He left the room as he spoke, while Hugh Lethbridge looked meaningly towards his sister.
"I am afraid I shall have to be going," I said, looking at my watch. "I have 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 been saying to-night. We live a starved, narrow life down here, and – and I'm sick of it. I almost wish war would break out."
"For shame, Hugh!" said his mother. "What good would you be as a soldier? No one can be an officer in an army unless he is trained; and as for your becoming a private, why, think how ridiculous you would look in 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 rather walk."
"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 his intention of accompanying me.
When Mr. Lethbridge bade me good-night he had quite recovered his equanimity, and expressed the hope that I would soon come to see them again.
"I feel like a toad in a hole," said Hugh, after we had walked some minutes in silence together.
"How is that?" I asked.
"What has life to offer a fellow? The pater insisted upon my going to the University and reading for the Bar. I am not fit for it – I know I am not fit. Then, although he pretends to be a man of the people, he is also socially ambitious. You would not believe it, would you? I know it is wrong for me to talk in this way, but somehow I cannot help it. You know, Erskine, as my father said just now, he was a poor man, and made money rapidly, and he is disappointed that the doors of the county people are not open to us. I do not care a fig about the county people myself; 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 something which means a lot to me."
"Do you think you know me well enough to tell me?" I replied. "After all, 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 tell his 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 heard of 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 poor as a church mouse, is the Squire; but then, he is one of the big people in 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. You see, she's thirty, if she's a day, and as ugly as they make 'em, and the pater wants me to sell my soul and marry her. By so doing, old Treherne would 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 to marry 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 love with 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. "A sweeter girl never lived. I used to think of her as a sweetheart ten years ago, when the pater was poorer than he is now. I fought several boys about her. Mary Treleaven is her name. Do you think that you could persuade 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 anything about the girl you will make yourself independent of your father."
"Yes, but what am I fit for – what can I do? He professes to have democratic notions, and yet he has given me the education of a gentleman; sent me to a public school, where no one learns anything of any use, and then to Oxford, where I just scraped through, and got a pass degree. What is the good of all that to me? There is not a single thing 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 little about either of you. Perhaps when I have been here a little longer I may be able to help." By this time we had reached the little wooded lane which 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 the gnawing pain which I could feel just then – pain which told me that my very 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 he pointed towards the highest part of the cliff, the base of which pushed itself out into the sea. I looked, and in the dim light saw what I felt sure 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 his answer. "Besides, the boat is making directly for us. No one was ever known to land a fishing-boat on this beach. Fishing-boats go direct to the harbor at St. Eia."
We listened intently, and heard the steady splash of the oars, and presently I thought I heard low, murmuring voices, but I was not sure.
VII
ISABELLA LETHBRIDGE
During the next few days nothing happened, and, if the truth must be told, I am afraid I got very lonely and depressed. Simpson did his best to interest me, but failed. My books, too, seemed dull and colorless. I suppose it was natural. I was passing through a phase in my life which was the inevitable consequence of what had hitherto taken place. The malady from which I was suffering was taking rather an acute form just then, and I had neither the strength nor inclination for exercise. Thus, although the weather was glorious and the air pure and bracing, I found that sitting day after day amid the same surroundings was anything but exhilarating. Moreover, although I cannot explain it, a sense of dread possessed me. I felt sure that something was going to happen, and that I was going to be at the centre of some untoward event.
I expect I felt all the more irritable because my desire to live became stronger and stronger. It appeared to me that I had nothing to live for, and yet I hung on to life, and the hope of life, grimly.
"Simpson," I said one day, "you told me when we came here that an idiot lad, who went by the name of Fever Lurgy, waited on old Father Abraham and did his errands. What has become of him?"
"Don't know, sir."
"Does no one know?"
"Don't know at all, sir."
"It