VIII
MYSTERY
"Simpson," I said, after dinner, "do you believe in ghosts?"
"Yes, sir, I think so, sir."
"What are your views about them?"
"Well, sir, I don't know that I could put them into words. Will you haveyour coffee now, sir?"
"Yes, please, Simpson; and will you pass my cigar-box?"
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir."
"You are somewhat of a philosopher, aren't you, Simpson?"
"In my own way, sir. If I hadn't been I should have been dead beforenow."
"Oh, indeed," I said. "How?"
"Well, sir, it was during the two years I was married. It was myphilosophy that saved me."
"In what way?" I asked.
"Well, you see, sir, I hadn't been married more than a month before Idiscovered that my wife had a remarkable command of language. While wewere courting, she pretended to be shy, and had very little to say; butwhen we got married she developed the power of speech awful, sir--justawful. At first I answered her back, and every time I spoke I seemed, asit were, to open up the fountains of the great deep, until I thought Iwas going mad. Then I got to thinking about it, sir, and after carefulstudy of my wife's character I came to the conclusion that the only wayI could meet her was by silence. I didn't smoke at that time, sir, shehaving said as how she hated smoking; but I bought a pipe and tobacco,and every time she started talking I just loaded up my pipe andcommenced smoking. I didn't say a word, sir, but let her go on and on."
"Well," I asked, "did that cure her?"
"Not at first, sir; for a time she was worse than ever, and I thought Ishould have to give it up. That was where my philosophy came in, sir; Ijust held on. The more she talked the more I smoked, never uttering aword."
"Yes," I said, "and what then?"
"She began to cry, sir. She cried and cried until I thought she wasgoing to cry her eyes out. I almost gave in, but being a philosopher Istill kept quiet. After that, she began to threaten what she would do.She rampaged round the house like a mad woman, but I only bought a newpipe."
"And did you master her that way?"
"No, sir; I never mastered her. It is my belief that if a woman has gotthe gift of the gab as she had, she never can be mastered. But she leftme, sir."
"I thought you told me she was dead, Simpson?"
"Oh, no, sir; I never told you that; I only told you that I had a wifefor two years. Yes, sir, she kept with me for two years, trying to breakme down. Then, one day, when I came into the house I found a letter fromher. She said that she could not live with a brute who would not answerher back, so she went off on her own."
"And what did you do then, Simpson?"
"I went to live with your father, sir, and I have lived with the familyever since. But it was my philosophy which saved my life. If I had givenin she would have killed me."
"And where is she now, Simpson?"
"I don't know, sir, and I don't want to. Yes, sir, nothing butphilosophy will master a woman."
"Well, to come back to where we were, Simpson. You being a philosopher,have you any explanation to offer as to ghosts?"
"Well, sir, not ever having seen one, I don't see how I can. If I hadseen one I might answer. Have you seen one, sir?"
"Yes, Simpson. This evening, just before coming in to dinner, I wascoming along the footpath through the copse, when I saw a pair ofbright, staring eyes, like the eyes of a madman. There was no doubtabout it; I am certain I saw them. I could make out no face, but I amcertain I saw the eyes. When I went to the place where I saw them Icould find nothing. What is your opinion about it?"
Simpson thought a minute, then he replied solemnly:
"It was an 'allucination, sir."
"Was it that, Simpson?"
"Well, sir, if you will excuse me for asking, who had you been withbefore you saw the eyes? Had you spoken to any one? Had you been talkingabout ghosts, or that sort of thing?"
"No, Simpson; I had been talking with Miss Lethbridge, a young lady whodoes not believe in ghosts."
"Ah, that explains, sir."
"How, Simpson?"
"A woman always upsets the mind--always. If you had said you had seenthe face without the eyes, I could perhaps have believed you; but whenyou say you saw eyes without a face, and then tell me you had beentalking with a young lady, I know just what is the matter."
"Yes; but, Simpson, that is not all. I heard an awful moan. Rather morethan a moan--it was a kind of moan and cry combined."
"And did you hear any rustling in the bushes, sir?"
"Not a sound."
"Ah, well, sir, I stand by my opinion. Anything more you want, sir?"
"Nothing more, thank you." And Simpson went away into the kitchen.
He had not been gone long, when I heard footsteps outside, and shortlyafter young Hugh Lethbridge appeared.
"You don't mind my calling, do you, Erskine?" he said.
"On the contrary, I am delighted," I replied. "I have just been talkingwith my man about something which I saw this evening, and he can offerno explanation. Perhaps you can." And I told him what I had seen.
"By Gum!" he said, "that's funny. You are sure you are not mistaken,Erskine?"
"Impossible," I replied. "I saw those eyes as plainly as I see you. Itwas not dark--the sun had not set, for that matter."
"And were you excited in any way?" And he looked at me steadily.
"No," I replied; "I was not excited."
"It's funny. You don't imagine, do you, that there was anythingsupernatural about it?"
"I wish I did, but I am sorry to say that I have no faith whatever inthe supernatural."
"No," he said; "I remember what you told us up at Trecarrel. And yousearched the place thoroughly?"
"Yes, thoroughly. You see, I was curious."
"And you had not been thinking about supernatural things?"
"Not in the least. For that matter, I had a few minutes before met yoursister."
"Oh, yes; Bella told me she had met you, and was afraid she had shockedyou."
"No, I was not shocked at all; I was very interested."
"Bella is a curious girl," said Hugh Lethbridge, after a short silence."We have always been very good friends, but I have never understood her.Even when she was quite a girl she was different from those of her ownage."
"In what way?"
"She was always so hard, so matter of fact. I have told her more thanonce that she has no soul." He said the words lightly, but to me theywere ominous with meaning. He had put into words what I had felt.
"I suppose I ought not to say this," went on Hugh; "but I don't feeltowards you as I do towards other men. I don't know why it is. No soonerdid I see you than I wanted to have you as a friend; I felt I couldtrust you. You don't mind my saying this, do you?"
"Rather it is awfully good of you."
"I am a lonely kind of fellow," he went on, "and my home life has shutme off from the society of those I might care for. Other fellows invitetheir college chums to stay with them, and all that kind of thing, butthe pater never allowed me to do it. Why, I don't know. I know it iswrong to discuss one's people before a stranger, but, as I said justnow, I don't feel you are a stranger. What do you think of my father,Erskine?"
"I think he is a strong, capable man," I replied.
"Yes, there is no doubt about that. Why, years ago he was only a poorlad, living in a district where there seemed to be very few chances of alad making his way, and yet you see what he has done. He was a clerk inthe office of a man who had to do with shipping in Penzance. Only in asmall way, you know, but he gave my father the chance to learn thebusiness. He did learn it. What the pater doesn't know about shippingisn't worth knowing. To-day he owns scores of vessels. He got into touchwith the mining world, too, and he seemed to possess a sort of geniusfor fastening on to mines that would pay. He has not only a controllinginterest in the few prosperous Cornish mines, but he is connected withthe mining world in almost every country where min
es are to be found. Heis as keen as a razor, is the pater, and has a way of making his willfelt everywhere.
"And yet he is a most conscientious man. That is, conscientious in hisown way. He used to be very religious. He used to pray at the Chapel,and all that sort of thing, but he's given it up now. But he holds tothe form of religion still. As you heard him say the other night, he isa very strong believer in democracy. On the other hand, a greaterautocrat never lived. In reality he believes in the feudal system, evenwhile he professes to scorn what we call aristocracy. Yes, I see yousmile. Never was a man more anxious to associate with county familiesthan he. But he never yields an inch to them. If he had, he would havebeen admitted into what is called county society. Even as it is, SquireTreherne seems to be afraid of him."
"How is that?" I asked.
"Oh, he pays deference to his opinions; always supports him in publicmatters, and all that sort of thing. I am inclined to think that thepater has old Treherne in his power. You will not say anything aboutthis, will you, Erskine? I do not believe my father cares a fig aboutme," he added.
"Nonsense!" I replied.
"I don't really. In a way he is interested in me. I suppose it isbecause blood is thicker than water, but do you know I can neverremember the time when he kissed me, or anything of that sort. He alwaystried to rule me with a rod of iron."
"And has he treated your sister in the same way?" I asked.
"Yes, and no. Do you know, Erskine, my sister is a strange girl."
I was silent. I felt I had no right to ask the question which rose in mymind.
"What do you think of Bella?" he asked suddenly.
He did not seem to realize that he was overstepping the bounds of goodtaste in asking me, a stranger, such a question, and I realized morethan ever that he was only an impulsive boy, although he had reachedman's estate. Indeed, in one sense, Hugh did not know what it was to bereserved, and yet in others he was strangely reticent.
I thought he seemed to be about to take me further into his confidenceat this point, but, perhaps noting the non-committal nature of my reply,he desisted.
"Of course, she's a bundle of contradictions," he said; "but she'sreally splendid. Why, on the day after she'd--but, there, I mustn't tellyou about that. Anyhow, there was an accident at Pendeen Mine. Two menwere believed to be in danger of drowning by the flooding of the oldworkings. The miners had made every attempt--at least, so they said--torescue them, and to do anything more would be to throw away their ownlives."
"Yes," I said. "What then?"
"Bella went to them and talked to them as they had never been talked tobefore. She laughed all their protests to scorn, and when they proved toher that, humanly speaking, they had done all that men could do, sheinsisted upon going down the mine herself. It was the maddest thing awoman could do, and God only knows how she did it; but she rescued theminers. Why, it was in all the newspapers. Yes, Bella is magnificent,but--but----"
Hugh Lethbridge was silent for some time after this, neither did Ispeak. I was thinking of the impression she had made on me when I firstsaw her.
"She was never like other girls, even when she was a child," he went on."She did not care for games--that is, ordinary children's games--so,although she is only two years older than I, we were never what you callplayfellows. She is a very brainy girl, too, and by the time she wasfourteen had read all sorts of out-of-the-way books."
"I wonder she did not go to Somerville or Girton when she left school."
"That's what she wanted," replied Lethbridge, "but the pater said he didnot believe in women going to a university. He has always maintainedthat this modern craze about advanced education for women is so muchnonsense. Still, Bella is an educated girl. She speaks French and Germanand Italian fluently, and there is scarcely a classical writer in theselanguages whom she has not read first hand. Yes, Bella is a strangegirl, but very hard."
Again there was a silence between us for some seconds.
"She is not at all like mother," went on Lethbridge. "I wish she were.Although, as you saw the other night, we teased mother about beinggeneral manager of the world, there is scarcely a family in the parishwhich mother has not helped in one way or another, and in a way she isvery popular; but no one would think of going to Bella in trouble."
I must confess that I wanted to ask more questions about her, butrefrained from so doing. After all, it would not have been good taste onmy part.
"Well, I must be going now," said Lethbridge presently, rising from hischair. "I am glad I have seen you. Our chat, somehow, has done me good,although I have done most of the talking. I was awfully restless afterdinner to-night, and the walk here, and seeing you, have made me feelbetter. By the way"--and I saw that this was what he had really comefor--"I spoke to you about Mary Treleaven the other night."
"Yes, I remember."
"I have had a row with the pater about her to-day."
"I am sorry for that."
"It was bound to come. You see, he will not hear of my marrying her. Hesays it would be pure madness on my part, and if I will not fall in withhis wishes he will not give me a penny. I should like to introduce youto Mary; I told you so, didn't I? Will you let me?"
"If you like, certainly," I replied; "but really, Lethbridge, I cannothelp you in that matter. I would not, even if I could. It would not beright."
"If you knew her you would," he said, with boyish eagerness. "She's thefinest, sweetest girl in the country, and she is the only one I could behappy with. As for the pater's ideas, I won't fall in with them--Iwon't." He went to the door as he spoke, and looked out over the sea.
"It's a glorious night," he said; "there is not a cloud in the sky, andthe light of the moon transforms everything into a fairyland."
I went to his side as he spoke, and as I did so a kind of shiver passedthrough me. The night was, indeed, wonderful. The moon shone so brightlythat no stars appeared, and I could see the long line of cliffsstretching northward. Scarcely a breath of wind stirred, and I couldhear the waves lapping musically on the hard yellow beach beneath.
"I will walk a few steps with you, Lethbridge," I said. "I will not gofar. But really this is not an evening to spend indoors. How I wish Iwere strong and healthy!"
Putting on a summer overcoat, I walked with him along the footpaththrough the copse, and when at length we reached the open country, whereheather-covered moorland stretched away on either side, both of usstopped and listened.
"What a noise the silence is making!" said Lethbridge. "Did you everhear anything like it?"
"No," I said, "the hush is simply wonderful."
Scarcely had we spoken, when rising suddenly before us was the form of aman, and again those strange eyes, which had haunted me for hours,flashed before me. The man moved so quickly that I could not discern hisfeatures. He uttered a cry as he went--a cry similar to that I heard inthe copse hours before.
"Do you know who it is?" I asked.
"No," replied Lethbridge. "Strange, isn't it?"
"Anyhow, it explains what I saw this afternoon. It might seem as thoughsome one were watching me."
"I will follow him, if you like," said Lethbridge, "and find out who itis."
"Oh, no, don't trouble; very possibly it means nothing. But I think mymind must be excited, after all. I will go back now, if you don't mind.Good-night."
And I went slowly back to my little hut, wondering what the apparitionmight mean.
The Passion for Life Page 8