Читать книгу: «The Passion for Life», страница 9

For I was not blind to the problem which faced us. I knew that France was not prepared in the same way that Germany was. I remembered that, forty-five years before, Von Moltke with his perfectly trained army had swept down like an avalanche, and carried away the French army as if by a flood. I knew, too, that the German forces were far stronger now than they were then, and that, with the thoroughness which characterized them, they had prepared everything to the minutest detail. I reflected that at that time the German guns were thundering at the Liège forts, and that, except some miracle happened, the German hordes would sweep towards Paris, as in the great dêbâcle of 1870. I knew we had a little army of, perhaps, 200,000 men, but what could they do against such a mighty host? I wondered, too, whether our guns were equal to those of the Germans. Altogether, I was very pessimistic.

After this, some days passed without anything happening. For some reason or other I seemed to be left severely alone. No one visited me, neither did I go out of the house. The weather was somewhat inclement, and I was too depressed to brave the angry clouds which hung in the sky. I went neither to Church nor to Chapel, but hung around my hut, sometimes listlessly walking along the cliffs, but, in the main, staying in my little room.

"I suppose, sir," said Simpson, one evening, "that there is going to be a recruiting meeting in the village schoolroom."

"How did you find that out, Simpson?" I asked.

"Saw a bill, sir. Squire Treherne is going to take the chair, and the Vicar and several others are going to speak."

"When is the meeting to be, Simpson?"

"To-morrow night, sir."

Although I felt far from well, I determined to go. I was far away from the centres of life, and felt utterly incapable of doing anything; but I wanted to feel the throb of humanity's pulses, longed to take my share in the great world struggle.

I had not time to ask any more questions, however, for at that minute Hugh Lethbridge walked into my room, and I saw by the look on his face that he was much perturbed.

I did not ask him any questions, for at that moment Simpson was busily clearing away the dinner utensils. It was evident, however, that something had excited him greatly. He could not sit still, and his hands were constantly clenching and unclenching themselves.

"Erskine," he said presently, when Simpson had left the room, "I want you to help me."

"Help you, my dear fellow, how?"

"I have been and done it," he said.

"Done what?"

"I could not help it, my dear chap. You have seen the placards all over the place. You know the call there has been for men. What could I do? Here am I, healthy and strong, and just the kind of man that is needed. How could I hang back like a coward?"

"Then you have enlisted?"

"Yes," he cried, "I have enlisted; I could not help myself."

"As a private?"

"Yes, as a private. I am not fit to be an officer."

"But didn't you belong to the Officers' Training Corps when you were at school?"

"The pater would not allow me. No, it was no use my thinking anything about it, so I went to a recruiting station and joined up. I shall have to go to the front immediately."

"How is that?" I asked. "What is the use of your going to the front without training? They won't allow you. You will be kept in England at least six months."

"No, I shan't. You see, I know the Colonel of the regiment I have joined very well, and he is off to the front immediately, and I am going too."

"But how?"

"Well, you see, for one thing, I know French and German, and for another, I am not a bad hand at mechanics. I know all about a motor-car, inside and out, and they can find work for me."

"Then you are not going as an ordinary Tommy?"

"In a way I am, and in a way I am not; but there it is. They are going to make a special case of me. I am off to-morrow to join my regiment, and from what I can hear, the regiment is off in two or three days. I don't know exactly what my duties will be; but there it is, I am off."

"What will your father say?" I asked.

"That is what I have come to see you about. I never realized until I had done it what the pater would say. You know I am fond of him, even although we have never got on well together. He has never understood me, and I am afraid I have never understood him – there is no link of sympathy between us; but then, you know, he is my pater after all. Yes, I have joined; but that is not all, Erskine."

"Not all?" I queried. "What is there besides?"

"I have been and got married," was his reply.

"Got married!"

"Yes. I expect it was a mad thing to do, but I could not help myself. You don't know what it is to be in love, Erskine, and I could not bear the idea of leaving Mary without knowing she was my wife."

"And, of course, your father knows nothing about that either?"

"No, he knows nothing. You see, I got married by special license. I was afraid to tell the pater what was in my mind, – afraid he would interfere somehow and stop me, – so I thought I would do it first and tell him afterwards."

Our conversation was not nearly so connected and straightforward as I have described it here. What he said was uttered in quick, disjointed sentences. Sometimes he would break off in the middle of what he was saying, and talk about something else. That he was greatly excited was easy to see. It was evident, too, that his duty towards his father troubled him greatly.

"I don't mind mother," he said; "she will be all right – mother understands me. Of course, Bella and I laugh at her, and all that sort of thing, because she is always making plans for us, and mapping out our day's program, and telling us what we ought to do. We call her the general manager; but she is a good sort is mother, and she understands us, too. But the pater is different. Somehow, he cannot understand us, and we cannot understand him. I suppose, in a way, he is just, and in many things he is generous to me, but in others – Well, there it is. I wondered what I ought to do. At first I thought I would go away without telling him anything, but that would be acting like a sneak. Mind you, Erskine, I would not undo anything I have done. If ever a man had a call to serve his country, I have, and I think it is a splendid piece of luck that I can be useful at a time like this, without going through the training of an ordinary soldier. I jumped at the chance of going to the front straight away; but then, there was Mary. How could I leave her without being sure that I had her? I was afraid the pater would take steps to hinder me from ever getting her. You have some idea what he is – and I was afraid. Besides, she was willing, and so I – I – God forgive me if I have done wrong, Erskine, but I could not help it."

"Well, what can I do to help you?" I asked.

"There it is, and that is why I have come to-night. I have always had the reputation of having a fair amount of pluck; I do not fear death a bit, and I haven't a single qualm about going to the front; but it's the pater, you see."

"What about your father?" I asked.

"I am afraid to tell him, Erskine. I simply dare not go home and tell him what I have done."

"Nonsense!" I said; "he cannot eat you; you have done nothing to be ashamed of. For that matter you have done what thousands of other fellows have done. You have joined the Army at the call of your King and Country, and it was the right thing to do. I would to God that I were able to do it too!"

"Would you, Erskine?" he cried eagerly. "You think I have done right, then?"

"I think you should have gone to your father first and asked for his consent. Then, if he would not give it, I think you, being of age, and feeling it your duty, should go in spite of him."

"But he would not have consented."

"Exactly; still, you should have asked him. As for getting married – "

"Yes, yes, what about that?" and he looked towards me feverishly.

"Well," I said, "hundreds of fellows are doing it. I have seen scores of such cases in the newspapers. Hurried marriages have been arranged by young fellows going to the front."

"Yes, but, you see, they have been different. They have been married with their father's blessing, and all that sort of thing; but I, I am afraid to go and tell him, Erskine, unless – "

"Unless what?" I asked.

"The pater thinks no end of you," he said excitedly. "He doesn't say much, but I can see it. You see, you promised to do well at the Bar, and he thinks you are clever, and all that sort of thing. Of course he hasn't said much to you, but I know it."

"Well, what if he does?" I asked.

"Look here, Erskine, that is what I came for. Will you come with me? If you are with me, I believe I can tell him. I have got the car outside, and I can run you up in five minutes."

Although I ought to have seen what was in his mind all the time, his request came almost as a shock to me. Josiah Lethbridge was almost a stranger to me. It is true I had been to his house twice, and had met him on two other occasions, but he was not a man to whom one could speak freely. At least I thought so. As I have intimated before, he was a strong, capable man, and, like many of his class, was overbearing, almost repellent. He had risen from a poor lad by his own energy and determination and ability. He had swept difficulties out of his path. He had succeeded because he had made others yield to his stronger will. All these things had left their mark upon him. He could not bear opposition, and he took it as a personal grievance when others did not fall in with his way of thinking. I knew, too, his thoughts and desires with regard to his son, knew how he hated militarism, knew how ambitious he was that Hugh, his only son, should take a high place, not only in the county but in the nation. Therefore, when he was told that Hugh had not only joined the Army as a common soldier, but had married, against his will, a small tenant farmer's daughter, his anger would know no bounds.

Besides, what had it to do with me? I had known none of them before I came to Cornwall, less than three months before. Why should I be dragged into this imbroglio? Then I looked at Hugh Lethbridge's face, saw the quiver of his lips, saw the eager look in his eye. Although I had known him only a few weeks, I had conceived a strong affection for him, and, in spite of myself, could not help sympathizing with him.

"Will you help me?" he said pleadingly.

I nodded.

"You will come with me now and see the pater?"

"If you wish it."

"Thank you, my dear chap," and his voice became husky as he spoke.

A few minutes later we stood at the door of Josiah Lethbridge's house.

XIII
FATHER AND SON

I think Isabella Lethbridge must have realized that something out of the ordinary had brought me there that night, for when she met me in the hall there was a look of inquiry on her face. Still, she greeted me kindly, almost eagerly.

"It is good of you to come up with Hugh. Father is in the library alone," she said, "and mother and I have sat for more than an hour without speaking. Come in, will you?"

"I am afraid I can't," I said. "I have come to see Mr. Lethbridge."

Again she looked at me inquiringly, and I was sure, as her glance passed from myself to Hugh, that she divined something of our purpose.

"You said the pater was in the library, Bella?" said Hugh.

"Yes," was her reply. "Some man came up to see him directly after dinner, and has only just left. I fancy he has had some unpleasantness about business."

Hugh, whose mouth had now become firm and determined, went to the library door and knocked.

"Yes, come in."

I followed Hugh Lethbridge into the room, while he carefully shut the door. The older man looked at us inquiringly.

"Won't you sit down?" he said to me, nodding towards a chair; but I could see that he hardly knew what he was saying. His eyes were riveted on Hugh's face, as if he would read his inmost soul. Even then I could not help being impressed by the young fellow's behavior, nor, for that matter, by his general appearance. For Hugh Lethbridge was one of the finest specimens of British young manhood I have ever met. Quite a boy in appearance, he was tall, well knit, and muscular. He had an open, frank countenance, sparkling blue eyes, and brown, wavy hair. He stood before his father firm and erect. His every movement belied the statement that he was afraid. There was no suggestion of fear in his presence, except for the fact that once he looked towards me, as if to be certain that I was there, near to him. Then, without preamble, and without seeking to excuse himself in any way, he burst forth with the news.

"Pater," he said, "I have joined the Army – and – and I have married Mary Treleaven."

The two sentences came like two pistol-shots. He had evidently determined to waste no time or words.

His father did not speak a word for some time. At first he looked at his son, as though he did not comprehend him, and then, when the truth came to him, felt stunned. I watched his face closely, as Hugh spoke, and for a moment could not help pitying him. I realized the pride of the man, realized, too, all the plans he had made, and understood something of what he felt when he saw that the structure he had built up was levelled to the ground like a house of cards.

At first I thought he was going to lose control over himself. I saw anger flash from his eyes, saw his face harden. Perhaps, had I not been there, he would have yielded to the passion of the moment; but he was a proud man, and would not willingly place himself in a ridiculous position. It was evident, too, that two forces were fighting in his heart. One was love for his boy; for doubtless, in his way, Hugh was very dear to him. He was his only son, and, as he had hoped, heir to his possessions. On the other hand, he could not bear opposition, and would not yield an inch in the pathway which he had chosen to tread.

The silence was almost painful. After Hugh had blurted out his confession, he seemed like one incapable of speech, as his eyes were riveted on his father's face. Neither did he feel that there was anything for him to say. I had told Hugh, on my way up to the house, that he must not expect me to plead for him. It was not my business to interfere between father and son. Indeed, I felt like an intruder all through the painful interview. As for Josiah Lethbridge, he sat in the leather-covered library chair, close by his writing-desk, motionless, for what seemed an interminable time. Then, as if by force of habit, he took a pen, and began to draw grotesque figures on the blotting-pad. He was evidently thinking deeply. Outside the night was windless, and no sound reached us save that of the roll of the waves upon a distant beach.

"Dad," burst out Hugh at length, "have you nothing to say?"

The older man moved in his chair slowly, and as if with difficulty.

"What is there to say?" and his voice was hard and cold.

"Well, I thought that – that – " And then Hugh broke down.

"What is there to say?" repeated Josiah Lethbridge in the same cold, even voice. "You know what my views are, you know what my wishes are. I have told you more than once my plans about you; but it seems that you thought yourself wiser than I. Or perhaps," he added, "you do not care about my wishes. That is why you have gone and married a penniless girl who can never be anything but a drag to you – married her, too, senselessly, madly, without a shadow of reason for doing it."

I saw then that the thing which had wounded him most deeply was not the fact that his son had joined the Army, but that he had married a poor village girl – married her in spite of his wishes, in spite of his positive command.

"You have acted in a very honorable way, too, haven't you?" he sneered. "Knowing what my feelings are in the matter, you take the irrevocable step first, and then come and tell me afterwards."

"But, dad, don't you see?" and Hugh spoke excitedly. "Yes, I ought to have spoken to you first, perhaps; but then I knew you would not give your consent, and – and I could not bear to lose her. You see, I – I love her!"

"Love her!" and Josiah Lethbridge spoke contemptuously.

"Yes, love her," cried the young fellow hotly. "I have loved her for years."

"A common village girl!" burst forth the father.

"She is not common," replied the son. "A purer, better girl never breathed. No one has ever dared to raise a breath against her. She is well educated, too, and every one respects her."

It was evident the father's contempt aroused the lad's anger. He had no difficulty in speaking now. Mary Treleaven had to be defended, and he no longer stammered in his speech; words came easily.

"I say she is a pure girl and a good girl," he continued almost angrily, "and I love her."

I thought for the moment that Josiah Lethbridge would have lost self-control here, and have burst forth in a tirade of abuse; but still he kept command over himself, and, although his lips quivered, he spoke quietly.

"Pardon me if I doubt your love," he said. "May I ask what you intend doing with her? If a man loves a woman, he should at least have some prospect of keeping her decently before he marries her."

At this Hugh was silent. The father had, by his question, pierced the weak place in Hugh's armor.

"If you think," went on Josiah Lethbridge, "that I am going to do anything for her, or you, you are mistaken. You have chosen your own way; you must follow it. I had intended another future for you, but my intentions do not seem to count. I think there is nothing more to say," and he moved in his chair as though the interview were at an end. Then, as if on second thoughts, he turned to me and said quietly:

"I do not see why you should have been dragged into this, Mr. Erskine; but I suppose you had your own reason for coming."

I felt he had placed me in a wrong position, and for a moment was at a loss how to answer him. Indeed, I felt I had made a mistake in coming, and I was almost sorry I had yielded to Hugh's entreaty.

"He came," stammered Hugh, "because I – I begged him to. I was a coward, and I – I thought you would b – be more reasonable to me if he came."

"Have I ever been anything but reasonable to you, Hugh?" asked the father. "Of course, to one like yourself, who will not listen to reason, I suppose my words have seemed harsh and arbitrary. I am an older man than you, and therefore think my way is best. Besides – But we will not speak of that. Surely, however, Mr. Erskine did not come here with the intention of condoning your action."

"I am sorry if my presence here is unwelcome," I said. "All the same – "

"Excuse my interrupting," said Josiah Lethbridge. "Did you know of my son's intention? Were you aware of his mad plans?"

"No, dad," burst in Hugh; "Erskine knew nothing. He was as surprised as you when, an hour ago, I went and told him. The truth is, dad, that you and I have never got on well together. You seem to have forgotten that you were ever a young man, and had a young man's feelings and thoughts – seem to have forgotten that you were ever in love. You have always treated me, even since I have reached a man's age, as though I were never to have a will of my own, or to think of disagreeing with you. I feared you as a child, and – and up to to-night I feared you still. That was why I asked Mr. Erskine to come with me while I made my confession."

"Did you think," asked Mr. Lethbridge, "that he would influence me in any way?"

"I don't know what I thought," replied Hugh; "but Erskine told me that you ought to know – that I ought to come and tell you everything; and I have come, and I have told you."

"Very well. That is all, I suppose?" and still the older man spoke in the same calm, measured tones. "You, I imagine, think you have done a very romantic and heroic thing. On the other hand, I feel that my only son has disgraced me."

"Disgraced you?"

"Yes, disgraced me. Every one in the county who knows me will point at me as one whose son married against his father's wishes – married without a penny – married like one who is ashamed of his action. Well, I imagine I can bear it."

"Is that all you have to say, dad?"

"I cannot see what there is to say besides. You have followed your own devices, and you must take the consequences."

"I think it may be as well to remember, Mr. Lethbridge," I said, "that, whether your son has acted wisely or foolishly, he can claim the credit of being sincere and honest. There is nothing ignoble in a young fellow marrying the girl he loves. As for his joining the Army, it is what every young man ought to do at a time like this."

"Pardon me, Mr. Erskine, if I have my own opinions about my son's actions. No doubt the old-fashioned ideas which were instilled into my mind as a boy are regarded as out of date. I was taught to believe in the Commandment, 'Honor thy father and thy mother.' That Commandment, in the present generation, is discarded; but I do not think the present generation, or future generations, will be any the better because they have discarded it. As for his joining the Army, he certainly knows my views about that."

"But surely you will give him credit for being conscientious and sincere?"

Josiah Lethbridge looked down at the blotting-paper upon which he had been tracing grotesque figures without speaking. He seemed to imagine that my question did not call for a reply.

"Hugh tells me that in all probability he will have to go to the front shortly," I went on. "It may be – although I sincerely trust he will come back in safety – he will never come back again. That being so, it is natural to hope that his father will say a kind word before he goes. After all, your son is doing the noblest thing of which he is capable: he is offering his life to his country."

"Pardon me, Mr. Erskine," replied Josiah Lethbridge, "but perhaps I may be forgiven if I hold different views from your own. I am a plain man, and as a rule do not waste words. When a son of mine deliberately flouts the deepest convictions of his father's life; when he deliberately defies and does what his father has commanded him not to do; when he tramples underfoot his father's deepest convictions – then, I say, he is no longer a son of mine; henceforth he is a stranger to my house."

I was staggered at this. I had quite expected anger – denunciation, perhaps – but not this cold, cruel treatment.

"You cannot mean that, sir?" I said.

"I am not in the habit of saying what I do not mean, and I do not speak hastily. Your presence here, Mr. Erskine, may have given my brave son the courage to speak to his father, although I have my own opinion about your good taste in coming here to support him; but it doesn't alter my opinions and determinations in the slightest degree, and I presume that, since he has chosen to defy me, he has made his own plans for the future. Anyhow, I have no more to do with him."

"Dad, you don't mean that!" and Hugh's voice was hoarse and trembling.

"I do not think I need detain you any longer," and Josiah Lethbridge rose from his chair as he spoke. "I have many things to attend to."

Perhaps I was foolish, but I could not bear the idea of the young fellow being turned out of his home without making protest. I knew it was no business of mine, and that I was taking an unpardonable liberty in interfering in any way, but I could not help myself.

"Mr. Lethbridge," I said, "you will live to repent this. That your son may have been foolish in making a hurried marriage I do not deny; but that he has done wrong in joining the Army at such a time as this I do deny, and it seems to me that no father should treat his son as you are treating yours. He, at least, is offering his life, while you, without a thought of sacrifice and without care for your country's need, coldly turn him out of the house."

"Sacrifice!" and for the first time there was a touch of passion in his voice. "We are dragged into this ghastly war through the bungling of our statesmen; we are made the puppets and playthings of political hacks!" he cried. "The whole country is being dragged to ruin because of the mad bungling of those at the head of affairs, and then, because some of us are sane and do not wish to see the country bled to death, we are told that we are making no sacrifice. Sacrifice! I have within the last week lost a fortune through this madness. My business will be ruined; we shall be all bled white with taxation; England will never be the same again; and my own son – or he who was my son," he added in bitter parenthesis – "offers himself as a legalized murderer! And then you talk about sacrifice! But remember this," he added, looking towards Hugh, "it will be no use your coming to me in days to come, or expecting help in any way. I wash my hands of your whole future. As you have made your bed, so you must lie on it."

Hugh Lethbridge stood in the middle of the room, looking at his father in a dazed kind of way, as though he had failed to comprehend his words.

"You – you surely don't mean that, dad!"

Josiah Lethbridge stood, resting one hand on the back of his chair, his face hard and immovable, no word passing his lips.

"Good-bye, dad," and Hugh held out his hand. The father did not seem to notice it. He stood perfectly still, with the same hard look on his face. Hugh passed out of the room, leaving me alone with the angry man.

"Good-night, sir," I said. "I am sorry, and some day you will be."

He hesitated a second, as if in doubt whether to speak, then he looked at me more kindly.

"Mr. Erskine," he said, "doubtless you do not approve of my actions, but my convictions are not of yesterday."

"I hope, when you have considered, you will act differently," was my reply. "Your son may have all the foolishness of a boy, but he is a lad of whom any father ought to be proud."

Mr. Lethbridge did not speak a word for some seconds, then he said, half apologetically:

"I am afraid, Mr. Erskine, that I have been very rude to you. I remember that you are a guest in my house, and I am afraid that, in my disappointment, I have broken the laws of hospitality. I shall always be pleased to see you here, when you care to call."

"Thank you," I replied, "but I am afraid I cannot accept the hospitality which you offer. The man who closes his door to such a son as yours, and for such a reason, forfeits all right to respect. I am told you claim to be a religious man, but I will not speak of that." And I, too, passed out of the room.

I had scarcely closed the door behind me when I saw Isabella Lethbridge standing in the hall.

"Hugh has gone in to see mother," she said. "Please tell me what has happened."

"I have no right to do that, Miss Lethbridge," was my reply. "Good-night."

I went to the door and opened it, regardless of what she might think of me. It seemed to me that I could not breathe in the house; the atmosphere was stifling, and the memory of the look I had seen on Hugh's face made me so angry that I could not trust myself.