The Passion for Life Part 54

"Would to G.o.d I had a son like him! I tell you, Erskine, I would not have minded losing my estate so much if I knew that he was coming into it. But there, I have told you what I came to tell you. I thought you would like to know. It is a miracle, nothing less than a miracle. He has made me ashamed of myself. Here have I for years been going around thinking hard thoughts and saying hard things about Josiah Lethbridge, and now I feel as though I had been a mean, contemptible sneak. I have scorned him because he is a Dissenter, I have said hard things about people who are not of my way of thinking. I say, G.o.d Almighty is giving us a shaking up, and showing us what blind fools we have been. As though He cares what Church we belong to, what place of wors.h.i.+p we attend, and what form of prayer we say! I don't read the Bible much, Erskine, but there is a pa.s.sage which has been running in my mind all the way over here: 'What doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy G.o.d?' That goes to the heart of things, doesn't it? All the rest is tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs, tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs. But there, I must be getting back. Now, won't you come with me?"

"I can't to-night, anyhow," I said.

"Well, to-morrow; promise you will come over then. You will add to my happiness, my boy. You will really!"

The Squire's proposal put a thought into my mind which had not occurred to me before. I had determined on another plan, but our conversation had suggested a better one.

"I will come over to-morrow for a week, provided I am able, on condition that you do something for me," I said.

"Of course I will do anything for you, my boy. But what is it?"

"Do you know Colonel Layc.o.c.k?"

"Perfectly well. I dined at his mess the other night."

"You are on good terms with him?"

"Of course I am. Why?"

"I am going to ask you to do a strange thing, Squire," I said. "I have got a scheme in my mind. I am not going to tell you what it is. I am afraid--I am afraid to tell any one. Why, I don't know; but it is a fact. It is possible that to-night I shall send you a message--possible that I shall ask you to do something which will not appeal to your judgment. But I want you to do it. Will you?"

"But what is it, my dear fellow?"

"I cannot tell you; I want you to trust me. I believe big things are moving, and if you will, I am sure you can help me to accomplish what I have in my mind. If the thing comes off, I will write down detailed instructions, and I want you to act on those instructions. You are a magistrate, and therefore have considerable authority."

"Magistrate!" he said. "Is it something to do with law, then?"

"It is, and it isn't," I said. "The message may not come to-night, may not come till to-morrow night or the next; but when it comes, I want you to act on it. Will you?"

"Then will you come and spend a week with me?"

"If I can."

"I never like acting in the dark, Erskine, but you are a cautious fellow, and I trust you implicitly. Yes, I will do it; but for the life of me I can't see what you are driving at."

"Maybe it will end in nothing," I said, "in which case nothing will be done. But I'll tell you this: if my plans bear fruit, as I think they will, then--then--you will be glad you trusted in me. I am not asking you to compromise yourself in any way; all the same, I tell you this: it seems to me a matter of life and death."

For a few seconds the old man looked at me as if he doubted my sanity, then he gripped my hand.

"I trust you completely, Erskine, and I will do what you ask. But I must go now. Good-night, my boy. G.o.d bless you!"

Directly he had gone I went out to relieve Simpson, and on visiting my wireless apparatus, I found that no message had come through. For the next two hours I was on tenter-hooks. My mind was filled with a thousand doubts. Fears of all sorts haunted me. What if my little apparatus were not powerful enough? What if I had misunderstood the whole situation?

Everything seemed shadowy and unreal. I doubted myself, I doubted everything. That little apparatus which I had prepared to receive messages seemed as valueless as the toy of a child. How could messages move across great s.p.a.ces and affect the little instrument which I had manipulated with such care? How could I expect to frustrate the plans of people who were skilled in plotting, and who had been plotting for years? Were not all my hopes and beliefs as baseless as the stuff of which dreams are made? What could a man with the Angel of Death flying over him expect to do under such circ.u.mstances?

Still I held on to my faith. Foolish as it might seem, I believed that my reasoning was sound, that I had discovered the truth, and that by carrying out my plans I might save hundreds of lives.

It was now dark; the moon, which was on the wane, would not rise till far past midnight. Although the night was windless it was cloudy. This fact made everything so dark that I did not dread watchful eyes.

Nine o'clock, half-past nine, ten o'clock, yet my little instrument was silent. Had I misunderstood what John Liddicoat had said? Was I mistaken when I heard him tell the woman that he must expect another message the next night? I was in an agony of suspense. Then my heart gave a great leap--the little instrument began to move, while I, with fast beating heart, wrote quickly.

Ten minutes later I had locked myself in my little room and was eagerly studying the slip of paper before me. I knew that the message, whatever it might be, had emanated from a spot within a comparatively limited radius, for the simple reason that my apparatus was not of sufficient capacity to receive long-distance messages.

It is impossible for me to convey on paper the state of my mind as I read the words which had been transmitted. My excitement was tense beyond words. I felt my heart beating wildly; I scarce dared to breathe.

And yet the message looked innocent enough. It was simply this: "One hour after midnight to-night. Completeness essential."

That was all; there were no explanations by which any one who was not in the plot could gain any information. It might be received by a score of wireless stations, and any one ignorant of what I knew would be none the wiser. It gave no clue even to the most subtle mind whereby action could be taken. It might be read by any one with perfect safety. No Government official, whatever his position, could understand it. Neither would he see any importance in it. The words were innocence itself, and yet, as I believed, they meant the safety or the destruction of perhaps hundreds of lives. So innocent did they seem that it appeared like madness to take action, but remembering what I had seen and heard, connecting incident with incident, and placing link to link as I did, my chain of reasoning seemed flawless. If I were wrong in my conclusions, I should not only be an object of ridicule, I might indeed be placing myself under menace of the law.

Still I decided to act. Rapidly I wrote a letter to Squire Treherne, giving him the minutest details of what I wished him to do. My brain, I remember, was clear, and I was very careful to insist on all sorts of precautions. This done, I summoned Simpson to me.

"Simpson," I said, "I want you to take this to Squire Treherne immediately; it is a matter of great importance. It may be that you will be in danger on the way; but that must be risked. You must speak to no one. Take the footpath through the fields, and don't delay an instant."

Simpson looked at me steadily as though he doubted my sanity, but evidently there was something in my eyes which told him how much in earnest I was.

"Yes, sir; thank you, sir," he said, and then he hesitated.

"What is it, Simpson?"

"You will be here all alone, sir."

"I can't help that; I shall be all right. Do as I tell you."

"Shall I find you here when I get back, sir?" he asked.

"No, Simpson, I was going to mention that. You will not find me here when you get back. But take no notice of that; wait here until a quarter past one."

"Quarter past one, sir! What, an hour and a quarter past midnight?"

"Wait here until a quarter past one," I repeated, "and then, if I do not appear, make your way down to the copse, by the footpath, to the beach.

You know the cave which is almost immediately beneath the house; go straight to the mouth of the cave and look for me."

Again Simpson looked at me as though he doubted my sanity, but, like the well-bred servant he was, he made no reply but "Yes, sir; thank you, sir."

A minute later I heard Simpson leaving the house.

I felt that the air was laden with tragic events. It was now past eleven o'clock, and I had two hours in which to wait, but I could not stay indoors. Strange as it may seem, I felt no weakness, while the malady from which I suffered gave me no pain at all. I was still buoyed up by the same strange, unnatural strength. I crept towards my little wireless apparatus, but there was no further message. I remained in the near distance for some time, waiting and watching; once or twice I thought I heard a rustling among the bushes, but I was not sure. Although I had no reason for my suspicion, I believed that some one was near me, that furtive eyes were watching me; but I had no tangible reason for believing this. At midnight I went back to the house again; Simpson had not returned. The little dog I had rescued a few days before came and sniffed at my feet, wagging his tail as he did so. Evidently the poor little wretch was rapidly recovering from his wound; indeed he seemed quite well. I put on an overcoat and prepared to go out. The dog still wagged his tail, as though he thought he was going to accompany me.

"No," I said to him, "you must not come."

Whereupon he began to whimper piteously. I left the house, locking the door, but I had not gone more than a few steps before I stopped. The dog had begun to howl. "This will never do," I reflected. "I will let him come with me, he can do no harm." I opened the door again, whereupon the little brute rushed to me and capered with joy. "Be quiet," I said. "If you follow me you must make no noise."

He seemed to understand, for he followed closely at my heels, making no sound as I carefully made my way through the undergrowth. When I had pa.s.sed through the copse I stopped and listened; at first I thought I heard a rustling sound behind me, but evidently I was mistaken, for all was as silent as death. The night was still dark, although here and there between the clouds I saw stars twinkling; not a breath of wind stirred, and no sound reached me save the soughing of the waves. Some miles out at sea I saw the revolving light of the Dead Man's Rock Lighthouse. My descent to the beach was precipitous and somewhat dangerous, but I knew the pathway, and noiselessly made my way down, the dog keeping close to me all the time. A few minutes later I had reached the beach, and again I listened. My eyes had become sufficiently accustomed to the darkness to see that the dog was also listening. Once or twice he gave a slight whimper, but at a whispered command he was silent.

I found my way to the shelter of a rock close to the fissure by which the outer cave was entered. Creeping into the hollow of the rock, I took a little electric lamp from my pocket, and in its light saw that it was nearly half-past twelve. Minutes at that time seemed to me an eternity.

Again I pa.s.sed through all sorts of doubt, and more than once called myself a madman who had followed a will-o'-the-wisp of a wild fancy.

Still I held fast to my resolution. From my hiding-place I could see the fissure which led to the cave. At least it would be difficult for any one to approach it without my seeing him. All the time the little dog sat close by my side with eyes and ears alert. I think he understood the condition of my mind.

Minute after minute pa.s.sed slowly by, and there was neither sound nor sight that gave me warning of any one's approach. I looked anxiously to the right and to the left, seeking in vain to pierce the darkness of the night; but nothing happened; I was alone and in silence.