XIV
THE RECRUITING MEETING
The human mind and heart are difficult to understand, and, in spite ofall men's researches in the realm of psychology, can never be explained.I had left Mr. Lethbridge's house, angry with the owner of it, almostangry with Hugh, certainly hard and bitter towards Isabella Lethbridge;and yet, no sooner had I got outside than an entire revulsion of feelingand thought came over me. My mind seemed like a cloud of dust, whileconfused, whirling thoughts possessed me. But nothing was real andclear, save that I had played an unworthy part. I reflected that I hadnot understood Hugh, neither had I understood his father, and ineverything I had bungled. I had left Mr. Lethbridge when, as it nowseemed to me, he was in the humor to be reasoned with. Had I, Ireflected, understood anything of the human heart, I should have knownthat he would have felt a sense of utter desolation at Hugh's departure,and might, if I had been wise, have repented of his harsh action; but Ihad not been wise. In a fit of anger I had refused his hospitality, Ihad insulted him, and thereby had closed the door of his house againstme forever.
With this thought, too, came the realization that I had been anythingbut courteous to Isabella Lethbridge. She, naturally, had desired toknow something about the interview which had taken place, and I hadrudely refused to reply to her question. I had left the house in a waythat was less than civil, and had, as a consequence, stamped myself as aclown.
Strange as it may seem, I had practically forgotten all about Hugh. Ihad come to his father's house in order to be near him during the mostcritical and difficult hour of his life, and I ought to have been withhim during the period of anguish which must naturally follow. Instead ofwhich I had left him as though I did not care how he fared.
But more than all this my mind and heart were in a state of turmoil, asI considered my feelings towards Isabella Lethbridge. I had caught theflash of her eyes as she looked into mine. In my pride and vanity Icould not help believing that she had an interest in me which was morethan ordinary, and I knew my heart had responded to what I believedexisted in hers, even although, all the time, I felt angrily towardsher.
I walked towards the Lodge gates, scarcely knowing what I was doing orrealizing what had happened, except in a vague, confused way. At thattime I forgot my own malady, forgot that my days were numbered. Itseemed to me that life stretched out before me, full of wonder, and fullof promise. Presently, however, my confused feelings subsided, and Ibegan to think more sanely and connectedly on what had taken place. Iremembered that Hugh's car was outside the house, and that, in allprobability, he would be coming along in a few minutes. I determined,therefore, to wait for him. So instead of passing through the Lodgegates, I turned and walked back towards the house. I had not gone morethan a hundred yards when I met Isabella Lethbridge. Why she had come Ihad no idea, because she could not have expected to meet me. She would,naturally, think I had continued my journey home, yet she showed nosurprise at meeting me.
"Mr. Erskine," she said, "what have I done that you should--should----"
I thought I caught a sob in her voice. Certainly she seemed strangelywrought upon.
I was silent, for I did not know how to answer her. Longings, hopes,fears, and desires surged through my heart in a most unaccountable way.In one sense I felt strangely happy at being there with her on thatbright moonlight night; for the clouds had now rolled away, and the moonsailed serenely in the sky above. On the other hand, I knew I was muchdepressed. While everything was possible, nothing seemed possible.Truly, life was a maddening maze!
She turned with me, as if to return to the house, and for some time wewalked side by side without speaking.
"Won't you tell me what has taken place?" she asked.
"Your brother has joined the Army," I replied. "He has got marriedtoo--married to Mary Treleaven. He asked me to come with him to thehouse while he told his father."
"And----?" she asked.
"Need I tell you that?" was my response.
"You mean that my father has driven him out of the house," and her voicewas hard and angry.
I do not know why it was, but at that moment I felt I must championJosiah Lethbridge's cause. The man had angered me beyond words, and yetI found myself excusing him.
"Your father has had all his convictions trampled upon, all his hopesdestroyed," I replied. "The things Hugh has done came upon him suddenly,and overcome by disappointment and grief, he--he----"
"Do you excuse him, Mr. Erskine?" she interrupted.
"I have neither the right to excuse nor condemn. I was simply anonlooker, and had no right to be there at all."
She caught my arm convulsively.
"Don't say that," she said eagerly. "You--you have the right; that is,you are interested in Hugh. He is so fond of you, and he thought, ofcourse he thought, you might influence my father. Besides----"
"Besides what?" I queried, as I saw her hesitate.
"Oh, I don't know. Everything is in a muddle; everything is so hopeless;and yet father talks about God--talks about the power of religion--talksabout providence!"
I was silent at this, for her words were but an echo of my own thoughts.
"Why should not Hugh marry the girl he loves?" she went on. "He isyoung, and has the right to live his own life; if they love each other,what right has my father to stand in their way?"
"I thought you did not believe in love. I remember, when talking withyou about it one day, you expressed the opinion that such a thing didnot exist." I said this almost triumphantly, as though pleased to getthe better of her in an argument.
"At any rate," she replied, "he has the madness of love. He is willingto give all, sacrifice all, risk all, for it. That is something anyhow.Mr. Erskine, will you not come back to the house again and plead with myfather? He might listen to you. Do you not think you owe it to Hugh,since you came up with him?" Then her mood altered. "After all, what isthe use of it? Life can never be anything but a promise of somethingwhich can never be fulfilled. But I love him for what he has done. I amprouder of my brother than ever. It is worth living to know that onewhom one loves as a brother, has dared everything, and sacrificedeverything, for his love."
A strange feeling possessed me; at that moment I thought I lovedIsabella Lethbridge; felt that here, at least, was a woman who, in spiteof her contradictions, in spite of the fact that she had repelled me,was worth the love of a lifetime. As I reflected upon it afterwards,however, I knew that I did not love her. Between my life and hers was agreat impassable barrier. Besides, what right had I, a man with one footin the grave, a man whose days were numbered, to think of such things?
Again there was a silence between us, and during that silence such alonging filled my life as I had never known before. I longed to live, tolive on and on indefinitely. I hated the barriers by which I wasbounded. My whole being revolted against the thought of death. At thatmoment, too, I felt as though there must be something for which I couldfind no better name than God Who was behind all things, Who made allthings, Who thought all things. Why should that Infinity give me life,only to stamp it out, according to His caprice? Why should I be thesubject of such a hideous mockery?
With the longing of life, too, came the longing for something evendeeper. For the moment my mind was bounded by no barriers. I sawinfinite possibility, possibility which transcended all thought andimagination. It seemed to me that if man were a child of God, hepossessed something of God's life, lived in Him, was part of Him, thathe shared in God's Infinity and Eternity.
Then I looked at the woman by my side, and as I did so she seemed toshrivel up. She was a thing of a day, of an hour. She did not seem toshare in this Eternal Life of which I had been thinking. All the timeshe clutched my arm convulsively.
At that moment I heard footsteps on the drive, and saw Hugh Lethbridgecoming towards us.
"Where are you going, Hugh?" I asked.
"Going!" he cried. "I am going to the only place a man can go at a timelike this. I am going to my wife."
"Your father has
said nothing more to you?"
"I have not seen him. He has not come to me, and I could not go to him;but I have seen mother. She knows, she understands."
"Are you walking back, then?"
"Walking?" Then he laughed. "Oh, I see, you are thinking about the car.It is not my car now. My father has disinherited me, disowned me; thisplace is no longer my home; but I would do it again, Erskine, I would doit a thousand times. Good-night, Bella, old girl. What have you andErskine been talking about?"
"But I shall see you again, Hugh?" said Isabella Lethbridge, withoutseeming to notice the question.
"You will have to come early to-morrow morning, if you do," he replied,with a laugh. "I am under orders now, and must report myself to-morrowafternoon. Don't worry, old girl."
"I will make father forgive you, I'll simply make him."
Hugh laughed sceptically.
"You might as well think of moving Routor, or Brown Willie, as think ofmoving my father; and you know it, Bella; but mother's a trump. Do youknow, mother sees more of this business than I have ever seen. I toldher just now that I was going to the front almost immediately, and Idon't think she ever expects to see me alive again; but she behaved likea saint in heaven. She sees into the heart of this war--sees why Englandmust fight, why it is our duty to crush German militarism; sees why wemust save Belgium. You and I have often laughed, Bella, but her mind, orrather her heart, has probed the thing to its very depths. She has mademe believe more in religion during the last few minutes I have been withher than I have believed in all my life. She quoted some words from theBible, which opened a new world for me--'Without shedding of blood,there is no remission of sins.' She spoke like one inspired. I cannotexplain the meaning of it, I only know that as she repeated the passageI _felt_ its meaning;--and she made me feel I was doing a great thing. Iwas no longer going to the war simply at the call of my country, but atthe call of God. Good-night, Bella, old girl; shall I see youto-morrow?"
"Where can I see you, Hugh?"
"At my wife's home," he said proudly. "Will you dare father's anger, andcome?"
Her only reply was to throw her arms round her brother's neck and kisshim, and then, without even looking at me, she rushed rapidly towardsthe house.
When I reached my little hut that night, I paid the penalty for theexcitement through which I had passed. At one time I thought I was goingto die. Pain such as I had never suffered before racked me, and I was asweak as a child. It was not until morning that the pain subsided, and Iwas able to sleep. I, too, had intended to go to John Treleaven's house,and give Hugh a word of cheer as he left to join his regiment; butnature was too strong for me. I did not awake till after midday, andSimpson had been too wise to interfere with nature's healing balm.
I had expected during the time I was suffering so terribly that it wouldbe many days before I was restored to my ordinary strength, and yet,strange as it may seem, I awoke refreshed. Evidently there was enoughvitality in my system to enable me to recuperate quickly.
"There is bad news, sir," said Simpson, after I had dressed.
"Bad news! How? Where?" I asked.
"The Germans are driving us back everywhere, sir, driving the Frenchtoo. Do you think the Army would take me, sir, if I offered myself? I'dlike to have a smack at them."
"How old are you, Simpson?"
"Fifty-five, sir."
"It may be that they will be obliged to take you before the war isover."
"I am ready now, sir, if they will have me."
During the afternoon I tried to forget the interview of the previousnight in some experiments with the hobby which had occupied my mind forseveral weeks. I had become quite efficient in the management of mylittle wireless apparatus, and I was greatly interested in the littlebook of codes which the young fellow from M---- had given me.
When evening came I determined, in spite of what I had suffered on theprevious night, to find my way to the village schoolroom. As I have saidbefore, I wanted to feel the pulse of humanity, longed to know what wasdoing in the world; and living here, in this out-of-the-way corner ofthe world, it seemed my only chance of fulfilling my desire.
When I arrived, the little schoolroom was nearly full. There were butfew young men, not more than a score in all. The rest of the audiencewas made up of women and older men. On the platform was the Squire, whopresided over the meeting, and near him were several of the leadingpeople of the district. Both the vicars of St. Issey and St. Eia werethere, together with one or two neighboring squires. Naturally, JosiahLethbridge was absent.
I took my seat in a corner of the room, as far out of sight as possible,and tried to understand the little audience which had gathered together.I suppose every county has its characteristics, and certainly a Cornishaudience is different from any I have seen. Years ago, I had beeninformed, the people were exceedingly emotional, and easy to be moved.That, however, was a thing of the past. There was no suggestion ofexcitement or enthusiasm, and while each and all seemed to listencarefully to what was being said, it was difficult to tell what theirfeelings were. On the whole, I think I never saw a less responsiveaudience, if one might judge from outward appearances.
A lady with quite a county reputation for singing was at the meeting,and while there are few parts of the country where there is strongerlove for music than in Cornwall, she seemed to make little impression onher audience. Yet perhaps I am wrong in saying this. They appreciatedthe sweetness of her voice and the melody of her songs, but thesentiment which those songs expressed went for nothing. I have heardaudiences spoken of as stolid. The audience at St. Issey was not stolid;it was stony. The people were keenly alert, they understood all that wasbeing said, and in a way appreciated all the speeches; but they satcoldly critical, and unmoved.
Squire Treherne made a model chairman. He came to them, he said, as afriend and neighbor. He had known most of them all their lives, and hefelt it his duty to point out to them, at this time of national danger,the needs of the times and the duties of the people. He spoke of whatCornwall had done in the history of the nation; he reminded them ofstirring events in the life of the county, when Cornishmen had donetheir part and more than their part.
Then he went on to describe the circumstances which had led to the war.He described Germany's preparations, told the story of what had takenplace in the Balkan States, and related how Sir Edward Grey had done hisutmost to avert the war; but the time had come when war could not beaverted, and when England had to take her part in it. Her honor was atstake, her safety was in peril, all that we loved was in danger, andevery man in the country was called upon to play his part. The Squiredid not give a brilliant speech, but it was full of good common sense,full of patriotic fervor. The old man did not see how any Englishmancould stand aloof at a time like this.
Other speakers followed, who simply repeated what the Squire had said,and presently came the appeal for young men to offer themselves to theirKing and Country.
No one knows how I longed to be able to respond to that appeal. Itseemed to me that, commonplace as the speeches were, no man could, whobore a British name, or had British blood in his veins, keep back. But Icould do nothing; I was a useless hulk doomed to die. I eagerly scannedthe faces of the young men who were near me, anxious to catch somesuggestion of response to the speakers' appeals, but no one seemedmoved. Each listened attentively to all the arguments that were adduced,but no man made a sign. Never, as it seemed to me, had I seen a moresaddening sight, and presently, when the meeting was about to close, andthe audience prepared to depart, I yielded to an overwhelming impulse. Iknew it was madness on my part to do so, but I could not resist it.After all, what did it matter whether I shortened my days or not? Icould not fight for my country, but perhaps I could persuade others todo so.
As the chairman was on the point of asking the people to rise and singthe national anthem, I got up and asked to be allowed to say a fewwords. Of course, consent was immediately given, and I saw some of thepeople, who were on the point of leaving, resu
me their seats, as I mademy way to the platform. Indeed, I could not help feeling that there wasa wave of more than ordinary interest passing over the audience, as theysaw me preparing to address them.
I had not the slightest idea of what I wished to say. Indeed, as I stoodup and faced the people, my mind was a perfect blank. I had simplyyielded to an overwhelming impulse, without having any definite messageto deliver.
Usually making speeches had been no difficulty to me. I had not been abarrister for several years without having had some practice in the art.Nevertheless, I felt a strange nervousness as I faced these simplecountry-people. I had nothing to say, and there seemed no reason why Ishould be there. I stood for a few seconds in silence, while the peoplewaited; then, looking in one corner of the hall, I saw IsabellaLethbridge. She was looking at me intently, her eyes were shiningbrightly, and her lips were parted, as if with eager anticipation.
Immediately my thoughts took shape, and words came easily. At thatmoment, too, a wave of passion passed over me. I remembered what HughLethbridge had done; knew that even now he had left his wife, left hishome, left everything at the call of his country; and as I saw a scoreof stalwart youths, sitting together in the back part of the roomutterly unmoved by all that had passed, a feeling of hot anger filledme. I scarcely knew what I said. It did not seem to matter; butsomething seemed to catch fire within me, and in a few moments Irealized that the audience had caught fire too. Cheer after cheer burstforth. Only one thing do I remember saying, and that I thoughtafterwards was in anything but good taste.
"I have come to you," I said, "as a dying man. One of the greatestphysicians in London has told me that my days are numbered, that I mustavoid all excitement, that I must take care that I do not over-exertmyself; that if I do, my life hangs on a thread; but I feel I cannot sitstill, although this meeting may kill me, while you are unresponsive."
This gave me a kind of text for the appeal I made. I knew I spoke inhot, passionate words. I forgot everything in my desire to rouse thepeople to a sense of duty. I saw that the faces of the people had becomeset and stern, I noticed that their eyes were shining with a new light,and I felt that influences were at work which had hitherto been absent.This made me forget the madness of my action, made me careless of my ownlife. Nothing at that moment seemed to matter but the cause for which Iwas pleading.
"What are you going to do?" I cried. "Will you not respond to the callof your King and of your Country? Will you not fight for liberty, truth,and honor? As for me...." Then a great darkness came over me, and Iremembered no more.
When I awoke to consciousness, I was sitting in a little anteroom, atthe back of the platform, where around me stood the Vicar, the Squire,and two or three others.
"Are you better?"
"I am quite all right," I replied. "What is the matter?"
"You were overcome, exhausted. I am afraid you ought not to havespoken."
"Was it in vain, then?" I asked.
"Oh, no; half a dozen young fellows came out at the close of yourappeal. I do not think it was because of what you said so much, but thefact that you were ill, and risked your life in trying to arouse them,which made them feel ashamed. Are you sure you are better?"
"I am quite all right," I repeated. "I cannot understand how I came tolose consciousness."
"I am going to run you up in my carriage," said the Squire; "I cannotthink of allowing you to walk."
"There is not the slightest need for that," I replied; and as if toprove my words I walked across the room.
"Still, I am going to drive you home," said the Squire. "I am afraid Iought not to have let you speak, even although you have done what we allfailed to do."
As I walked into the schoolroom, a group of people waited, evidentlyanxious to hear about me, and an old man came up and gripped me by thehand.
"I be glad you be better, maaster," he said. "'Twas good to 'ear ee forsure; you made me think of John Guttridge, when he used to come down'ere preachin'. Yes, maaster, you made some of them feel what cowardsthey was; but we Cornish be curious people. Besides, maaster, we be'antused to this sort of thing, and spite of all you say, we ca'ant grip itlike."
"How is that?" I asked.
"For forty year we've bin tould the other thing, maaster. Tha's how itis. For forty year we've bin tould that war was wrong; and now to betould it be our duty--well, you see, we ca'ant clunk it. It do'ant seemright. It'll take a lot to git the thought fixed in our minds that theLord would have us do this. When you can do that, maaster, there won'tbe no need for meetin's; the difficulty then will be to keep the boysback."
Although I did not reply, I felt that the old man had got to the heartof the thing. One could not eradicate the teachings of half a century ina day.
Immediately afterwards, the old man's words were driven from my mind;for coming towards me, with hand outstretched, was Isabella Lethbridge.I saw a look in her eyes that I had never seen before.
"Are you mad, Mr. Erskine?" she asked.
"I expect so," I replied.
"Oh, but I did envy you!" and her voice quivered. "It must be gloriousto have the power to move people, even though----" Then she stopped, asif she thought it unwise to utter the thought that had come into hermind.
"Good-night;" and her voice was like a sob as she went out into thedarkness.