I did not know then, neither did I dream, how my eyes were to be opened.
XIX
GOD ANSWERED OUT OF THE WHIRLWIND
Nothing happened for some days. At first I kept close to the house, and was constantly on the alert lest some evil thing should befall me. I watched vigilantly too. Remembering all that had been reported in the newspapers, my mind was filled with suspicions concerning the possibility of the enemy pursuing his work in this part of the country. Especially did I watch the cliffs around the little bay; but in no way was I rewarded. I began to think that I was the victim of a hoax, or that Father Abraham was little better than a madman obsessed with mad fancies. Thus it came about that after a few days I became careless of the warnings given me, and pursued my old course of life.
At that time, I remember, the black cloud of war hung especially heavy on our land. The Prime Minister had stated in the House of Commons the number of killed and wounded in our Army and Navy, and the appalling figures which he gave were added to daily by the lists given in the papers. The village of St. Issey had not suffered greatly. It is true that three men had come home wounded, but their wounds were not serious, and as they had been bright and cheerful during their stay, we had been led to hope that we should escape lightly. Then, suddenly, the horror of the whole business came home to us. Two of our lads were killed at sea. Then we heard that others had been taken prisoners and lay suffering in a German prison camp. Others still were lying wounded in the hospitals in France.
One morning—it was some days after Father Abraham's visit—I found on opening my newspapers that among the killed was one Edward Trelaske, who died in action. The name struck me, first because it was Cornish, and second because it was the name of our Vicar. I saw too that he was a captain in one of the battalions belonging to the D.C.L.I., and I wondered whether he were in any way associated with St. Issey.
Scarcely had I read this than a knock came to the door, and I saw the Vicar enter the room. He looked ten years older than when I had first seen him. I think I said, when describing our first meeting, that he was a hale and handsome man, ruddy and inclined to stoutness. Now his face was haggard and bloodless, the flesh hung loosely on his cheeks, and I judged from his eyes that he was a stranger to sleep. Immediately I connected his appearance with what I had just read. I did not speak a word, I thought it best not to; but I held out my hand, which he gripped almost convulsively. Almost unconsciously I looked at the newspaper.
"Yes," he said, "it is there."
"It was your son, then?" I said.