The Passion for Life

  II

  MY NEW HOME

  I liked the house the moment I entered it. It was snug, cozy, and warm.It had the feeling of home, too, and felt so quiet and restful that Ithrew myself into an armchair with a sigh of relief.

  "You spent your holiday in getting this, I suppose, Simpson?"

  "Yes, sir; thank you, sir. I hope you like it, sir. It is not altogetherwhat I would like, sir, but directly I saw it I thought it would suityou."

  "To whom does it belong, Simpson?"

  "Well, sir, I would rather not tell you, if you don't mind. You may restassured that I got it on favorable terms, and everything is in order."

  "But I do mind," I said, for by this time I had quite an interest in mysurroundings. For days nothing had seemed to matter, but now I was quiteeager to know how Simpson had happened upon this quaint yet comfortableplace.

  "You are sure you wish me to tell you, sir?" and Simpson looked at mealmost beseechingly.

  "I insist on it," I replied.

  "Well, sir, I am afraid it was built by a kind of madman who came downto St. Issey about six years ago. Who he was I don't know. No one seemsto know. But he took a lease of this piece of ground from the Squire andbuilt the house with his own hands."

  "He must have been a carpenter," I suggested. "It seems very well built.But what has become of him?"

  "He is dead, sir."

  "Was he old or young?"

  "Quite an old man, I think, sir. Anyhow, he built it himself and wouldhave no one near him. After it was built he lived here alone for severalyears, speaking to no one but the village idiot, who went by the name ofFever Lurgy, who bought all his food and did all his errands. No womanwas allowed near the place, sir."

  "Then he cooked his own food and did his own house-work?" I asked.

  "It would appear so, sir. He seems to have made himself verycomfortable, too. As you see, the furniture is not at all bad, andnearly everything is just as he left it."

  I must confess to being interested. The thought of a man coming to thisplace and building a house for himself and living there withoutcompanionship of any sort appealed to me. I wondered how he spent hisdays and nights.

  "Let me have a look around the place," I said, rising from the chair. "Iwant to see what rooms it contains."

  "Yes, sir; thank you, sir," was Simpson's reply.

  The room in which I had been sitting was about fifteen feet square--itmight be a little more--and looked out upon the veranda, beyond whichstretched the great Atlantic. It was comfortably furnished, andpossessed an old-fashioned fireplace, evidently intended for logs ofwood, and revealed the fact that the builder was not only ingenious inthe matter of house-building, but that he possessed a good deal oftaste. The whole apartment was carefully match-boarded, and was, as Isaid, snug and comfortable.

  "This, sir, is the bedroom," said Simpson, opening the door at the endof the living apartment.

  It was much smaller than the other, but quite big enough for a singlebed, together with the simple necessities of a man living alone.

  "And did he die here?" I asked.

  "Yes, sir; no, sir--that is--I don't know, sir."

  "What do you mean, Simpson?"

  "Well, sir, that is why I didn't want to tell you about him; but thereare all sorts of stories afloat. You don't mind, do you, sir?"

  "Not a bit," I replied. "Whatever my ailments are, nerves don't troubleme."

  "Well, sir," went on Simpson, "the fact that he lived here all alonecaused people to talk about him--especially the women. You know whatwomen are, sir, and people used to come and look from the hill above andsee what he was doing. One day two women were bold enough to come closeto the place, and they knocked at the door. There was no answer, sir.They knocked again and again and made a great noise. Still there was noanswer. Then they rushed away to St. Issey and gave it as their opinionthat something had happened to him. They hadn't been back in the villagemore than half an hour when Fever Lurgy came, pale as a ghost, andtrembling like a leaf. He had gone to inquire whether he was needed forerrands, and, on being unable to make any one hear, had burst open thedoor. In this bedroom he found evidences of a great struggle. He foundblood, too, but the man was nowhere to be seen."

  "That's interesting," I said. "What was the name by which this oldfellow was known?"

  "Fever Lurgy called him Father Abraham," was Simpson's reply.

  "Well, go on," I urged.

  "There's nothing more to tell you, sir. From that day he has never beenseen. People believe, however, he was murdered here; that some trampscame and found him alone, stole his money, killed him, and threw hisbody over the cliff."

  "And how long was this ago?"

  "About four months, sir."

  "And since that time no one has lived here?"

  "No, sir, no one. Most people have been afraid to come near the place.That is why none of the things have been touched; besides, the Squire,as soon as he discovered what had taken place, told his men to keep aneye on it."

  "And so you thought, Simpson," I said, "that this was the sort of placeI would like to come to and end my days?"

  "Well, Mr. Francis," was Simpson's response, "for one thing you told meyou wanted a place that was cheap, that you wanted a place that was outof the world and yet in the world, and I immediately thought of St.Issey. When I came down here, however, I found that any lodgings youmight like would be rather dear, and then, hearing of this place, Idetermined to come and see it."

  Here Simpson stopped.

  "That's not quite answering my question, Simpson," I remarked.

  "Well, sir, I have not lived with you going on for twelve years withoutknowing something of the kind of gentleman you are. I have never knownyou trouble once, sir, about ghosts or anything of that sort, while yournerves have always been as steady as old time. Besides, I was able toget it dirt cheap, sir--in fact, the Squire's steward was glad to haveit tenanted at any price. The place is very pretty, too, sir. There isnot a finer view along the coast of Cornwall, and that is saying a greatdeal. It is out of the world, and it is only half a mile from thevillage. Still, sir, if you don't like it, we can easily leave. Over atSt. Eia there's a nice cheap hotel where----"

  "Hang the hotel," I interposed. "I am going to stay here."

  "I think I ought to tell you, sir," went on Simpson imperturbably, "thatpeople say they have heard curious noises around here of a night, and itis believed by many that the ghost of Father Abraham haunts the place."

  Simpson looked so solemn as he said this that I laughed again. I don'tknow why it was, but, in spite of his dreary story, my spirits roseunaccountably.

  "The ghost of Father Abraham doesn't trouble me a bit, Simpson," I said."This place suits me down to the ground. But this is not all? Surelythere must be a kitchen somewhere."

  "Oh yes, sir. This way, sir," and Simpson spoke quite eagerly. Evidentlymy approval of his choice removed a load from his mind.

  Father Abraham had evidently determined to make himself comfortable, forthe kitchen, though small, seemed to have every requisite. As I enteredit, an old woman rose from her chair and curtsied in the oldtime-honored way.

  "This," said Simpson, "is Mrs. Martha Bray. I asked her to come in andmake everything spotlessly clean for you by the time you came."

  "And Mrs. Martha Bray has obeyed orders," I remarked. "Everything is asperfect as a new pin. But, Simpson," I continued, "where will yousleep?"

  "There's a little place here behind, sir, where I have made up a bed formyself," replied Simpson. "It will be nice and handy for my work."

  "Yes, sur, and plase, sur, I can come in an' help 'ee any time,"remarked Martha Bray. "I do'ant live fur away, an' I can come 'cross thefields in a few minutes."

  "Excuse me, Martha," was Simpson's rejoinder, "but we shall need no one.I can do all that is necessary for Mr. Francis."

  "Oh, plase yerself," replied the old woman, "but it'll be ter'ble wishtfor 'ee doin' everything yerself without a woman to help 'ee. I doalways say th
at a man wethout a woman to do his chores for en es likeone side to a pair of scissors. I have got some tay ready, sur, and Ihave toasted a piece of ham rasher. It's raal ham, too, not like thestuff you buy in the shops. I do'ant hold with these new-fashionednotions about feedin' pigs, and do always feed mine meself like mymother and grandmother used to do before me. And you'll find, sur, thattes deffrent from the ham you do buy in the shops. My b'lief, sur, esthat ef old Father Abram had had a woman to look after en, he wouldn'tbe dead now."

  Having delivered herself of this long speech, the old woman curtsiedonce more, and prepared to take my meal into the little living-room.

  "Excuse me, Martha, I will do that," said Simpson, "and there's noreason why we should detain you any longer. Here are your wages, andthank you for what you have done."

  "All right," said Martha. "Ef you can do without me, I can do withoutyou. The tay is in the caddy up there. There's some bread in thecupboard there, and the other things be in this drawer. Good-night, sur.I will look over again to see whether there is anything I can do for'ee."

  I returned to the sitting-room, and sat while Simpson prepared myevening meal.

  "I want to wash, Simpson," I said, when he had nearly completed hiswork. "Besides, it has struck me that there is no such thing as abathroom in the house. What are we going to do?"

  "This way, sir," said Simpson, and I followed him out of the housetowards what I call the cliff end of the building. Here I found,gurgling out of the hillside, a stream of the purest water I had everseen, which flowed into a pond.

  The idea of outdoor ablutions appealed to me, and I almost forgot myailments as I bathed my hands and face in the pure spring water. A fewminutes later, I was eating the sweetest ham I had ever tasted.

  "If this is the result of the old-fashioned way of feeding pigs," Iremarked to Simpson, "I shall make a closer acquaintance with Mrs.Martha Bray, and shall buy all the hams she can dispose of."

  The time was spring. To be exact, it was the 14th of May, and althoughthe evening air was somewhat chilly, the days had become long, and Iremembered standing a long time at the front of my little wooden hut,looking at the giant cliffs at whose feet the waves of the broadAtlantic rolled. When I had returned to the house, Simpson had lit alamp, while in the grate a wood fire burnt cheerfully.

  "Do you think it will do, sir?" asked Simpson.

  "Do!" I replied; "it's just perfect."

  "Then, sir, if you don't mind, I will go to bed. I am a little tired,sir. There's nothing more I can do for you, is there?"

  "Nothing, thank you, Simpson. Good-night."

  A few minutes later I judged, from the silence which prevailed in thekitchen, that Simpson had retired, and that I was practically alone inthe little wooden hut.

  I was still in utter ignorance of my whereabouts, beyond the fact that Iwas somewhere in Cornwall on the edge of a cliff, and close to a littlevillage called St. Issey. Where St. Issey was situated I did not know.Cornwall, I reflected, was a county nearly a hundred miles long, withthe main portion of it surrounded by the sea. I knew that I must besomewhere in the vicinity of the main line of the Great Western Railway,as I did not remember changing anywhere, but beyond that I had little orno knowledge. Still, this did not trouble me. I reflected upon whatSimpson had told me concerning the cheapness of my place of residence,and I had absolute trust in him concerning all arrangements for thefuture.

  The night was very quiet, I remember. Scarcely a breath of wind stirred,although the air which came into my open window was pure andexhilarating. The splash of the waves was still heard on the sandybeach, although I judged the tide had receded somewhat. Now and then thecry of a disturbed sea-bird reached me, but beyond that, nothing.Somehow I could not make up my mind to turn in for the night. I had toomany things to think about, while my new surroundings drove away alldesire for sleep. I took one of the books I had brought with me fromLondon, and tried to read, but that was impossible. I could not scan adozen lines without my mind wandering from the printed pages. After all,when one comes to think about it, my position was somewhat strange. Itis easy to talk about coming to a place to die; but when one hasactually heard the death sentence pronounced, and is told that, at themost, he cannot live more than a year, it is not a pleasant experience,and, in spite of all my endeavors, my thoughts were constantly revertingto Dr. Rhomboid's verdict.

  Presently I could bear my thoughts no longer, and, quietly opening thedoor, I went out into the night. How still, how solemn it was! On myleft hand the great beetling, rugged cliffs rose, imposing andawe-inspiring. Behind me, the hillside rose steep and high. In front wasthe wide Atlantic. I could see the waves breaking into foam some littledistance from the shore. I could, in the pale light of the moon, see thediscolorment in one place in the rocks, which reminded me of the minewhich Simpson had told me was working there when he was a boy.

  How long I stood there I do not know, but presently, in the silence ofthe night, I heard a cry. It might be that of a sea-bird, although itmade me think of other things. A little later I heard what might bedescribed as a moan, although that does not truly convey the impressionit made upon me. In spite of myself, my mind reverted to the story whichSimpson had told me about the man who had built the house, and of hissupposed tragic end. Could it be, I wondered, that this man's spiritvisited the scene of his death, drawn there by some laws yetundiscovered by the student of psychic phenomena?

  I had no superstitious fears; indeed, I had no belief in a life beyondthis present existence. If ever I had believed in this, the belief haddied years before. In a vague kind of way I imagined that death was theend of everything. Perhaps that was why the doctor's verdict was so grimand forbidding.

  I heard another cry, not loud, but quite distinct; and then I thought Isaw forms moving along at the base of the cliff some little distanceaway, but the moon, which was on the wane, gave me insufficient light tobe certain. A cloud passed over the sky, and then I could see nothing.

  "Surely I could not be mistaken," I said to myself, "yet who could becrawling along at the base of the cliffs? No. It was all pure fancy."

  As if in contradiction of my thoughts, however, I heard noises whichseemed to be directly under my feet. These noises seemed to continue forthree or four minutes, and then all was silence.

  "Events have been too much for me," I reflected, "and in spite of all myboasting about my nerves, they are playing me tricks."

  I turned and looked at the little house, and I doubted whether, in spiteof all my brave words, I should be able to continue living there. To bealone day after day and night after night, with no one to speak to meand no one to care for me, save this unimaginative man, was, to say theleast of it, anything but exhilarating. Then I felt the gnawing, deadlypain which had led me to visit Dr. Rhomboid.

  "I must not be a fool," I reflected. "What has to be has to be, and Imust go through with it. Besides, one place is as good as another. Iwill go to bed."

  All the same, I made up my mind that I would not live like a hermit, andthat I would become acquainted with the life of this little village intowhich I had been cast.