"But what good will it do?"
"God in heaven knows, I don't. I suppose the idea is to frighten the
people, so that they will sue for peace."
"The English are not to be frightened that way; besides, it won't even
touch the British Navy. They are masters on the sea, whatever we may
do."
Their voices seemed to become dimmer and dimmer; they still went on
talking, but I heard nothing distinctly after that. Indeed, the things
by which I was surrounded, which had at first been comparatively clear,
now became indistinct and unreal. I felt as though I were losing
consciousness, and then everything became dark.
The next thing I can remember was opening my eyes to see Simpson
standing by my bed.
"Anything the matter, Simpson?" I inquired.
"No, sir, except that it is ten o'clock, and I didn't know what time you
meant to get up, sir."
"Not for a long time yet, Simpson; I am very sleepy and very tired."
Indeed, at that time an unutterable languor possessed me, and I felt as
weak as a child. Simpson did not move, but looked at me intently, and I
thought I saw fear in his eyes. But I was too tired to care. Then slowly
life and vitality came back to me. While I was in a state of languor I
remembered nothing of what I had seen in my dream, but little by little
everything came back to me, until all was as vivid and as plain as I
have tried to set it down here on paper. When I again opened my eyes, I
saw Simpson still standing by my bed.
"I am going to get up, Simpson."
"You are sure you are well enough, sir?"
"Well enough! I feel perfectly well."
And I spoke the truth. It seemed to me as though a great black shadow
which had paralyzed me, rolled away from my life.
"Prepare breakfast at once, Simpson; I shall be ready in half an hour."
Simpson took a last look at me, and then left the room, with his old
formula: "Yes, sir; thank you, sir."
I got up and looked towards the sea. The sun was shining brightly, and
the waves were glistening in the sunlight. It was a day to rejoice in.
The air was clear and pure.
I moved briskly around the room, feeling no sense of weariness. My long
sleep had restored me; my mind, too, was as active as it had been on the
previous night. I fell to thinking about my experiences, and
philosophizing on what I had seen in my dreams. "The real I," I
reflected, "was not lying at all on that bed all last night. My spirit,
my thinking self, my understanding self, was hundreds of miles away,
where I don't know, but I was not here. I saw what I saw, and heard what
I heard, without my body. I had other eyes, other senses. My real self
was not a part of my body at all during that time. Therefore I have a
self distinct from the body, independent of it. My body is only a
machine whereby my real self does its work, therefore the death of the
body would not be the death of me."
I took pleasure in ruminating in this way, even although there were at
the back of my mind many doubts. The wish was only the father to the
thought, and the thought did not carry conviction to my consciousness.
It seemed to me that I had intellectually realized something which went
to prove the immortality of the soul, but which really proved nothing. I
could only be certain of that through some deeper process, something
which went down to the very depths of life.
All the same, I found pleasure in it, and I remember humming a tune as I
dressed.
Directly after breakfast, Simpson put the morning paper before me.
Mechanically I opened it, and turned to the list of casualties. My heart
sank as I read, for I found the names of three men who had gone from St.
Issey among the list of killed.
"Are you going out, sir?" And Simpson looked at me anxiously.
"Yes," I replied, "I am going to the village. I see that Mrs. Searle's
boy is killed."
"You are sure you are well enough, sir?"
"Quite," I replied. "By the way, Simpson, you have that paper I gave you
last night?"
"Yes, sir; I locked it away carefully, and I understand what you said,
but I don't understand what you mean, sir. Are you afraid that----"
"That's all right, Simpson; be sure not to forget my instructions."
A little later, I found myself at Mrs. Searle's door, and on finding it
open, I entered. A second later, I blamed myself for the liberty I had
taken. It is not uncommon for these simple folk to enter each other's
houses without giving notice in any way, and I had fallen in with the
habit of the people. But I should have known better. Mr. and Mrs. Searle
were both on their knees praying, and there was an expression on each of
their faces which I shall not try to describe. Sorrow, pain, even
anguish, were expressed there, but beyond all this was an unutterable
peace. I suppose I must have made a slight noise, for they opened their
eyes at my approach and rose to their feet.
"Have 'ee 'eerd the news, Mr. Erskine?" It was Mr. Searle who spoke.
"Yes," I replied; "I have just read it in the newspaper. I came to tell
you how deeply I sympathize with you."
The man held out his hand and grasped mine, and I saw the tears trickle
down his cheeks.
"Mr. Erskine," he said, "the Loard's ways seem very hard, but He doeth
all things well. I'd bin gittin' cold; the Loard 'ad bin prosperin' me,
and some'ow I was forgittin' God. Then, three weeks ago, we 'ad a letter
from Jim, tellin' us that 'e was right up in the firing line and that
the danger was ter'ble. Some'ow that brought us back to God; we felt the
need of God, Mr. Erskine, as we 'adn't felt it for years. And we prayed
as we 'adn't prayed for years."
He still held my hand, looking at me through the mist of his tears all
the time.
"When the news came yesterday," he went on, "we felt as though the
'eavens were black, as though nothing mattered. But that is over now.
God alone knows what we 'ave suffered at the loss of our boy. But it is
only good-bye for a little while; he isn't dead, sir. Now we can say,
'Bless the Loard, O my soul, and all that is within me bless and praise
His Holy Name.'"
"What would I give," I said to myself, as presently I walked from the
house, "if I knew their secret?"
Evidently the news had affected the life of the village greatly, for I
found groups of people standing together talking about it. I joined a
number of miners, who were working "afternoon core" and as a consequence
had their morning at liberty.
"Ter'ble, sir, edn't it?" said one man to me. "John Searle and his
missis took it all right, because they've got their faith to sustain
them; but there's Harry Bray, 'e's going about like a man maazed; 'e
don't believe in anything, sir, and as a consequence there's no light in
his darkness."
"No light in his darkness?" I repeated.
"No, sir; he became a backslider and gave up God! This is what we was
talking about when you comed by. What comfort have the world to offer at
a time like this? Here be thousands and tens of thousands of people, all
over the world, grieving because their dear ones will never come back
again. Mothers grieving about their sons, wives grieving about their
husbands, maidens grieving about their sweethearts. You now, sir, you be
a scholar and a learned man. Do you know of anythin', anythin', sir,
'cept faith in an Almighty God, that will 'elp people at a time like
this? What can science do? What can philosophy do? What can money do?"
"Nothing," I said almost involuntarily.
"No, nothing. Tell 'ee what, sir, this war is bringing us all back to
our senses; we've thought that we could do without Almighty God, sir,
but we ca'ant. A man who was preachin' at the Chapel on Sunday night
called this war 'The World's great tragedy.' He was right, sir; but God
is overruling it. He is answering men out of the whirlwind and the fire,
as He did Job of olden times. Forty boys have gone out from St. Issey,
sir; how many of 'em will come back again?"
I shook my head.
"Exactly, sir. Here is a wisht story in the newspaper. A poor woman,
sir, who 'ad lost her husband and three sons in the war, wrote to the
editor and asked him to give her some explanation of it all, to offer
some word of comfort. So the editor wrote to a lot of clever men,
sending them copies of the woman's letter, and asking them what they 'ad
to say. Here are their answers, sir. They are from a scientist, a
politician, a philosopher, and a literary man, and that's what they 'ad
to say by way of comfort. She asked for bread, and they gave 'er stone."
I took the paper, and saw that the man had spoken truly. The answers
which our leading scientists, politicians, philosophers, and scholars
had to give were utterly in the negative. They could say nothing that
would help to heal the poor woman's bleeding, broken heart. All their
scholarship, all their learning, all their philosophy was Dead Sea
fruit. Only the man of faith, the man of vision, could give her comfort.
I left the village wondering: I realized as I never realized before the
impotence of mere intellectualism, of material success, of the
advancement of physical science, in the face of life's great tragedies.
Then suddenly my thoughts were diverted into another channel, for coming
towards me I saw Isabella Lethbridge.
XXV
PREMONITIONS
Our greeting was cold and formal; it seemed to me as though a barrier of
reserve stood between us. I remembered what had taken place when we last
met in a way similar to this. I also called to mind what she had said
when she came to me at the little schoolroom in St. Issey.
"How are your father and mother?" I asked presently.
"Mother is wonderful, simply wonderful! As for my father, I can't
understand him."
"No?" I said. "He called to see me yesterday."
"Indeed!" She seemed to take no interest in his visit, neither did she
ask anything concerning his purpose in coming.
An awkward silence fell between us, and I was on the point of leaving
her, when she broke out suddenly:
"I came out in the hope of meeting you! Seeing it was a fine morning, I
thought you might be tempted to walk into St. Issey. If I had not met
you, I think I should have gone to your house. I wanted to speak to you
badly."
"What about?" I asked.
"I don't know," was the reply. "I have nothing to say now I have met
you."
"Was it about your brother?"
She shook her head, and I saw her lips tremble.
"As you know, I have no brother now; he is dead. What a ghastly mockery
life is, isn't it? But for mother, I think I should run away."
Each sentence was spoken abruptly and nervously, and I could see she was
much wrought upon.
"Mr. Erskine," she went on, "you were very cruel to me a few days ago."
"Yes," I said, "perhaps I was. I meant to be. I am sorry now. Had I
known about your brother, I would not have spoken."
"You were cruel because you were so un-understanding. You were utterly
ignorant, and because of your ignorance you were foolish."
"Ignorant of what?" I asked.
"Of everything, everything!" And she spoke almost passionately. "Was
what you told me true?"
A wild look came into her eyes, such a look as I had never seen before.
"I don't think I had any right to say it," I replied, "but was I unjust
in my accusation? Did you not try to fascinate me? Did you not try to
make me fall in love with you?"
"No, yes--I don't really know. And what you said is true, is it not--you
don't love me?"
"You were very cruel," I said. "You knew why I came here--knew that the
doctor had written my death-warrant before I came. It is nearly a year
since I came here, and a year was all Dr. Rhomboid gave me to live.
To-day I feel as though the doctor's prophecy will be fulfilled."
"That you will die before the year is out?" she almost gasped.
"Yes," I said. "That was why it was cruel of you to seek to play with a
dying man's heart. But you didn't succeed; you fascinated, you almost
made me love you. If you had done so, you would have added mockery to
mockery. But I never loved you, I only loved the woman you were meant to
be, the woman you ought to be."
I saw anger, astonishment, and yearning, besides a hundred other things
for which I could find no words, in her eyes as I spoke. For a moment
she seemed to be struggling to find some answer to give me. Then she
burst out angrily, almost furiously:
"You are blind--blind--blind!"
"Blind to what?" I asked. "You care nothing for me, and you know it. You
need not tell me so; I can see it in your eyes. You have won the love of
other men only to discard it."
"Mr. Erskine," she said, "do you remember our first conversation?"
"The one when I first dined at your house?" I asked.
"No, the one when we met in the field yonder. It is nearly a year ago."
"Yes, I remember. You said you didn't believe that there was such a
thing as love--although even then you were trying to make me lose my
heart to you."
"I told you," she went on, "that some of us were born into the world
handicapped, and I asked you whether, seeing nature had prevented us
from getting our desires in natural ways, we were not justified in
overstepping conventional boundaries."
"Yes," I replied, "I remember. But I never could understand what you
meant."
"No," she went on, "you were blind, blind! I don't think a man can
understand a woman. You were at the prayer-meeting the other night--do
you believe in God?"
"I think there must be a God," I said. "I have just come from Mr. and
Mrs. Searle's house. They have lost their boy; he has been killed in the
war. They have no doubt about God's existence, they were even rejoicing
in their sorrow; and it is all because God is real to them. Yes, I think
there must be a God."
"If there is a God, He must be awfully unjust," she said bitterly. "If
there is a God, why did He create us with barriers around us which we
cannot break down, and which we long to break down? Why did He give us
longings which we cannot satisfy?"
"What longings? What barriers?" I asked.
Again she seemed struggling for speech, and I knew there was something
in her mind which she wanted to express but could not.
"Tell me," she said, "were you really serious when you said you thought
the doctor's verdict was soon to be fulfilled?"
"Yes," I said, "perfectly serious."
"And you think you are going to die soon?" Her voice was hoarse and
unnatural.
"Yes, I feel quite sure of it."
"And yet you are here talking with me about it calmly."
"What else is there to do?"
"It cannot be! It cannot be!" she cried passionately. "You must not
die."
"If I could believe what John Searle believes, I should not care," was
my answer. "If I could believe that this life is only a fragment of
life--that death is only the door by which we enter another life, the
fulfilment of this life; if I could believe that at the back of
everything is an Omnipotent, All-Wise, Ever-Loving, Beneficent God, I
should not mind death, I think I should laugh at it. Then what we call
death would not be death at all. That is my difficulty."
"And you want to live?"
"Yes, I have an intense longing to live. I have a passion for life. But
what can I do? When the poison of death is in one's system and science
knows no means whereby that poison can be destroyed, all is hopeless."
"And the doctor gave you no hope?"
"No, he said nothing could save me. Yesterday I felt as though I could
not die, as though life was strong within me. To-day life seems only a
matter of hours."
"And yet you are able to think and talk and walk."
"Yes, that is the mockery of it. Do you believe in premonitions, Miss
Lethbridge?"
"Premonitions?"
"Yes, premonitions. I have a feeling that within a few hours I shall be
dead."
"From your illness?"
"I don't know, I suppose so."
She stood looking at me wonderingly. Never had I seen her look so fair,
so wondrously fair, as she looked that morning, in spite of the fact
that she showed marks of having suffered greatly. As she had said, I
could not understand her. In one sense she seemed my ideal of what a
woman ought to be. Even although I knew the shadow of death was creeping
over me, I felt the power of her presence; felt that it would be bliss
to love and be loved by such a woman. But I knew she had no love to give
me; knew she had tried to play with my heart as she had played with the
hearts of others.
"You would have made a poor conquest if you had made me fall in love
with you," I could not help saying bitterly. "After all, I could only
have been your slave for a few weeks."
"Don't, don't taunt me!" she cried; "it is cruel, bitterly cruel of you.
Besides, I cannot believe that what you say is true. You are not near
death--you must live!"
"What would I not give if your words were true, Miss Lethbridge! I never
felt life so full of possibilities as now. If I could live only a month,
a week, I feel as though I could render great service to my King and my
Country."
Why I was led to say this I cannot tell, but something unloosened my
tongue.
"How could you render service to your King and your Country?" she asked.
"Have you discovered anything?"
"Yes, I believe I have. I believe I know more than all our Secret
Service officers do."
"But surely you will not keep your knowledge to yourself?"
"Just now you called me blind," was my reply. "I don't think I am blind,
but I am obstinate. Dying men have strange fancies, and I have a fancy
that I can do what no one else can. I have a feeling that if I told my
secret to the officials they would bungle my plans; that is why I am
going to act alone."
"Are you going to place yourself in danger?"
"What matter if I do? I have only a little while to live, and
if--if...." I stopped suddenly, for I realized that I had told her more
than I meant to tell any one, that in my excitement I had been reckless
and foolish.
"You speak in riddles," she said. "You have no right to put yourself in
danger. I don't understand at all what you are saying. Tell me what you
mean, will you?"
I shook my head. "Everything is so much in the clouds, so visionary,
that it would be foolish to try to tell you anything. Good-day, I must
be going now." And I walked away without another word, leaving her at
the gates of her own home.
As I reflected afterwards, I had not played a very magnanimous part. I
had been rude almost to a point of brutality, and yet I had not been
able to help myself. Something in her very presence aroused my
opposition, my anger. I cannot tell why, but when I was with her,
feelings which I had never known at other times almost mastered me. I
knew then, as I had known all along, that I had no love for her, and yet
I was conscious that I was within an ace of throwing myself at her feet.
Such was the power she had over me; but all the time I knew there was an
unbreakable barrier between us. Something, I could not tell what,
repelled me, made me adamant.
At that time, too, I was in a strange condition of mind. All I had told
her was true; although I felt strong and full of life, I knew that the
Angel of Death had spread his wings over me; that, in spite of my power
to walk and act quickly, death was even then undermining the citadels of
life. In a sense life was not real to me at all; everything was
intangible, visionary. I was like a man in a dream.
* * * * *
It is now early in May, and, as I said to Isabella Lethbridge this
morning, it is within a fortnight of the end of the year which Dr.
Rhomboid gave me to live. I commenced writing this narrative last
autumn, when the days were shortening and the long evenings were dreary
and lonely. I feel now that I have got to the end of my story, and that
I shall never tell of what may yet happen to me. I don't think I am a
nervous or fanciful man, and, as far as I can remember in what I have
written, there is nothing in my history to suggest that I am
superstitious or carried away by old wives' tales. And yet I have a
conviction that I have come to the end of my life; that I shall soon
learn the great secret--if there is any secret in death. I don't feel
ill, rather my body seems instinct with life; I am buoyed up by an
unnatural strength; I am capable of thinking, of acting--yet something
tells me that I am near the end.
I have been writing for hours, so as to bring my records up to this
point. Why I have done so I cannot tell, except that I have obeyed an
overmastering impulse.
At six o'clock this evening I arranged my wireless apparatus, so as to
be ready for any news that should come to me. I have also sent Simpson
to St. Issey with certain instructions which seem to be necessary, and I
have taken all precautions of which I can think to render what I am
going to try and do effective.
What will the future bring forth, I wonder? What will be the result of
my plans? Will everything come to nothing, or will my dreams be
realized? I know that if I acted according to the dictates of common
sense, I should at once send Simpson with a long telegram to the
authorities at Falmouth or Penzance. But with that strange obstinacy
which possesses me I refuse to do this; I am acting according to impulse
or intuition, rather than in obedience to reason.
Concerning the deeper things of life and death, I am almost as much in
the dark as I was when I came here nearly a year ago; and yet not
altogether. The subtle change which has come over the life of the
village has affected me. The faith which has been renewed in the lives
of so many people has created an atmosphere which I cannot help but
breathe. Even now, although I feel death to be so near, I have a kind of
intuition that I cannot die. I cannot say that I believe in God, but
there is only a thin line of partition between me and that belief. Life
is the same as it has been, and yet it is not the same. A new element
has appeared, a new force has made itself felt, but what that force is I
cannot tell.
During the last few weeks, although I have said nothing about it, I have
been reading the New Testament, a book I had not looked at since I left
Oxford. Especially have I studied the Gospels. They are very wonderful,
in some parts sublime. But I have not learnt the secret of the Man
Jesus. I cannot rid my mind of the thought that He was a visionary. And
yet I don't know; there are times when I cannot get away from the belief
that His words were founded on the Rock of Truth. When I came back from
the prayer-meeting the other night, I felt as though Jesus said to me
what He said to the man in olden times who asked Him questions, "Thou
art not far from the kingdom of God." But everything was transitory and
passed away in a moment, and I was left dull and unconvinced.
And here I leave it. I am a young man, little over thirty years of age,
with life's work undone and life's problems unsolved. If this life is
all, then it is a mockery, a haggard failure, an unfulfilled promise, an
uncompleted plan. And yet I don't know; even although I were certain
that there is nothing beyond, I am still glad that I have had my life.
But if there be a Supreme Being, would He give me life and hope, and
volition and possibilities, only to destroy that life? I felt as I never
felt before--that my body is not my real self; that the essential I is
distinct from the body. These premonitions of mine, what do they
signify? Certainly they prove a sensitiveness to something which is
beyond my power of understanding; but is that all?
Never did I feel as I feel now the utter uselessness of mere
intellectuality, of material advancement, of scientific discovery, and
the thousand other things which men strive after when divorced from
faith, divorced from God. I feel that Science, Philosophy, have no
answer to give me, and the wisdom of men is but as the voice of the
wandering wind. If I believed in God, if I were sure of God, sure of the
message which Jesus proclaimed, I could laugh at death; for I should
know that out of discord would come harmony, and that out of
incompleteness would come completeness. But that secret is not mine. I
only dimly hope.
But I will follow my fancies no further. I have my work to do. I have to
carry out the plans I have made.
XXVI
MIDNIGHT
Again I take up my pen to continue the narrative commenced long months
ago. Since I last looked at these pages, wonderful things have happened,
so wonderful that I do not expect to be believed; but I will set them
down nevertheless, and I will record them exactly as they took place.
In order to do this I must go back to that May evening in the year 1915,
when, as it seemed to me, I had come to the end of my life. As I have
set down in these pages, I had, as I believed, made a discovery which
seemed of importance to the nation, and pierced a mystery which had been
baffling our Government. Events have proved that I was not wrong in my
surmises, and that I had become of importance to the nation's welfare.
As I said, I had placed my little wireless apparatus on what seemed to
me a suitable place for receiving messages.