The Passion for Life

  XXV

  PREMONITIONS

  Our greeting was cold and formal; it seemed to me as though a barrier ofreserve stood between us. I remembered what had taken place when we lastmet in a way similar to this. I also called to mind what she had saidwhen 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'tunderstand him."

  "No?" I said. "He called to see me yesterday."

  "Indeed!" She seemed to take no interest in his visit, neither did sheask anything concerning his purpose in coming.

  An awkward silence fell between us, and I was on the point of leavingher, when she broke out suddenly:

  "I came out in the hope of meeting you! Seeing it was a fine morning, Ithought you might be tempted to walk into St. Issey. If I had not metyou, I think I should have gone to your house. I wanted to speak to youbadly."

  "What about?" I asked.

  "I don't know," was the reply. "I have nothing to say now I have metyou."

  "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 mockerylife 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 wasmuch 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 Iknown about your brother, I would not have spoken."

  "You were cruel because you were so un-understanding. You were utterlyignorant, and because of your ignorance you were foolish."

  "Ignorant of what?" I asked.

  "Of everything, everything!" And she spoke almost passionately. "Waswhat 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 unjustin my accusation? Did you not try to fascinate me? Did you not try tomake me fall in love with you?"

  "No, yes--I don't really know. And what you said is true, is it not--youdon't love me?"

  "You were very cruel," I said. "You knew why I came here--knew that thedoctor had written my death-warrant before I came. It is nearly a yearsince 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 adying man's heart. But you didn't succeed; you fascinated, you almostmade me love you. If you had done so, you would have added mockery tomockery. But I never loved you, I only loved the woman you were meant tobe, the woman you ought to be."

  I saw anger, astonishment, and yearning, besides a hundred other thingsfor which I could find no words, in her eyes as I spoke. For a momentshe seemed to be struggling to find some answer to give me. Then sheburst out angrily, almost furiously:

  "You are blind--blind--blind!"

  "Blind to what?" I asked. "You care nothing for me, and you know it. Youneed not tell me so; I can see it in your eyes. You have won the love ofother 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 athing as love--although even then you were trying to make me lose myheart to you."

  "I told you," she went on, "that some of us were born into the worldhandicapped, and I asked you whether, seeing nature had prevented usfrom getting our desires in natural ways, we were not justified inoverstepping conventional boundaries."

  "Yes," I replied, "I remember. But I never could understand what youmeant."

  "No," she went on, "you were blind, blind! I don't think a man canunderstand a woman. You were at the prayer-meeting the other night--doyou believe in God?"

  "I think there must be a God," I said. "I have just come from Mr. andMrs. Searle's house. They have lost their boy; he has been killed in thewar. They have no doubt about God's existence, they were even rejoicingin their sorrow; and it is all because God is real to them. Yes, I thinkthere must be a God."

  "If there is a God, He must be awfully unjust," she said bitterly. "Ifthere is a God, why did He create us with barriers around us which wecannot break down, and which we long to break down? Why did He give uslongings which we cannot satisfy?"

  "What longings? What barriers?" I asked.

  Again she seemed struggling for speech, and I knew there was somethingin her mind which she wanted to express but could not.

  "Tell me," she said, "were you really serious when you said you thoughtthe 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 andunnatural.

  "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 notdie."

  "If I could believe what John Searle believes, I should not care," wasmy answer. "If I could believe that this life is only a fragment oflife--that death is only the door by which we enter another life, thefulfilment of this life; if I could believe that at the back ofeverything is an Omnipotent, All-Wise, Ever-Loving, Beneficent God, Ishould not mind death, I think I should laugh at it. Then what we calldeath 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. Butwhat can I do? When the poison of death is in one's system and scienceknows 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 couldnot die, as though life was strong within me. To-day life seems only amatter 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, MissLethbridge?"

  "Premonitions?"

  "Yes, premonitions. I have a feeling that within a few hours I shall bedead."

  "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 factthat she showed marks of having suffered greatly. As she had said, Icould not understand her. In one sense she seemed my ideal of what awoman ought to be. Even although I knew the shadow of death was creepingover me, I felt the power of her presence; felt that it would be blissto love and be loved by such a woman. But I knew she had no love to giveme; knew she had tried to play with my heart as she had played with thehearts of others.

  "You would have made a poor conquest if you had made me fall in lovewith you," I could not help saying bitterly. "After all, I could onlyhave 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 neardeath--you must live!"

  "What would I not give if your words were true, Miss Lethbridge! I neverfelt 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 myCountry."

  Why I was led to say this I cannot tell, but something unloosened mytongue.

  "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 SecretService officers do."

  "But surely you will not k
eep 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 fancythat I can do what no one else can. I have a feeling that if I told mysecret to the officials they would bungle my plans; that is why I amgoing to act alone."

  "Are you going to place yourself in danger?"

  "What matter if I do? I have only a little while to live, andif--if...." I stopped suddenly, for I realized that I had told her morethan I meant to tell any one, that in my excitement I had been recklessand foolish.

  "You speak in riddles," she said. "You have no right to put yourself indanger. I don't understand at all what you are saying. Tell me what youmean, 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 mustbe going now." And I walked away without another word, leaving her atthe gates of her own home.

  As I reflected afterwards, I had not played a very magnanimous part. Ihad been rude almost to a point of brutality, and yet I had not beenable to help myself. Something in her very presence aroused myopposition, my anger. I cannot tell why, but when I was with her,feelings which I had never known at other times almost mastered me. Iknew then, as I had known all along, that I had no love for her, and yetI 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 anunbreakable 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 toldher was true; although I felt strong and full of life, I knew that theAngel of Death had spread his wings over me; that, in spite of my powerto walk and act quickly, death was even then undermining the citadels oflife. In a sense life was not real to me at all; everything wasintangible, visionary. I was like a man in a dream.

  * * * * *

  It is now early in May, and, as I said to Isabella Lethbridge thismorning, it is within a fortnight of the end of the year which Dr.Rhomboid gave me to live. I commenced writing this narrative lastautumn, when the days were shortening and the long evenings were drearyand lonely. I feel now that I have got to the end of my story, and thatI shall never tell of what may yet happen to me. I don't think I am anervous or fanciful man, and, as far as I can remember in what I havewritten, there is nothing in my history to suggest that I amsuperstitious or carried away by old wives' tales. And yet I have aconviction that I have come to the end of my life; that I shall soonlearn the great secret--if there is any secret in death. I don't feelill, rather my body seems instinct with life; I am buoyed up by anunnatural strength; I am capable of thinking, of acting--yet somethingtells me that I am near the end.

  I have been writing for hours, so as to bring my records up to thispoint. Why I have done so I cannot tell, except that I have obeyed anovermastering impulse.

  At six o'clock this evening I arranged my wireless apparatus, so as tobe ready for any news that should come to me. I have also sent Simpsonto St. Issey with certain instructions which seem to be necessary, and Ihave taken all precautions of which I can think to render what I amgoing to try and do effective.

  What will the future bring forth, I wonder? What will be the result ofmy plans? Will everything come to nothing, or will my dreams berealized? I know that if I acted according to the dictates of commonsense, I should at once send Simpson with a long telegram to theauthorities at Falmouth or Penzance. But with that strange obstinacywhich possesses me I refuse to do this; I am acting according to impulseor intuition, rather than in obedience to reason.

  Concerning the deeper things of life and death, I am almost as much inthe dark as I was when I came here nearly a year ago; and yet notaltogether. The subtle change which has come over the life of thevillage has affected me. The faith which has been renewed in the livesof so many people has created an atmosphere which I cannot help butbreathe. Even now, although I feel death to be so near, I have a kind ofintuition that I cannot die. I cannot say that I believe in God, butthere is only a thin line of partition between me and that belief. Lifeis the same as it has been, and yet it is not the same. A new elementhas appeared, a new force has made itself felt, but what that force is Icannot tell.

  During the last few weeks, although I have said nothing about it, I havebeen reading the New Testament, a book I had not looked at since I leftOxford. Especially have I studied the Gospels. They are very wonderful,in some parts sublime. But I have not learnt the secret of the ManJesus. I cannot rid my mind of the thought that He was a visionary. Andyet I don't know; there are times when I cannot get away from the beliefthat His words were founded on the Rock of Truth. When I came back fromthe prayer-meeting the other night, I felt as though Jesus said to mewhat He said to the man in olden times who asked Him questions, "Thouart not far from the kingdom of God." But everything was transitory andpassed 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 isall, then it is a mockery, a haggard failure, an unfulfilled promise, anuncompleted plan. And yet I don't know; even although I were certainthat 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, andvolition and possibilities, only to destroy that life? I felt as I neverfelt before--that my body is not my real self; that the essential I isdistinct from the body. These premonitions of mine, what do theysignify? Certainly they prove a sensitiveness to something which isbeyond my power of understanding; but is that all?

  Never did I feel as I feel now the utter uselessness of mereintellectuality, of material advancement, of scientific discovery, andthe thousand other things which men strive after when divorced fromfaith, divorced from God. I feel that Science, Philosophy, have noanswer to give me, and the wisdom of men is but as the voice of thewandering wind. If I believed in God, if I were sure of God, sure of themessage which Jesus proclaimed, I could laugh at death; for I shouldknow that out of discord would come harmony, and that out ofincompleteness would come completeness. But that secret is not mine. Ionly dimly hope.

  But I will follow my fancies no further. I have my work to do. I have tocarry out the plans I have made.