The Passion for Life

by Joseph Hocking

  V

  AN EMERGING MYSTERY

  After the Vicar had gone I suffered a slight reaction. My mind wasalmost abnormally active, but physically I felt utterly languid anddepressed. I could see that Simpson was watching me closely, and when Idid not do justice to the dinner he had provided he was almost asdepressed as I.

  "I could not help hearing what you and the Vicar were talking about,sir," he said presently. "I tried not to listen, but some things came tome in spite of myself."

  "You heard nothing very edifying, Simpson."

  "No, sir; all the same, I was sorry for you."

  "Sorry for me! Why?"

  "Well, sir, I think I understand how you feel. I am only a poor,ignorant man, sir, but I think I should feel something the same myself.Mr. Trelaske did not help you much, did he?"

  "Well, he did not seem any more sure than you did, Simpson."

  "Yes, sir; I cannot understand it. I was at the death-bed of my father,sir; he was what you would call an old-fashioned Methodist. He was notclever or learned, or anything of that sort; but he was very sure, sir."

  "Sure of what, Simpson?"

  "Sure that he was going to heaven; sure that this life was only a schoolfor a greater life, sir. I am afraid I have not put it very well, but hewas what the Vicar says he isn't--sure. What I can't understand, sir, isthat religion seems to have no meaning nowadays. I was hoping that whenI got down here I should find things the same as they were when I lefthome forty years ago. Then, sir, religion meant something; it doesn'tnow. They say the same words at Chapel as they used to say, but they donot mean the same things."

  "You mean that religion is dead altogether, then, Simpson?"

  "I don't mean that, sir. I only mean that people seem to have lost it.It seems a terrible thing, doesn't it, sir, that when a young gentlemanlike you wants to know something, and you go to Chapel, and to Church,to learn the thing they ought to be able to tell you, you find out thatthey know no more than you do? However, sir, it isn't for me tocriticize. Is there anything more I can do for you, sir?"

  "No, nothing at present, Simpson;" and I turned to the book-shelves thathe had fitted up, hoping to find a book that would interest me. In this,however, I utterly failed. I turned from volume to volume, but couldfasten my mind on nothing. Books which a few months ago would haveenabled me to pass a pleasant evening seemed meaningless and absurd. Iturned from one writer to another, but always with the same result. Whatthey had to say meant nothing. Of course, my mind was in an abnormalcondition, but that was not my fault. Here was I, face to face withdeath, hungering for reality, hungering for truths that were vital. Mylaw books repelled me. What did I care about old Acts of Parliament,passed hundreds of years before? Of what interest to me were thedecisions of old judges, long since dead? They affected only some nicepoints of law, which, as far as I could see, mattered nothing. Theynever touched the depths of life at all. Then there were novels, many ofthem written by men and women I knew personally. But they had nothing tosay to me. I did not care a fig about paltry intrigues, neither was I inthe slightest degree interested in _risque_ situations.

  I went to the door, and looked out into the silent night. Daylight hadjust gone, and that kind of atmosphere which can only be felt just aftersunset and just before sunrise, pervaded everything. The air was full ofmystery. The wondrous depths of the sky, the wide sweep of the Atlantic,the cry of the sea-birds, and that deep hush which accompanies the dyingday, aroused infinite longings. What was life, its meaning, its mystery,its destiny?

  Simpson came to my side.

  "I beg your pardon, sir, but you are not going out, are you?"

  I had not thought of it, but his words caused me to determine to go fora walk.

  "Yes, Simpson, I am," I replied.

  "Shall I go with you, sir?"

  "No, thank you, Simpson, I will go alone."

  "Excuse me, sir, but are you not foolish? Walking in the night might doyou harm, sir; it might shorten your days."

  "What does that matter?" I asked. "As the end is so near, of whatconsequence are a few days, or, for that matter, weeks? The sooner Idie, the sooner I shall solve the great mystery of the Beyond, if thereis a Beyond; if there isn't, what have I to live for here?"

  "I beg your pardon, sir, I am very sorry." And Simpson sighed.

  I put on a light overcoat, and made my way to the highest point of thecliffs. Beneath me, far down, perhaps three or four hundred feet, thewaves rolled on the black, rugged rocks. As I looked seaward, the water,as it seemed to me, became darker and darker. The lines of foam, whichstretched along by the coast, became more and more distinct. Night hadnow fallen. The sky was star-spangled. I had never seen such a sky inEngland before. Once or twice down by the Mediterranean I had seensomething similar, but never in my own country. I felt as thoughinvisible presences were near me, as though they were trying to speak tome; but I could not understand the language.

  Unmindful of consequences, I sat down on the heather, and gave myself upto fancy. I tried to pierce the veil which hung between me and theBeyond. I tried to understand the meaning of the far-off voices whichwere wafted to me by the night breezes. I wanted to read the riddle ofLife and Death.

  Then, suddenly, I heard voices, and I was brought back from thingsintangible and mysterious to things mundane.

  "You are sure he knows nothing?" It was a woman's voice I heard.

  "Perfectly sure. I questioned him closely this morning. I so framed myquestions that he could have no suspicion--but always with the sameresult."

  "But why should he choose a place like this? Surely, if he is ill,dying, he would never come to a madman's hut, in a place where murderwas supposed to be committed."

  "I tell you that there is no need for fear; he suspects nothing--he isjust what he seems to be."

  The voices died away. The man and woman whom I had heard talking, andwhom I had dimly seen, descended the hill, and were lost in thedarkness. Then it was that, in spite of myself, I became interested inthings mundane. Why they should do so I could not imagine, but I feltthat they had been talking about me. But why should they? What was thepurport of their conversation? How had I become mixed up in the plans ofpeople of whom I knew nothing? I felt myself at the centre of a mystery,and my interest in that mystery caused the greater mystery of Life andDeath to lose its hold on me.

  I recognized the voice of the man. He had been to see me soon after myarrival; but who was the woman? What interest could my movements have toher? She spoke like one having authority, and it was evident that shefeared I should discover something.

  I forgot my ailments, forgot the tragedy of my life, in trying to solvethis new riddle. I could not help connecting it with the old-fashionedbrooch I had picked up in the cave accidentally the day I had come toCornwall. The activities and interests in this life again becameparamount.

  "I will get to the bottom of this, anyway," I said to myself as I mademy way back to my hut. "It will be better for me, too, than to beforever brooding about myself. And, after all, while I am alive I willlive, and I will keep my eyes and ears open until I have discovered whatthis means."

  When I reached my little room again, Simpson awaited me eagerly.

  "Please, sir," he said, "I have had visitors."

  "More visitors, Simpson?"

  "Yes, sir, a gentleman and a lady."

  "Do you know who they are?"

  "No, sir; they are both complete strangers. They came and asked to seeyou, and I told them you were not to be seen, sir. They asked a goodmany questions about you, but I told them nothing."

  "And then, Simpson?"

  "The gentleman gave me his card, with his compliments, sir."

  I took the card and read the address:

  MR. JOHN LIDDICOAT, THE HILL TOP, ST. EIA.

  "All right, Simpson," I said. "I shan't want you any more to-night."

  "Please, sir," said Simpson, "I have some books here which I think mightinterest you."

  "Hang
books!" I replied. "I don't feel like reading." Then, feelingashamed of myself for not appreciating Simpson's kindness, I added,"It's awfully good of you, Simpson, and I might like them after all.What is it you have got?"

  "John Wesley's _Journal_, sir. He came to this part of Cornwall, and Ithought you might like to read about it. Not that I should advise you toread to-night, sir, if I might take such a liberty, but perhapsto-morrow. Good-night, sir." And he left me.

  I was just on the point of going to bed, when, on opening one of thevolumes he had placed on the table, I came upon a passage whichinterested me. I saw that the name of St. Issey was mentioned, and adescription given of this very neighborhood. In a few minutes I hadbecome utterly absorbed. Hitherto John Wesley had only been a name tome. I had had no interest either in his life or work. I had looked uponhim as somewhat of a fanatic, who had appealed to the fears of asuperstitious people, and had founded a sect. Now, however, he revealedhimself to me in a new light. This diary was the work of a thoughtfulman, and a cultured man, too, who had lived his life to the full, andwho faced its issues squarely.

  My word, religion had meant something to him! It was not a mere name, atradition, a set of dogmas, a respectable institution. It was somethingreal, vital, pulsating with life. To him the Founder of Christianity wasnot a mere mystic and social reformer, who lived nineteen hundred yearsago on a little strip of land on the Eastern Coast of the Mediterranean,but a Divine Person, Who lived now. This John Wesley, who was aneducated man and a thoughtful man, spoke like one who knew, and becauseof it he had authority and power.

  I went on reading page after page, until, looking at my watch, I foundit was past midnight.