask in the sunlight on that summerday! I laughed aloud. No romance! no mystery! no religion! no love! Thegirl had almost made me believe in what she had said, although at theback of my mind I felt it was all wrong. I looked at my watch, and knewthat I must be returning, or Simpson would be anxious about me. He hadbecome quite paternal in his care.

  I descended the steep hill towards the little copse at the back of myhouse. Once or twice I stopped and listened to the waves as they rolledon the hard, yellow beach, while the sea-gulls hovered over the greatbeetling cliffs.

  "I won't die!" I cried. "I simply won't!"

  And yet I knew at the time that death had taken possession of me, waseven then gnawing away at the centre of my life.

  I entered the little copse and drew near to the house. I had gone,perhaps, twenty yards, when I stopped. Peering at me through the leavesof the bushes, which grew thick on the side of the cliff, was a pair ofgleaming eyes. They seemed to me to be the eyes of a madman, a maniac.Perhaps my imagination was excited, and my mind unbalanced, but Ithought I saw revenge, hatred, murder. The eyes were large and staring.I could see no face, no form. I felt no fear, only a sense of wonder anda desire to know. I took a step in the direction of those wild, maniacalorbs, and I heard a cry--hoarse, agonized. I took another step forwardand looked again, and saw nothing, neither did I hear another sound.Feverishly I made my way towards the spot, but there was nothing there.No footmarks could I discover, no signs of any one having been there. Iam perfectly certain I saw what I have described, as sure as that I amsitting in my little room at this moment, but although I searchedeverywhere I could discover nothing.

  I returned to my house and began to dress for dinner; but all the whileI was haunted by those wild, staring eyes.