The Passion for Life

  VI

  THE LETHBRIDGE FAMILY

  We had adjourned to the smoke-room, and for my own part, I was feelingbetter than I had felt for some time. Opposite me sat Mr. Lethbridge,while by my side sat young Hugh Lethbridge, who had been to see me theday before. I had eaten a good dinner, and felt inclined to take abright view of everything. Mr. Lethbridge had played the part of hostperfectly, and had done his best to make me feel welcome, not only as avisitor in the neighborhood, but in his house. I had the opportunity,moreover, of making the acquaintance of his wife and daughter.

  The former was a well-meaning lady, whose _metier_ was to manage otherpeople's affairs. While we were at dinner she gave her husband a greatdeal of information as to how he should manage his men, how he shouldwork the mines he owned, and how the vessels he controlled should beutilized. She also informed her son how he should spend his time, whathis amusements and avocations should be. She greatly amused us all bydescribing what she would do if she were a girl again. She had opinionsabout everything in heaven above and on earth beneath. I found that sheknew intimately the history of every family in the neighborhood, and shetook it upon herself to manage the affairs of those families. She mightbe rather a tiresome person to live with, but for my own part I foundher vastly entertaining.

  Young Hugh Lethbridge told her that he intended writing to the PrimeMinister, offering her services as general adviser to the Government,while her daughter laughingly remarked that she would wear herself outin attending to the affairs of people who had a distinct preference forattending to their own business. Mrs. Lethbridge took it all in a goodhumor, however, and seemed to regard it as her chief business to be auniversal helper. She even went so far as to instruct me how I mightdeal with Simpson, and gave me a great deal of valuable advice onhousekeeping.

  I found that Isabella Lethbridge was entirely different from her mother.On the whole she puzzled me. That she was intelligent there could be nodoubt whatever. In many ways she was attractive, but on the whole I didnot like her. For one thing, I thought she showed bad taste in holdingup her mother to ridicule, while more than once I thought she revealedan almost sullen disposition. Still, she was interesting. She was morethan ordinarily good-looking, and at times became quite animated.

  The family, as a whole, did not strike me as ideal. They seemed to be atcross-purposes with each other. I could see that Mr. Lethbridge did notat all understand his son, and resented any difference of opinion whichmight exist between them. He apparently regarded Hugh as a boy whoshould unquestioningly obey his father's behests without regard to hisown feelings and opinions; and yet he seemed to be angry with him fornot being something in the world which would give him a position amonghis fellow-men.

  And yet I am sure Mr. Lethbridge meant well. He was, as I have beforesuggested, a strong, capable man, and fully bore out what I had heardconcerning him. He could never have been a nonentity, wherever he wasplaced, and whatever he took in hand he would do with suchconscientiousness and thoroughness as to make it succeed. Consequently,it was no wonder that he had risen from a poor lad to be a man of wealthand of eminence in the county. That he was exceedingly ambitious therecould be no doubt, and I judged that he was a little bit sore that allhis ambitions had not been realized. He seemed composed of contradictoryelements. On one hand, he seemed a man of the Napoleonic order, whowould make everything and every person yield to his desires. On theother, I judged him to be a man who wanted to be strictly honest andconscientious, a man who would not give up one iota of his convictions,even if by so doing he could gain the things he desired.

  Although no plain statement was made at the dinner-table to that effect,I gathered that he had suffered socially because of his adherence towhat he termed his Nonconformist principles, and that he would havetaken his position among the county families had he not remained true tothe Chapel he had attended as a boy. On the other hand, however, thatsame Chapel, as it seemed to me, was a fetish rather than somethingwhich vitally affected his life.

  I am spending some time in recording my impressions about this family,because I was brought into close contact with it in later days, and alsobecause the various members of it affected me considerably.

  "Yes," said Mr. Lethbridge, as we sat in the smoke-room, "I am anold-fashioned man, Mr. Erskine. I do not believe in giving up my earlyconvictions simply because they are not popular."

  "What are your early convictions?" asked Hugh.

  "I mean my Nonconformist principles. See what Methodism has done forCornwall, see what it has done for the whole country for that matter."

  "Yes, what has it done?" asked Hugh.

  "It has changed Cornwall from being drunken and godless into the mostsober and God-fearing part of the country."

  "Admitted," replied the son. "But who cares anything about Methodismnow?"

  "I am surprised and ashamed of you, Hugh, talking like that," said thefather. "What is your opinion about it, Mr. Erskine?"

  "My opinion about what?" I asked.

  "Don't you think a man should stand by his principles?"

  "His principles, certainly," was my reply, "especially if, after havingtested them, they proved to be vital; but I am rather interested in whatyour son says. I have been reading John Wesley's _Journal_, and I cannothelp realizing the tremendous influence he wielded over a hundred yearsago in this very county; but what troubles me is that it seems to meancomparatively little now."

  "I don't understand you," he said, rather brusquely.

  "What I want to know," I said, "is this. Does Methodism, or for thatmatter, does religion of any sort, vitally affect the lives and outlookof people now? If it does, why is it that its hold seems to be weakeningday by day? I am told that your Chapel used to be crowded, and thatwhile the people were ignorant, Methodism vitally influenced theirlives; but now it seems a kind of corpse. It has a name to live, but isdead. This afternoon, Simpson, my man, brought me a book which belongedto his father. That book describes what the people used to do for theirfaith. Even the women worked to bring stones to build the chapels, whilethe men toiled hours after their ordinary work was over, as a labor oflove, in order to erect the buildings which their children and theirchildren's children neglect and often despise. Everything seemsstereotyped. Most of the people seem to care little or nothing aboutwhat their forbears would die for, and those that do care seem to regardit in a half-hearted way, and talk about it as something that has beenrather than something that is."

  "Yes," said Mr. Lethbridge, with a sigh, "I am afraid you are right. Theold fire has gone, faith has largely died out, real earnestness seems athing of the past; and yet what can one do?"

  "I am afraid I am not the one to ask," I replied. "You see, I am a rankoutsider so far as that kind of thing is concerned."

  "For that matter the Church of England is no better," said Mr.Lethbridge.

  "Should that console one?" I asked. "Cornwall, as I understand, used tobe the home of religious activity, of unquestioning faith, of devotedfervor; but to-day people are careless, materialistic. Faiths which atone time were held tenaciously, doctrines which were believed inunquestioningly, are now apparently a dead letter."

  "I suppose you are a Churchman, Mr. Erskine," said Mr. Lethbridge.

  "I am afraid I am nothing," I replied. "For several years I did not putmy foot inside a Church of any sort."

  "Indeed, how is that?"

  "I suppose I had no interest," I said. "That was why going to Church onSunday was something new to me. I felt like a man witnessing a strangething, and trying to understand something which was unfamiliar."

  "Yes, and how did it impress you?"

  "Everything was so unconvincing," I replied. "The note of reality wasnever struck at all."

  "But surely," said Mr. Lethbridge, "you are not an atheist?"

  "I am nothing," was my answer. "I wish I were. I suppose you know why Icame here?"

  "Yes, I have heard," he replied, "and I am very, very sorry for you, andyou such a young man too, and li
fe opening up all sorts ofpossibilities. Perhaps, however, it is not as bad as you think; thedoctor may have made a mistake."

  "I am afraid there is no hope of that," was my reply. "The man whoexamined me has the reputation of being the most eminent diagnosticianin his profession; but if you religious people are right, it does notmatter. If John Wesley, whose diary I have been reading, is right, whatwe call life, that is, life here, is a very small matter; it is only afragment of life. Death, according to him, is only an episode; but theworst of it is that here, in a county where he is so largelyrepresented, and in a village where he has visited, his power is gone.The old words are used, but the old convictions are gone--that is whysuch a man as I am left stranded. But really, I am ashamed of myself,talking like this. Believe me, I am not in the habit of boring peoplewith my ailments and foolish speculations."

  We joined the ladies shortly after, and our conversation, I am afraid,was of a very uninteresting nature. I noticed all the time we weretalking, too, that Mr. Lethbridge was paying no attention whatever. Heseemed to be thinking deeply about something else. Presently, while hiswife was engaged in a long harangue about the inferiority of girls,comparing them with what she used to be when she was a girl, Mr.Lethbridge broke in suddenly.

  "Yes, Mr. Erskine," he said, "you may be right in what you weresaying--that is, up to a point--but you don't go deep enough."

  "I am afraid I never do go very deep," was my reply. "The deeper onegoes, as a rule, the greater the muddle."

  "Not in this case," and he spoke quite eagerly. "Why, the whole life ofthe county is what John Wesley and Methodism have made it. People, as awhole, may seem to have discarded his teachings, but they are in thevery air we breathe; the people's thoughts, the people's lives, are whatthey are to-day because of the work he did."

  "I dare say," I replied, for, to tell the truth, I was anxious to avoidanything like a theological discussion.

  "Yes, don't you see? In the background of people's minds there is theimpress of his work; his influence is felt everywhere. Even the peoplewho never enter a place of worship have been shaped and moulded byMethodism."

  "In what way?" asked Hugh.

  "Well, take such a question as war," replied Mr. Lethbridge. "JohnWesley killed the very possibility of war."

  "I wish I could see it," I could not help exclaiming.

  "It is plain enough," he replied. "Methodism and war cannot go together.The love of peace has entered into the very essence of people's lives.Is not that something to be thankful for?"

  "I am not so sure," replied Isabella Lethbridge. "May not war be a verygood thing?"

  "A good thing!" cried her father--"a good thing! Why, it's hellish! Iwould rather see a son of mine dead than a soldier! And that is thefeeling Methodism has created throughout the county. You scarcely everfind a conscientious Methodist becoming a soldier. A soldier in thiscounty is looked upon as a kind of legalized murderer."

  "Surely," I said, "it is not so bad as that?"

  "It amounts to that," was his reply. "For my own part, I have an utterabhorrence of anything which savors of militarism, and I know it isbecause of the impressions I received as a boy."

  "But supposing war were to break out?" I said.

  "War break out!" he interrupted. "How can it break out, unless some ofour so-called statesmen make asses of themselves? No one wants war."

  "No," I said--"that is, as far as the general feeling in the country isconcerned; but supposing war were thrust upon us?"

  "Who would thrust it upon us?" he asked, almost angrily.

  "Germany, for example," was my reply.

  "Impossible!"

  "Not so impossible, I am afraid," I could not help replying. "Why,during the last few years we have twice been on the brink of war withGermany, and, unless I am mistaken, a war with that country is bound tocome, sooner or later." This, I am afraid, I said rather for the sake ofargument than because I really believed it. "Take that Agadir incident.We were within an ace of war then. Indeed, had Germany been as ready asshe is now it would doubtless have come off."

  "I do not believe it," was his reply. "The people of England would haverefused; the whole nation would have risen up in protest against it, andnot even the Government could have forced the country into a war whichit detested."

  "Not if we were attacked?" was my answer.

  "I do not believe in the possibility of it at all," he replied. "We areessentially a peace-loving people."

  "That may be, but even a peace-loving people may be obliged to defenditself."

  "But we shall never be called upon to defend ourselves."

  "I am not at all sure," was my answer. "Germany is just spoiling forwar. Ever since she beat France she has been longing for expansion, andthe military party in Germany maintain that the English people keep themfrom occupying their rightful place in the world."

  "Yes, the military party," he said; "a negligible section of thecountry."

  "Excuse me," was my answer, "but the military party in Germany ispractically the nation. It is true there are a few Socialists whodisclaim war, and profess to be at enmity with the military party;nevertheless, that party rules the nation, and if war should break outevery Socialist would be obliged to fight for his country--and Germanymeans that it shall break out."

  "And what then?" he asked.

  "Then," I replied, "the power and solidarity of the British Empire willbe tested as it has never been tested before. There will be such astruggle as has never been known in the history of the world. Everyounce of power that we have will be requisitioned; every able-bodied manin the country will be called to arms."

  "But the country will refuse to respond," was his reply.

  "If you are right, and the men of England refuse to respond, Englandwill cease to be. There will be no England, and Germany will rule thedestinies of the world."

  "You seem to be very sure of what Germany will do," he said, ratherimpatiently.

  "No one can travel in Germany, or read German literature, withoutknowing it. It is a nation under arms. The love of war is bred in thepeople. Militarism is glorified. They have such an army as was neverknown before, and they have utilized all their discoveries in science tomake their army a perfect fighting machine. They have huge factoriesdevoted to the making of air-ships and guns, and all that appertains toguns, and I tell you that if war breaks out between Germany and England,our country will be tried as it was never tried before. Do you mean tosay that England would stand still while Germany sought to destroy us?"

  "I mean that we are not a military people, and never will be." It was atthis point that young Lethbridge sprang to his feet, like a man angry.

  "I do not believe that you are right, pater," he said. "If England werein danger the young men of England would fight to the last man."

  "No, they would not," replied the father, "because war is a devilishthing. It is opposed to the teaching of Christianity."

  "But where would our Christianity be, where would everything we holddear be, if Germany dominated the world?" protested Hugh. "Why, if I hada hundred lives I would give them for the defense of my country."

  "Then patriotism would be more than your religion?"

  "I cannot argue the matter from that standpoint," replied youngLethbridge. "I only know that I am an Englishman--every drop of my bloodis English. God made me English, and if I have a love for my country,God gave me that love, and if there were a call for men I wouldrespond."

  "You would be no son of mine if you did," replied the father.

  "But he would," cried Isabella Lethbridge. "Why, father, you are afighter; you know you are, and I should be ashamed of Hugh if hiscountry called him and he held back. There doesn't seem to be much inlife worth being interested in, but if anything would arouse me, itwould be the thought of England in danger."

  "And would you believe in war, even if we were in the wrong?" asked herfather.

  "I cannot conceive of our being in the wrong," was her reply. "Besides,it can never be wrong to
defend one's native land." The girl's eyesflashed as she made this reply, and I saw possibilities in her naturewhich I had not recognized before. Her lips quivered, and her featuresbecame animated with a kind of new life.

  "But do you really believe, Mr. Erskine, that Germany means to force waron England?" she went on.

  "No one who has been to Germany, and has studied the life there, canhelp knowing that they have been preparing for war for forty years, andno one can help realizing that the Germans hate the English with adeadly hatred. It may be only because of their jealousy, or it may be,as they say, that our Navy keeps them from realizing their rightfulposition. Anyhow, the fact remains. Our statesmen are doing their bestto put off the evil day, but it is a recognized fact among those in highplaces that Europe at this moment is sitting on a powder magazine; and,mark you, if war does come it will not be a picnic."

  "I tell you the people of England will never allow such a thing," urgedMr. Lethbridge doggedly; "we are a peace-loving people. Besides, wecannot go to war; we have no army worth calling an army, and I, for one,thank God for it."

  "Of course there will be no war," said Mrs. Lethbridge confidently; "thePowers would not allow it, my dears."

  "Are we sure that we have yet realized what Germany is, or what herpeople mean to do?" I asked. "During the last thirty years she hassimply forced herself upon the life of the world; her commerce hasprogressed by leaps and bounds; she has placed her foot everywhere.Before Bismarck's days she had practically no voice in the counsels ofthe nations. To-day her voice is a dominant one, her commerce is stillincreasing; she has succeeded, in spite of our protests, in building anavy second to none but our own. Why did she build that navy? She cancommand an army of, perhaps, eight or ten million men, more perfectlyequipped than any other army known in history. She has munitions,implements of war, which can practically laugh at those of any othernation."

  "That shows her foolishness," said Mr. Lethbridge.

  "How?"

  "Because she does not know what other countries possess."

  "Is not that where you make a mistake? Germany has a Secret IntelligenceService, which enables her to know the strength of every army and navyin the world. England at this time, for example, is simply riddled withspies. Germany knows the strength of our Navy to a nicety. She knows ourevery port, every harbor, every fortress; she has made it her businessto do so, and Germany means war. Do you think that when the time comesEngland will sit idly by?"

  "No! by heavens, no!" cried Hugh Lethbridge. "I doubt whether what yousay is true, Erskine, but if England is ever in danger, Englishmen willbe true to their name and their country."

  "Yes, and Englishwomen too," cried Isabella Lethbridge. "I tell younothing can destroy the old fighting instinct, which will protect homeand Motherland. Dad," and she turned to her father almost fiercely, "doyou mean to say that if we were in danger you would advise us to donothing?"

  Mr. Lethbridge laughed scornfully. "How can there be any danger?" heasked. "War cannot come about in these days, as it did in the old times.War depends now on the whole of the people; the democracy rules--not afew men in high places."

  "Democracy does not rule," cried the girl, "and never will. Democracy isa mob which is forever calling out for leaders. No Government isdemocratic, it is always autocratic."

  "You are talking nonsense, child," said her father. "You can do nothingto-day against the voice of the people, and the voice of the people isagainst anything like war. I repeat what I said just now--I would rathersee a son of mine dead than that he should be a soldier! But there,there! There is no chance of it. Whatever England has been, she isto-day at peace, and as far as Cornwall is concerned, as I said justnow, John Wesley has killed militarism."

  He left the room as he spoke, while Hugh Lethbridge looked meaninglytowards his sister.

  "I am afraid I shall have to be going," I said, looking at my watch. "Ihave stayed too long already."

  "No, no!" protested Hugh. "Stay a little longer. Do you know, Erskine,it is like a fresh breeze from the mountains to hear what you have beensaying to-night. We live a starved, narrow life down here, and--and I'msick of it. I almost wish war would break out."

  "For shame, Hugh!" said his mother. "What good would you be as asoldier? No one can be an officer in an army unless he is trained; andas for your becoming a private, why, think how ridiculous you would lookin a private's uniform."

  "I am afraid I must be going," I persisted, moving towards the door.

  "I will have the car out and drive you home," said Hugh Lethbridge.

  "No," I said, "it is a beautiful night, and I think I would ratherwalk."

  "But in your state of health, Mr. Erskine, it would be very foolish,"said Mrs. Lethbridge. "Really, we cannot allow you."

  "I would rather walk," I persisted. Whereupon Hugh announced hisintention of accompanying me.

  When Mr. Lethbridge bade me good-night he had quite recovered hisequanimity, and expressed the hope that I would soon come to see themagain.

  "I feel like a toad in a hole," said Hugh, after we had walked someminutes in silence together.

  "How is that?" I asked.

  "What has life to offer a fellow? The pater insisted upon my going tothe University and reading for the Bar. I am not fit for it--I know I amnot fit. Then, although he pretends to be a man of the people, he isalso socially ambitious. You would not believe it, would you? I know itis wrong for me to talk in this way, but somehow I cannot help it. Youknow, Erskine, as my father said just now, he was a poor man, and mademoney rapidly, and he is disappointed that the doors of the countypeople are not open to us. I do not care a fig about the county peoplemyself; do you?"

  "Some of them are very nice," I replied.

  "You will not take it amiss of me if I tell you something, will you?And, of course, you will regard it as a confidence? It is somethingwhich means a lot to me."

  "Do you think you know me well enough to tell me?" I replied. "Afterall, we have only met twice."

  "I must tell you," he persisted. "As you say, I have only met you twice,but I seem to have known you all my life. Besides, a fellow must tellhis thoughts to some one. I am in love, Erskine."

  "That is interesting."

  "Yes, but don't you see, everything is at cross-purposes. Old Treherne,down here, has a daughter several years older than I am. You have heardof Treherne, haven't you? He is the Squire."

  "Yes, I have heard of Mr. Treherne."

  "His daughter is on the shelf--has been for several years. He is as pooras a church mouse, is the Squire; but then, he is one of the big peoplein the county, and the pater has an idea that if I were to marry her ...well, you can see, can't you?"

  "The lady might not be willing," I suggested.

  "Quite possible, of course; but the pater seems sure she would be. Yousee, she's thirty, if she's a day, and as ugly as they make 'em, and thepater wants me to sell my soul and marry her. By so doing, old Trehernewould be able to pay off the mortgages on the estate, and I, in time,would become the Squire. Just think of it!"

  "I thought he wanted you to read for the Bar?" I interposed.

  "Yes, he does, but that is only one of his many schemes. He wants me tomarry Treherne's daughter. Celia, they call her--Celia Treherne. Good,isn't it?"

  "Why, isn't she an estimable lady?"

  "Estimable! Estimable enough. But, as I told you just now, I am in lovewith a farmer's daughter, one of the class my family really belongs to,and the pater--well, I need scarcely tell you what he says."

  "And this farmer's daughter's name?" I queried.

  "I wish you would let me introduce you to her," he cried eagerly. "Asweeter girl never lived. I used to think of her as a sweetheart tenyears ago, when the pater was poorer than he is now. I fought severalboys about her. Mary Treleaven is her name. Do you think that you couldpersuade the governor? You see, he refuses to countenance it, and,without him, I haven't a penny with which to bless myself."

  "My dear fellow," I said, "if you care any
thing about the girl you willmake yourself independent of your father."

  "Yes, but what am I fit for--what can I do? He professes to havedemocratic notions, and yet he has given me the education of agentleman; sent me to a public school, where no one learns anything ofany use, and then to Oxford, where I just scraped through, and got apass degree. What is the good of all that to me? There is not a singlething I care anything about, except farming, and that needs capital.What would you advise me to do?"

  "I am afraid I can't advise anything just now. You see, I know so littleabout either of you. Perhaps when I have been here a little longer I maybe able to help." By this time we had reached the little wooded lanewhich led to my hut.

  "You will come and see us again soon?" he pleaded.

  "You are very kind," I replied. "If I am well enough, I will."

  "I cannot believe you are so ill as you think," he said eagerly.

  I did not answer him. Of what use was it for me to tell him of thegnawing pain which I could feel just then--pain which told me that myvery life was being eaten away?

  "Won't you come in?" I asked.

  "No, I mustn't. Besides, you will be tired. I say! what is that?" and hepointed towards the highest part of the cliff, the base of which pusheditself out into the sea. I looked, and in the dim light saw what I feltsure to be a boat approaching the shore.

  "Some fishermen, I expect," I replied.

  "No, fishermen do not hang so close to the rocks as that," was hisanswer. "Besides, the boat is making directly for us. No one was everknown to land a fishing-boat on this beach. Fishing-boats go direct tothe harbor at St. Eia."

  We listened intently, and heard the steady splash of the oars, andpresently I thought I heard low, murmuring voices, but I was not sure.