EVOLUTION
It wanted a week to Christmas. Rufus sat in his easy chair with his feet
on the fender and an open book on his knee. He had been hard at work
till dark, after which he had taken a mile's walk into the country, and
was now waiting for his supper to be brought in. He was not impatient,
however. The book he had been reading was one that Madeline Grover had
left with him. A volume of Tennyson, containing nearly all the poet's
published work, and, as was nearly always the case, the writer had set
him thinking on the problems of life and death and immortality.
Outwardly there had been no change in his life during the last two or
three months. Directly his doctors gave him permission he turned again
to his invention, glad of the relief that work afforded. As far as he
could judge, he was moving, slowly but surely, to complete success. The
thought of failure very rarely crossed his mind.
But while outwardly there was no change, inwardly there was a distinct
evolution. He found himself unconsciously viewing life from a different
standpoint. It was easy to laugh at the claims of priests and prelates,
and to poke fun at musty and worn-out creeds. Easy to riddle with
merciless logic the stupendous dogmas of the Churches, and the
monumental follies of so-called theologians, but when all that had been
done to his complete satisfaction, he was no nearer the solution of the
riddle of life.
Moreover, he became painfully conscious of the fact that a philosophy of
denials was not sufficient. He wanted something definite and something
positive. An iconoclast might be a very useful individual; but when the
destructive process had been completed, was there nothing more to be
done? Were there no positive blocks of truth with which to erect a
temple? There were questions instinctive in the human soul which asked
for an answer. Had the broad universe no answer to give? Had faith no
place in the eternal and immeasurable scheme.
If science could not prove, if philosophy halted and broke down, was
there nothing left? Was religion a thing to be dismissed with a sneer?
Might not faith be as truly a faculty of the human soul as reason?
So all unconsciously he retraced his steps from the barren realm of
negation to the region of inquiry. He ceased to be dogmatic. Materialism
did not explain everything. Theology, like other sciences, might be
empirical, and yet its groundwork and framework might still be truth.
When a man begins to inquire he begins to grow, when he ceases to
inquire the winter of decay sets in. Moreover, it is not the province of
the human will to determine the direction of growth. It may be upward or
outward, in this direction or in that. The mind pursues its way with an
unerring instinct as the roots of trees follow the courses of the
springs.
Rufus had been reading "Crossing the Bar" for the fiftieth time, and now
he sat with the open book on his knees, wondering where he was
intellectually and religiously. He refused however, to question himself
too closely. He preferred for the present to drift. Some day he might
sight land, and find a safe anchorage.
Yet one or two things were becoming daily more clear. One was, that in
any perfect scheme a future life was necessary to the completion of
this. Another was, that human life, if only because of its relationships
and possibilities, was a more sacred thing than he at one time had been
willing to grant. And a third was, that love was not a mere physical or
mental affinity. It was something that went farther and struck deeper.
It was a soul relation that remained untouched and independent of time
and change.
He had not seen Madeline Grover for considerably more than two months.
No message or whisper had passed between them. In the chances of human
life he knew that he might never speak to her again. Yet his love
remained fixed and unshaken. It was not something that he had put on as
an extra garment, and that in the wear and tear of life he might lose
again. It was part of himself--woven into the fibre of his being.
Perhaps his love for Madeline, more than anything else, made him think
of the problem of immortality. Whittier had said:
Life is ever Lord of Death,
And Love can never lose its own.
How well he remembered that afternoon when Madeline read "Snow-Bound" to
him, in which these lines occurred. He had never been able to get them
out of his mind since. They had followed him like a haunting echo of
something long forgotten, had stirred his heart with a thousand vague
hopes and dreams.
If Love could never lose its own, Madeline might yet be his. In some
far-away region beyond the reach of human vision, beyond the stress and
passion of earth, beyond the darkness and the doubting, beyond the
ravages of time and trouble, they might meet again--the soul finding its
mate and life its eternal complement.
Madeline had a habit of marking with a pencil the passages in a book she
liked, and in one of the volumes she left behind he found these words
marked with a double line down the margin:
I sometimes think that heaven will be
A green place and an orchard tree,
And one sweet Angel known to me.
Could he have put his wildest dreams and longings into words, nothing
could have fitted better. It expressed all the heaven he wanted--all the
beauty, and all the companionship his soul desired.
He was disturbed in his meditations by a knock on the outer door, and a
minute or two later he heard a familiar voice in the passage inquiring
if he were at home.
He rose to his feet in a moment, and pushed Tennyson into a dark corner
out of sight. Then the door of his sitting-room was flung open, and
Felix Muller entered unannounced. Rufus greeted him with a look of
inquiry in his eyes--an inquiry, however, which he did not attempt to
shape into words.
Muller made his way to the fire at once, and spread his hands over the
grate. "It's a glorious night," he said, "but cold. The roads are as
hard as iron, and the moon makes it almost as light as day."
"Have you driven over?" Rufus inquired.
"Yes, I had to see Farmer Udy at Longridge, and so I thought as I was so
near, I would drive a little farther and see you. How have you been
getting on this long time?"
"Fairly well on the whole, I think. Of course, my accident upset all my
calculations for a while, but at present things are moving steadily and
in the right direction."
"That's right, I'm glad to hear it. And when do you think the thing will
be properly launched?"
"Well, it is not easy to say positively, but I should give six months as
an outside limit."
"You expected at first that the whole thing would be completed in six
months."
"That is true, but I had not reckoned on the contingency of a broken
leg."
"But apart from your accident you were out of your calculations."
"A little. When you are dependent to so large an extent upon other
people, it is impossible to be absolutely sure as to dates."
"Then your six months may run into nine months?"
"Oh, no; six months more gives a wide margin for every contingency."
Muller withdrew from the fire and dropped into an easy-chair that Rufus
had pulled round for him.
For a moment or two there was silence, then Muller, diving his hand into
his breast-pocket, said in his most casual tone, "You don't mind my
having a smoke, do you?"
"My dear fellow, I beg your pardon," Rufus said, hurriedly, "but the
truth is I was waiting for supper; won't you have something to eat
first? The cold drive ought to have given you an appetite!"
"Well, now that you mention it, I think I do feel a bit peckish."
"You will have to be content with simple fare, but such as I have,
etc.," and he went out of the room to hunt up Mrs. Tuke.
Rufus watched his guest narrowly while he ate, and felt sure that he
owed this visit not to the proximity of Longridge, but to some other
cause that had not yet been revealed.
Conversation flagged during the meal. Muller ate like a man whose
thoughts were engaged somewhere else, and on something vastly more
important than eating and drinking.
Rufus began to have an uncomfortable feeling that his visit boded no
good, and yet he had not the courage to precipitate matters by asking
impertinent questions.
As soon as the supper-tray was taken away, Rufus produced a box of
cigars, and for a minute or two they blew smoke in silence.
Muller was the first to speak. Looking at his cigar carefully, as if
examining the brand, he said in his most casual manner, "I suppose,
Sterne, you have never considered the possibility of being forestalled
in your invention?"
"Well, no," he said slowly, but with a startled look in his eyes. "I
cannot say that I have ever seriously considered such a possibility."
"And yet it is notorious in the realm of discovery and invention, that
the same idea has been hit upon by different men in different parts of
the world almost at the same time."
"I do not remember that fact being brought clearly to my mind," Rufus
said, wondering if someone had forestalled him.
"It is true, nevertheless. I could give you illustrations if I had time.
But what is important at the present moment is that a man away up in
Westmorland has got ahead of you."
"No!" Rufus said, in a tone of alarm.
"Well, perhaps I ought to have said that he appears to have got his
claim in first. I do not understand all the technicalities of the case,
but he appears to me to have achieved, or to have achieved very
largely, the thing you are aiming at," and he took a newspaper cutting
out of his pocket, and passed it on to Rufus.
Rufus unfolded the cutting with hands that trembled in spite of himself.
If he had been forestalled then life with him was at an end. The greater
part of the thousand pounds was spent or pledged already. Failure meant
that he would have now to employ his ingenuity in devising a method of
escaping from the world in a way that would not awaken suspicion.
Muller adjusted his _pince-nez_ and watched his companion while he read.
Rufus summoned to his aid all the resolution he possessed and preserved
a perfectly impassive face.
"Well?" Muller questioned, when Rufus had got to the bottom of the slip.
"It's a little disconcerting," was the answer. "But I shall not fling up
the sponge yet."
"But he has got hold of your idea!"
"Not exactly."
"At any rate he has got uncomfortably near to it."
"He has got nearer than I like, I admit. But the greater part of what he
claims is mere bluff."
"But his objective and yours are precisely the same?"
"No, not precisely. I go much farther than he does, as Stephenson went
farther than Watt."
"That is in your application of the principle. But is not the principle
the same?"
"It is similar, though not identical. I have gone all over the ground he
is travelling now."
"And in another month he may be all over your ground."
"There is danger, of course, but I think still I shall get in first."
"I hope you may. But I confess when I tumbled across that article this
morning it made me feel mightily uncomfortable."
"It is a little upsetting, no doubt."
"You see, he must have secured himself pretty well, or he would not have
permitted so much of the scheme to get into print. Don't you see it
largely discounts anyone else who comes after, though he may have
something better."
"Yes, I admit the force of all you say," Rufus answered slowly. "But my
game is not up yet."
"I hope not, indeed. I should regard it as nothing short of a calamity
were you to fail."
"If the worst comes to the worst it will have to be faced, that is all.
In any case, you will not suffer loss."
"There you are mistaken. You are my friend. And friends are not so
plentiful that one can contemplate the disappearance of even one of them
with equanimity."
"That may be true. But mercifully, the dead are soon forgotten. You will
soon get used to my absence."
"I sincerely hope the occasion will not arise," Muller said, speaking
slowly and gravely. "Indeed, as I said before, I should regard your
failure as a calamity. Still, there is no getting over the fact that
what you regarded as impossible less than six months ago has come very
definitely within the realm of possibility."
"Yes," Rufus said, with some hesitation. "I am bound to admit that the
chance of failure seems less remote than it did."
"I am sorry to have to discuss this matter with you again," Muller went
on, after a pause. "I can assure you it is almost as painful to me as it
must be to you. Still business is business, and I have to think of my
own position. If I were a rich man, I would not mention the matter--upon
my soul, I wouldn't."
"I thought you had no soul," Rufus said, with a pathetic smile.
"Oh, don't joke over mere figures of speech," Muller said, staring into
the fire. "I tell you I feel terribly upset."
"But my cause is not lost yet," Rufus said with forced cheerfulness.
"No, it may not be. But, on the other hand, it may be. If your
competitor has gone so far, he may during the next week or month go all
the rest of the distance."
"I must take my chance of that."
"The point with me is--supposing the worst comes to the worst, have you
anything on which you can raise a loan? I hate the thought of your
slipping out of life in the flower of your youth."
"Look here, Muller," Rufus said, summoning to his aid all his strength
and resolution. "We discussed this matter at the beginning. I counted
the cost and took the risk. If the worst comes to the worst I am not
going to show the white feather."
"I do not doubt your courage for a moment," Muller said. "But I want to
point out that it will take a little time to realise your estate. I
presume you have made your will."
Rufus went to a drawer and took out a large envelope which he passed on
to his companion.
Muller opened the envelope and drew out the paper slowly. Then he
adjusted his _pince-nez_, and began to read. "Yes," he said, after a
long pause, "this is quite in order--quite."
"And in case I am driven to take my departure," Rufus said, in a hard,
even voice, "I will give you sufficient time to wind up my small estate
before the end of next year."
"You think there is no other way of meeting the case?" Muller
questioned.
"In case my scheme fails there is no other way," Rufus answered. "Now
let us not discuss the matter again. I understand your anxiety. I should
be a bit anxious if I were in your place. But you have my word of
honour. Let that be enough."
"It is enough, my boy--it is enough!" Muller said, gushingly.
"Meanwhile we need not count upon failure until forced to do so. I shall
not fail if effort and determination can avert it."
When Muller had gone, Rufus sat for a long time staring into the dying
fire. Then he picked up the newspaper cutting, and read through the
article very carefully a second time.
"No, he has not got my idea quite," he muttered, "but he has come
uncomfortably near to it."
Then he drew a long breath and shut his teeth tightly. Life had grown a
more precious thing of late, and hope had taken new shapes and forms.
Moreover, the possibility of a conscious existence beyond the shadow of
death had been looming larger and larger for months past, and with that
possibility other possibilities had come into view. What if the
consequences of conduct followed men into the unseen? What if sin should
separate a soul from the soul it loved? What if this life were a trust
for which we should be held responsible? What if suicide should be as
heinous a crime as murder? What if dying by one's own hand should stain
the soul with deeper dishonour than any broken vow or unfulfilled
promise? He drew away his eyes from the fire and shuddered
slightly as these thoughts passed through his mind. In whatever
direction he turned his thoughts he was faced with possibilities that,
to say the least, were not a little disconcerting.
"If I had only known six months ago what I know now," he reflected, "I
should not have put my head into this noose with so light a heart. I
should have been content to have gone on with my work as time-keeper at
the mine. But I was impatient for success, and quite certain that death
was the end of all things."
Then across the frosty air the parish clock fixed high in the church
tower struck the hour of eleven.
Rufus counted the strokes as they vibrated solemnly through the night.
"Do the dead ever hear, I wonder," he said to himself, and he shuddered
again.
Then his thoughts turned to the book that he had been reading earlier in
the evening and he began to repeat almost unconsciously one of the
stanzas that Madeline had marked:
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark,
And may there be no sadness of farewell
When I embark.
And though from out the bounds of time and space
The floods may bear me far,
I hope----
Then he stopped suddenly and rose hurriedly to his feet. "I am growing
morbid," he said. "I wish Muller had kept the article to himself. In a
case of this kind ignorance is bliss." And he turned out the lamp and
climbed slowly upstairs to bed.