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  The Passion for Life

  By JOSEPH HOCKING

  _Author of "A Flame of Fire," "The Chariots of the Lord," "All for a Scrap of Paper," "Dearer Than Life," etc._

  NEW YORK CHICAGO

  Fleming H. Revell Company

  LONDON AND EDINBURGH

  "Yes. I have an intense desire to live.... A passion forlife."]

  Contents

  I. THE DOCTOR'S SENTENCE 7

  II. MY NEW HOME 18

  III. THE CHURCHES' ANSWER 28

  IV. THREE VISITORS 46

  V. AN EMERGING MYSTERY 59

  VI. THE LETHBRIDGE FAMILY 65

  VII. ISABELLA LETHBRIDGE 81

  VIII. MYSTERY 95

  IX. AT THE VICARAGE 105

  X. WIRELESS TELEGRAPHY 118

  XI. MARY TRELEAVEN 131

  XII. FIRST DAYS OF THE WAR 142

  XIII. FATHER AND SON 156

  XIV. THE RECRUITING MEETING 166

  XV. HOW THE CHANGE BEGAN 179

  XVI. NEWS FROM HUGH 192

  XVII. THE PHANTOM BOATS 203

  XVIII. FATHER ABRAHAM 213

  XIX. GOD ANSWERED OUT OF THE WHIRLWIND 224

  XX. THE VICAR'S SERMON 240

  XXI. MISSING--DEAD 252

  XXII. A DISCOVERY 263

  XXIII. A CLUE TO THE MYSTERY 276

  XXIV. PREPARATION 287

  XXV. PREMONITIONS 299

  XXVI. MIDNIGHT 308

  XXVII. VISION 323

  XXVIII. THE NEW LIFE 331

  XXIX. CHRISTMAS, 1915 344

  I

  THE DOCTOR'S SENTENCE

  I am in a restless mood to-night. There seems nothing to explain this,except that perhaps I am growing tired of the life I am leading, or itmay be that there are influences at work of which I have no cognizance,but which affect my nerves. As I look out of my window I can seestorm-clouds driven across the wild sky, while distant lights on theheaving sea are suggestive of mystery. The wind howls around my littlewooden tenement, while above the roaring of the waves I can hear thedismal screech of the sea-birds, which, for some reason or other, haveleft their rocky resting-places. I do not know why it is, but the cry ofthe sea-birds is always suggestive of the wail of lost souls as they flythrough the infinite spaces.

  I did not mean to begin this way at all, for I want, as far as I can, toput all sad thoughts behind me.

  Let me begin again then, and, if possible, strike a more cheerful note.I want something to interest me, and it has struck me that if duringthese long, dark evenings when I have to be alone I can place on recordsome of the events which have taken place since I have drifted to thispart of the country, I shall be able not only to forget the shadow whichhangs over my life, but to see streaks of blue sky amidst thestorm-clouds, and to catch the bright rays of the sun which areconstantly shining, even although the world says that we are living in adark time.

  But I am writing this also because, as it seems to me, the happenings ofthe last few months are of sufficient importance to record. Evenalthough I were sure no one would read what I am going to write, Ishould still go on writing. Some one has said, I do not know who, thatthe life of a village is the life of a nation in miniature; and evenalthough that may contain only a suggestion of the truth, certain am Ithat if I can faithfully record the events which have taken place in thelittle village of St. Issey, I shall have written something of thehistory of the great world outside.

  Now that I have started writing, however, I immediately realize that, ifI am to make my narrative comprehensible, I shall have to give some kindof personal explanation. Who am I, where am I, and why am I here? Ipromised just now that I would, as far as possible, avoid the sad thingsof life and dwell on the sunshine rather than on the shadow. But whyshould I? Life is made up of sunshine and shadow, and no one can give afaithful account of life without dwelling on both. Besides, what are thethings we call sorrow and joy but contrasts? And life without contrastswould be unbearable. I will tell my story just as it is, then: its lightand its shade; its hope and its despair.

  * * * * *

  "Simpson," I said to my one servant and factotum, who has been with mefor several years, and whom I regard more in the light of a friend andcounsellor than as a paid hireling, "the doctor tells me that I have atmost a year to live."

  I was sitting in my chambers in London as I mentioned this interestingpiece of information. Simpson had just placed my coffee and bacon beforeme. He stopped suddenly as I spoke, as though the news had startled him.Then he went on with his work.

  "I beg your pardon, sir."

  I repeated the information.

  "The doctor tells me I have at most a year to live. I may not last solong. Possibly a month will see the end of me."

  I thought Simpson's hand trembled, but he repeated the formula which hadalmost become second nature to him:

  "Yes, sir; thank you, sir," he said.

  "I have been thinking, Simpson," I went on, "that as I have but such ashort time before me in this world I may as well spend it comfortablyand in a congenial place; indeed, the doctor insists that I should."

  "Yes, sir; thank you, sir. Is there anything more you want, sir?"

  "Simpson," I said, "you don't appear to believe I am serious. I amsimply telling you what Dr. Rhomboid told me last night. By the way, howdid he ever get the name of Rhomboid? A rhomboid has something to dowith mathematics, hasn't it?"

  To this Simpson made no reply.

  "How long did you say, sir, that the doctor gave you?" he askedpresently.

  He seemed by this time to have quite recovered himself.

  "He is of opinion that a year at the outside will see the end of me,"was my reply, "but it may be that I shall only last a month or two.There is something wrong with my inside. He gave it some sort of a name,but I won't try to repeat it. I might pronounce it wrongly. But why doyou ask?"

  "Well, sir, you have got an important case on, and I heard that it wouldlast a long time. It would be a pity if you didn't live to see the endof it."

  "I shall have to drop the case, Simpson," I said.

  "What, Mr. Francis, drop the case? That would be a terrible pity, andyou having had to wait so long for cases, too."

  "You seem more interested in the case than in the tenure of myexistence, Simpson," was my response.

  "Yes, sir; thank you, sir," replied Simpson, after hesitating someseconds.

  "How long have you been with me, Simpson?" I asked.

  "Ever since you went to Oxford, sir--eleven years ago last October."

  "That is a long time, Simpson."

  "Yes, Mr. Francis. Your father--that is, Mr. Erskine--made me promisethat I would stick to you. That was before he died, sir."

  I may here remark that my father, John Erskine, died just as I leftWinchester. He did not make any fuss about dying. He si
mply called me tohis side and said, "Frank, I have sent you to a good school, and youhave done very well. I have left you enough money to go to Oxford, whereI want you to take a good law degree. After that, I want you to read forthe Bar, and, if possible, rise to be Lord Chancellor. There will not bevery much money left when you finish at Oxford--something over athousand pounds, I believe; but that should last you until your briefsbegin to come in. Simpson, our old servant, will go with you. I thinkthat is all, my boy."

  The next day my father died, and I, as arranged, took Simpson to Oxfordwith me. Simpson is not very handsome, but he is a very valuable friend,and in his way has glimmerings of sense.

  I toyed with my breakfast, for although I spoke calmly enough about it,I was not altogether pleased at the idea of dying so soon. After all, Iwas only just thirty, and, as Simpson had said, the briefs had only justbegun to come in.

  "I beg your pardon, Mr. Francis, but will you be leaving London soon?"

  "I have decided to leave at once," I replied, "but the question with meis, Where shall I go? I have been thinking a good deal about it duringthe night, and I cannot decide. Where would you suggest?"

  "Well, Mr. Francis," replied Simpson, "if you will forgive me for makinga suggestion, sir, I should say that, as yours is a Cornish family,Cornwall would be a suitable place to----"

  Here he stopped, and seemed in a difficulty as to how he should concludethe sentence.

  "That is, sir," he went on, "would it not be appropriate?"

  "Exactly," was my answer. "Cornwall it shall be, then; but I don't knowCornwall, although, as you say, I am of Cornish stock. You are alsoCornish, Simpson?"

  "Yes, sir; thank you, sir."

  "I have been looking through my accounts," I went on, "and I find thatby economy I can manage to pay my way for about a year. That fits inexactly, as you see; but I am afraid it won't include you, Simpson. Youhave rather a good appetite."

  "My appetite can depend very much on the state of your funds, Mr.Francis," he replied.

  "That means you are inclined to go with me?"

  "Certainly, sir; I could not think of leaving you alone."

  I confess that I was somewhat relieved at this, because, although Idetermined to put a brave face upon everything, the thought of spendingmy last days alone was not pleasant.

  "That is awfully good of you, Simpson," I remarked, "but if you comewith me, although, as you say, your appetite can be regulated, we shallhave to be careful. I like your idea of going to Cornwall, but I don'tknow what part of the Delectable Duchy to go to. The doctor suggeststhat, in order to extend my existence as long as possible, I ought to goto some spot where the air is warm, yet bracing; that I must have noexcitement, but at the same time must have interesting and pleasantcompanionship; that, while I ought to be out of the world, I must at thesame time be in it. This fellow with a mathematical name seems to beintensely unreasonable."

  "Excuse me, sir, but could you give me a short holiday?" asked Simpson.

  "For how long?"

  "Say four days, sir. I will arrange for you to be well cared for while Iam gone, sir."

  I didn't ask Simpson why he wished to go away, or where he was going. Iam afraid at that moment I hadn't sufficient interest to inquire. Ofcourse, I gave my consent, and that same day Simpson packed up his bagand left me. Here was I, then, Francis Erskine, aged thirty,barrister-at-law, member of the Inner Temple, who, a week before, hadgood prospects, alone, with my death-warrant signed. I hadn't felt verywell for some time, but had paid no heed to my ailments. For the pasttwelve months I had been, for a young barrister, very busy. It sohappened that I had been engaged upon a case which appeared hopeless.All my brothers at the Bar declared that my client had not the ghost ofa chance, and then, by what people called a stroke of genius on my part,but which was really a pure fluke, I carried off the thing triumphantly.From that time briefs came in fairly rapidly, and I was more than oncereferred to as a rising young man of brilliant parts. Then came thedoctor's verdict, and there was an end to everything.

  What I did during Simpson's absence I cannot remember. I tried to take aphilosophical view of the situation, and although the disease from whichI suffered was, the doctor declared, past all cure, and had made greatravages upon my constitution, I went about as usual. After all, what wasthe use of bothering about death?

  At the end of four days Simpson came back. I thought he appearedsomewhat excited, but his manner was quiet and respectful as usual.

  "Enjoyed your holiday, Simpson?" I asked.

  "Yes, sir; thank you, sir. When will you be ready to start, sir?"

  "My tenancy of these chambers expires in three days, Simpson."

  "I hope Mrs. Blandy looked after you all right while I was away, sir?"

  "I really don't remember," was my reply. "I dare say."

  "Could you start to-morrow morning, sir? I can get everything ready bythat time."

  "Where are we going, Simpson?" I asked.

  He looked at me as if in surprise.

  "To Cornwall, sir."

  "You have made arrangements for me, then?"

  "Yes, sir; thank you, sir."

  I did not ask him any further questions. I did not think it worth while.After all, when one came to reflect, nothing was worth while. If Simpsonhad suggested the Highlands of Scotland or the Flats of Essex, I shouldhave made no demur. On the whole, however, I was pleased that we weregoing to Cornwall. Both my father and mother were Cornish people, andalthough I had never visited the country, it seemed less disagreeable tome to go there and spend my few remaining days than to any other place.I knew that Cornwall was a narrow strip of land at the extreme west ofthe country, and I had heard vague reports about the fine coast-line andbeautiful air, but, beyond that, very little.

  "Perhaps, sir," said Simpson, "we had better put off our journey untilthe day after to-morrow."

  "Why?" I asked.

  "You will want to say good-bye to your friends, won't you, sir?"

  "I think I have a remembrance of doing that, Simpson," I replied.

  "You have a lot of friends here, haven't you? Excuse me for asking,sir."

  "I have a lot of acquaintances, Simpson," I replied, "but only twofriends--Bill Tremain and Tom Esmond. The rest don't count. I should notbe surprised if they came to see me when I am in Cornwall--that is, iftheir wives will allow them. Have you ever reflected, Simpson, thatmarriage is a tremendous hindrance to friendship? Wives always make itdifficult."

  "Excuse me, sir, but what a pity it is you have not got a wife."

  "I have never regarded the matter in that light, Simpson. Why do you sayso?"

  "Women always save a man from brooding. They never give him a chance ofbeing quiet, sir," and Simpson shook his head impressively.

  "You speak as one having authority. Have you ever been married?"

  "Yes, sir," replied Simpson.

  "I didn't know that. Why have you never told me? How long were youmarried?"

  "Two years, sir. I never talk about those two years, but I shall neverforget them."

  I asked Simpson several questions, but his replies did not contain muchinformation.

  "You don't seem to be very communicative with regard to your marriedlife."

  "There's nothing to say, sir, besides what I told you. Women save a manfrom brooding. You see, sir, they don't give him time to brood. I havenever noticed that you have paid much attention to young ladies."

  "Not very much," I replied. "I don't seem to have had time. I havealways been too busy with my work."

  "If you had married, sir--at least, if you had married the woman Idid--you would never have had any time for your work."

  Next morning I found that all my bags were packed, while a taxi stood atthe door. I made no inquiries as to Simpson's intentions or plans. Whenhe went to the booking-office at Paddington I did not even ask him thename of the station for which he was booking. I remember entering afirst-class carriage, where Simpson made me as comfortable as possible,after which I saw him
talking to the guard, and heard him tell thatworthy official that I must not be disturbed if it could possibly behelped.

  Of my journey to Cornwall I remember practically nothing. I think Islept a great part of the distance. Towards evening we stopped at alittle wayside station, where Simpson appeared and told me I was toalight.

  "Have we come to our journey's end?" I asked.

  "To the end of the railway journey," was his reply.

  "I seem to smell the sea, Simpson," I said.

  "Yes, sir, we are close to the sea."

  He led the way to the station-yard, where a carriage stood, evidentlywaiting for me. This I entered, while Simpson, after attending to theluggage, and expressing the hope that he was not inconveniencing me,took his seat by my side. Once in the carriage I began to take moreinterest in my surroundings. I saw that we were in a beautifully woodedcountry, while away in the distance rose giant hills and rocky tors. Iheard the roll of the waves, too, while the air was like somelife-giving elixir. Presently we entered a village, which nestled amongthe trees.

  "Simpson," I asked, "what is the name of this village?"

  "This is St. Issey, sir."

  "It is a very pretty place."

  "Yes, sir; thank you, sir."

  I saw a number of cottages, built in higgledy-piggledy fashion, eachsurrounded by its own garden. I saw the villagers standing gossipingwith each other, heard the laughter of little children as they played inthe lane, smelt the sweetness and purity of the air. After all, it wasgood to live.

  "Is there no hotel here?" I asked.

  "No, sir; no hotel, sir."

  I did not ask him where we were going, or how I was to be accommodated.After all, it was not worth while. One place was as good as another. Wepassed some lodge gates, which evidently appertained to a big house, andI noted the great granite pillars and the heavy palisading.

  "The Squire of the parish lives there, I suppose?"

  "Yes, sir, Squire Treherne. That, sir," pointing to acomfortable-looking house which stood back from the road, "is theVicarage. Mr. Trelaske lives there. And that, sir, is the WesleyanChapel. I am of the Wesleyan persuasion myself--at least, I was when Iwas a boy."

  "That is a long time ago, Simpson."

  "I am fifty-five, sir, but it doesn't seem long since I was a boy--thatis, except for those two years when I was married; those seem verylong."

  Simpson's face looked so comical that I could not help laughing. It wasthe first time I had laughed since my interview with the doctor.

  We passed by a great square tower and a low, many-gabled church, withthe churchyard around it. I turned my eyes away. The place was notpleasant to me. Presently we began to descend a steep hill, and thesound of the waves rolling upon a hard and sandy beach became more andmore clear. The carriage entered a narrow lane, which ended in a kind ofcopse close to a rugged cliff. A little later I saw, built within a fewfeet from the edge of the cliff, a wooden house. At the back of it asteep and almost precipitous piece of country, covered with brushwood,rose skyward. In front was the Atlantic. The house was in a bay lookingtowards the sea. The cliffs on the right side were not very high, but onthe left they rose up almost perpendicular, rugged and imposing. Inoticed that the rocks of which the cliffs were composed were in oneplace discolored, and I pointed it out.

  "Yes, sir," replied Simpson. "When I was a boy there was a copper-minehere. There's a level under the hill now--at least, I believe so, sir.This is the house I have settled on, sir."

  I alighted from the carriage and looked more closely at what was to bemy future dwelling. As I have said, it was a wooden erection, and wasevidently built with some care. All along the front was a veranda, thefloor of which was roughly paved with granite slabs. The few yards ofland between the veranda and the edge of the cliff had been cultivated,and flowers grew in wild profusion. At the back of the house many kindsof wild flowers bloomed. In the near distance, on the top of the cliffs,the land was covered with furze bushes and heather. I stood and took adeep breath and listened while the waves rolled on the golden sandhundreds of feet down.

  "Won't you come into the house, sir?" asked Simpson. "I have paid thedriver, and there is a man coming along with the luggage in a cart."

  "Not yet," I replied. "I want to take my fill of this. This iswonderful--simply wonderful. I want to live."

  Simpson stood watching me. I thought I saw his lips tremble.