FAITH AND PHILOSOPHY
Rufus watched the rising tide with as much composure as he could
command. It was the first time in his life that his philosophy had been
put to the test, and the strain brought it near to breaking-point. He
found it easy enough to pick holes in the creed in which he had been
reared, and had rather prided himself that he had shaken himself free
from what he called the bondage of ecclesiastical superstition. But
there was something that still remained and which he was scarcely
conscious of until now--something which he could not very well shape
into words; something for which he could find no name.
His landlady, Mrs. Tuke, called him an unbeliever, and he accepted the
description without demur; but a negative implies a positive. Unbelief
in one direction means belief in the opposite. He certainly did not
believe the dogmas his grandfather insisted upon with so much passion
and vehemence. He had laughed to scorn the thunderings of the little
Bethel to which he had been compelled to listen as a lad. He had torn
the swaddling clothes of orthodoxy into tatters, and cast them from him
as though they were unclean. He had wandered for three or four years in
the realm of pure negation, scorning all creeds and denying all
religion. Yet now, when life seemed narrowing to its final close, he
discovered as in a sudden accession of light, that the last word on the
subject had not been spoken.
For the first time in his life he realised that religion is not a creed,
nor an ordinance; that it is not something apprehended by the exercise
of the mind, and that it is only remotely related to ecclesiasticism.
Its roots went deeper. It is instinct; it is of the very substance of
life.
He had drawn himself as far up the shelving cliff as possible, though
every movement was torture, and with steady eyes he watched the tide
rising higher and higher. There was something fascinating in its steady
approach. It was not an angry tide, breaking and foaming and struggling
to reach its prey. It came on with slow and tranquil movement. There was
scarcely a ripple on its surface. Far out in the line of the sinking sun
it was like a great sheet of gold. Its voice was a low monotone, as it
washed the pebbles in a slow and languid way. Here and there it raised
itself like a sleeping monster taking in a long breath, but the swell
never broke into sound or foam.
And yet to Rufus Sterne it never seemed more relentlessly cruel. Its
stealthy creep and crawl seemed positively vindictive. Its voice was no
longer the tinkle of silver bells, but the cynical laughter of fiends.
He made a desperate effort to pull himself still higher up the cliff,
but that proved to be impossible. He could only lie still and wait. When
the tide reached its flood it would be a dozen feet above where he lay.
Would he sleep soundly or would dreams disturb his rest?
He had very little hope of being rescued alive. It was a long way round
by Penwith Cove to St. Gaved, and even if the beautiful girl he had
rescued--he did not know her name--ran all the distance, and men with
the stretcher ran all the way back, it seemed scarcely possible that
they could reach him in time.
He would like to live. The desire for life was never stronger than now.
It was not so much that he was afraid of death--he was a _little_
afraid of it, he was compelled to be honest with himself--but two things
seemed to intensify his desire for life. The first was his great
invention, which was now in process of being perfected; and the other
was----
Well the other was an indefinable something which he was not able to
shape into words. Something vaguely connected with the sweet-eyed girl
whom he had that afternoon rescued from death. He did not understand
what subtle influence had been set in motion; did not comprehend the
nature of the spell, but the fact remained that the world seemed a
brighter place since she came to the Hall, and life a richer
inheritance.
It was not a matter that he could discuss even with himself. It was too
shadowy and elusive. To attempt to reason the matter out would be to
destroy a sweet illusion--for that it was illusion he had no doubt. And
yet the illusion, or the impression, or the sensation, or whatever it
might be, was so delightful that he had not the courage to touch it.
Life had not possessed so many pleasures for him that he could afford to
scorch with the white flame of logic even the faintest and most shadowy
of them. He had had a hard and unloved childhood, a youth from which all
sympathy had been excluded, and a manhood of badly compensated toil and
unrealised ambition. And now when life's stern and dusty way seemed
opening out into the green pastures of success, and there had strayed
across his path a sweet-eyed stranger whose very smile breathed hope and
peace, it was not at all surprising that the desire for life burned with
an intenser flame than ever.
He counted his heart beats, and watched the tide creeping higher and
higher. The nearer it came the swifter appeared to be its approach. The
gold on the sea was giving place to grey, the fire was dying out of the
Western sky, a chill wind sprang up and whispered in the crevices of the
cliffs. The gulls circled high above his head, and cried in melancholy
tones. He shivered a little, perhaps with fear, perhaps because the
evening was growing cold.
Did he regret saving the stranger's life and losing his own in doing it?
On the whole, he did not think he did. It was surely a noble thing to
save a human life.
"But why?" The old question pulled him up with a suddenness that almost
startled him.
"Wherein lay the nobleness?" Nature set no store on human
life--earthquake, tempest, pestilence, famine, swept human beings into
the jaws of death by the thousand and tens of thousands. And mankind was
as contemptuous of human life as nature herself. It's professed regard
was but a hollow sham.
Was not the first law of life that every man should look after himself?
What had he gained by the sacrifice? What had the world gained? Was not
the life sacrificed of infinitely greater value than the life saved? His
great discovery would now never see the light, the toil of years would
be wasted, the travail of his brain would end in darkness and silence,
and in return a foolish girl would dance her heedless way through life.
But in the great crises of life logic perpetually fails, and philosophy
proves but a broken staff. Neither logic nor philosophy comforted Rufus
in that solemn and trying hour. He could not reason it out, but deep
down in his soul he felt that death was far less terrible than being a
coward. Better die in the service of others than live merely for self.
The tide had reached his feet, and was beginning to creep round his
legs. He drew up the foot that he still had the use of, for the water
felt icy cold. All the gold had gone out of the sky by this time, and
the sea was of a leaden hue. Moreover the monster seemed as if waking
from his sleep. Here and there the long swell broke into a line of foam,
and the waves began to leap over the low-lying rocks.
He began to talk to himself; perhaps to keep his courage up, for it was
very weird and lonely lying under the dark cliffs, while the cruel sea
crept steadily higher.
"I wonder if dying will be so very painful," he said. "I wonder if the
struggle will last long, and when it is over, and I am lying here with
the cold waves surging above me, what then? Of course, I shall know
nothing about it, for there is nothing beyond. Science can find nothing,
and pure reason rejects the suggestion. I shall be as the rocks and the
seaweed."
He shuddered painfully and tried to drag himself higher up the cliff,
then with a groan he laid his head against the rock and closed his eyes.
It was foolish to struggle. He had better meet his fate like a man. The
tide was rising round him rapidly now. The cold seemed to be numbing his
heart. The struggle could not be long at the most.
"She will think of me," he said to himself, and a smile played round the
corners of his mouth. "I have earned her gratitude and she is not likely
to forget. Not that her gratitude can do me any good. And yet----"
He opened his eyes again and looked out over the darkening sea.
"If one were only sure," he said, with a gasp. "Why does my nature
protest so violently? Why this instinctive looking beyond if there is
nothing beyond which can respond to the look? Why this longing for
reunion, for vision, for immortality?"
His lips moved though no sound escaped them. Creeds might be false, and
yet religion might be true. The Church might be a sham, and yet the
Kingdom of God a reality. Prayer might be degraded or its meaning
misunderstood, and yet it might be as natural and as necessary as
breathing. Philosophy might be an interesting hone on which to sharpen
one's wits, but utterly useless in the crucial moments of life.
He swept the horizon with a despairing glance, then closed his eyes once
more.
* * * * *
Meanwhile St. Gaved was in a state of considerable excitement. Madeline
Grover's breathless story had set every one on the _qui vive_, and for
several minutes everyone was wondering what all the rest would do.
Several clumsy, though willing pairs of hands carried the unconscious
girl into Mrs. Tuke's cottage, which happened to be the nearest at hand.
The policeman hurried down to the quay, to convey the news to the
fishermen, after which he made for the police-station and fished out
from a lumber room an antiquated ambulance. All this took considerable
time, and Madeline had nearly recovered consciousness again when the
little procession started out over the cliffs in the direction of
Penwith Cove.
Madeline might have remained in a state of faint much longer than she
did, but for Mrs. Tuke's extreme measures. Sousing the patient's face
with cold water appeared to produce no effect. But when she placed a
saucer of burnt or burning feathers under her nostrils the result was
almost instantaneous.
Mrs. Juliff, who assisted in the operation, declared it was enough to
make a dead man sneeze, and there was reason for the remark. Madeline
came to herself with violent gaspings and splutterings, and stared round
her with a look of terror and perplexity in her eyes.
"There, my dear, I hope you feel better now?" Mrs. Tuke said,
encouragingly, giving the patient another sniff of the pungent odour.
"Better," Madeline gasped. "Why you suffocate me," and she made an
attempt to reach the door.
"No, no, don't try to walk," Mrs. Tuke said, soothingly. "You can't do
no good to nobody by being flustered."
"But Mr. Sterne is drowning by slow inches," she cried, "and I
promised----"
"Yes, my dear," Mrs. Tuke interrupted, "and everything is being done as
can be done. I'm terribly upset myself. But I always feared evil would
befall him."
"Why did you fear that?" Madeline asked, in a tone of surprise.
"Well, my dear, it's a serious thing to remove the ancient landmarks, to
deny the faith, and to put the Bible to open shame as it were."
Madeline could hardly help smiling in spite of her anxiety, as Mrs. Tuke
further enlarged on Rufus Sterne's moral and spiritual decadence.
"Not that I wish to bring against him a railing accusation," Mrs. Tuke
said, pulling herself up suddenly; "far be it from me to judge anyone."
"But you appear to have judged him very freely," Madeline said, a little
indignantly.
"But not in anger, my dear, but only in love. He is a good lodger in
many ways, pays regular and keeps good hours. But the Sabbaths! Oh, my
dear, it cuts me to the heart, and he the grandson of a minister."
"He is a very brave man, anyhow," Madeline said, warmly, "and I owe my
life to him. Oh, I do hope he will be rescued before it's too late."
"And I hope so, too. It will be terrible for him to go unprepared into
the other world, and as a lodger he would not be easy to replace."
Madeline darted a somewhat contemptuous glance at Mrs. Tuke, then made
for the door again. "I cannot stay here doing nothing," she said, "while
he may be drowning," and she rushed out into the rapidly-growing
twilight.
She wondered why she should feel so weak and exhausted, forgetting that
she had tasted no food since lunch. In spite of weakness, however, she
hurried on back over the cliffs. She could not rest until she knew the
best or the worst. She felt acutely the burden of her responsibility.
She was the cause of all the trouble. If she had not run in the teeth of
everyone whose advice was worth taking this would not have happened. It
was hard that the penalty of her foolishness should be paid by another,
and if this young man were drowned, she believed she would never be able
to forgive herself to the day of her death. Away in front of her the
cliffs were dotted with people who had come out from St. Gaved on
hearing the news. Some were standing still and looking seaward, others
were hurrying forward in the direction of Penwith Cove. A few were
crouched on the edge of the cliff and were peering over, to the imminent
risk of life and limb.
Several fishing boats were rounding St. Gaved's Point, and some were
hugging the shore so closely that they could not be seen unless one
stood on the very edge of the cliff.
Madeline's lips kept moving in prayer as she walked. Her chief concern
was lest the burden of this young man's death should be upon her soul.
There were other considerations no doubt. She would be sorry in any case
for a life of so much promise to be so suddenly cut off. But as she had
seen him only twice she would soon get over a very natural regret, so
long as no blame attached to her.
The thought crossed her mind at length that her prayer was a very
selfish one. She was concerned only for her own peace of mind. The
welfare of Rufus Sterne apart from her own responsibility was not a
matter that troubled her.
Then a question slowly entered her brain, and the warm blood mounted in
a torrent to her neck and face.
The next moment all the people on the cliff began to run in the
direction of Penwith Cove. She stood still and pressed her hand to her
side to check the violent throbbing of her heart. She felt as though she
could not walk a step further, even if her life depended upon it.
"They have found him," she whispered to herself. "I wonder whether alive
or dead."
And she sank down on the turf and waited. The sea was surging among the
rocks below with a dirge-like sound, the stars were coming out in the
sky above, the distant landscape was disappearing in a sombre haze.
A little later her attention was caught by the sound of running feet,
and looking up she saw the people who, a few minutes before, were
hurrying in the direction of Penwith Cove, were now retracting their
steps with all possible haste.
She rose slowly to her feet and waited. A swift-footed lad had
out-distanced all the rest.
"Have they found him?" she questioned, eagerly, as he drew near.
"No, Miss," he answered. "The tide is too high; there's no getting along
under the cliffs."
"Then he's drowned," she said, with a gasp.
"Well, it looks like it unless a boat has got to him in time. I want to
get down to the quay to see," and without waiting to answer any further
questions he hurried away at the top of his speed.