The Passion for Life

by Joseph Hocking

  XXVIII

  THE NEW LIFE

  The first thing I can remember after coming to consciousness was thefeeling that strangers were around me. I could not see them, but I knewthey were there. I remember trying to open my eyes, but I could seenothing; I heard whispered voices, however.

  "Is he dead?"

  "I am not quite sure. No, he's not dead, his pulse still beats!"

  "Will he live, do you think?"

  "Difficult to say. He came out of it all right, but his vitality is verylow."

  "Was the operation severe?"

  "Yes, very severe; it is a miracle that he has lived as long as he has.I must go by the Riviera express to-morrow morning, but I will callabout eight o'clock."

  "Have you any further orders to give?"

  "No, you can only do what I have told you. His life hangs on a thread;he may live, but I doubt it."

  I listened in a detached kind of way, scarcely realizing what I heard; Iwas perfectly indifferent, too. It had nothing to do with me, and evenif it had, I did not care. Then darkness came upon me again and I nolonger saw the bright speck shining.

  After that I had quickly fleeting moments of consciousness; thingsaround me became real for a moment and then passed away. Doubtless I wasin a semi-comatose condition; sometimes I imagined I heard fragments ofconversation, but I can remember nothing definite.

  After that followed a time of intense weariness. I felt as though I weretoo weak even to lie down; I could not move my limbs, and the weight ofmy own body on the bed seemed to weary me, but I was not sufficientlyconscious to realize the full extent of my weariness. I have a vagueremembrance of being fed; I call to mind a woman standing by my bedsideholding something to my mouth; but as I reflect now these things seemonly phantoms of the mind.

  After a time I became conscious of intense pain, and I have arecollection of being able to move my limbs, and I remember hearing avoice saying:

  "He is stronger anyhow, but I never saw a man so utterly exhausted."

  A long space of time, how long I do not know, but it seemed to meinterminable. Day appeared to follow day and week to follow week, andyet I have no distinct remembrance. In recalling it all, I am like a mantrying to remember a far-off dream.

  Suddenly I became awake. I was fully conscious that I was living; Icould outline the room in which I lay, I could see the sunlightstreaming in at the window, I could hear the birds singing. I was veryweak, but I was alive; I was able to think, too, able to connect thoughtwith thought, although my memory was dim. Incidents of my life passedbefore me like shadows; I saw them only in part, but I did see them.

  The room was strange to me. This was not my little bedroom by the sea;the apartment was bigger than the whole of my cottage. The ceiling washigh, and the window through which the sun shone was large. I did notcare so much where I was; all the same, I was curious.

  "What has happened to me, I wonder?" I asked myself, "and why am Ihere?"

  I could see no one in the room, and all was silent save for the singingof the birds and the humming of the insects. I had a vague consciousnessthat the feeling of summer was in the air, and a delicious kind ofrestfulness possessed me. I was no longer too tired to lie down, ratherI felt the luxury of being in bed. I suffered no pain either, althoughat my side, where I remembered suffering exquisite agony, was a kind oftingling sensation which I associated with a wound in the act ofhealing.

  I saw a woman come to the head of my bed; she wore a nurse's uniform,and had a placid, kindly face.

  "Who are you, and where am I?"

  I know I spoke the words, but I did not recognize my voice at all; itseemed far away, like a whispering among breezes.

  The woman said something, I know, but what, I could not tell. I imaginethe effect was soothing, for immediately afterwards I found myself goingto sleep.

  Again I was conscious, more vividly conscious than before. The outlinesof the room were the same, and I was able to recognize some of thefurniture which I had previously seen. I remembered, too, lifting myhand from the counterpane and noting how thin and white it was.

  The door of the room opened and a man entered. I saw at a glance that itwas Simpson, and I looked at him through my half-closed eyes. He came tomy bedside and looked steadily at me, then he placed his hand gently onmy forehead; his touch was as soft as that of a woman.

  "Simpson," I said, and this time I was able to recognize my voice. "Isthat you, Simpson?"

  "Yes, sir; thank you, sir."

  His old-time formula acted on me like a tonic; it made me want to laugh.Yes, I really was alive then, and Simpson was with me; but what was themeaning of this strange room?

  "Simpson," I said, "am I really alive?"

  "Yes, sir; thank God, sir."

  I thought I saw the tears gather in his eyes, and I am sure I saw hislips tremble.

  "Have I been ill, Simpson?"

  "Yes, sir, very ill, but I believe we have beaten them, sir."

  "Beaten who?" I asked.

  But this time he did not answer. The woman came in again bearingsomething in her hand. There was a whispered consultation between them,and then I remember drinking something, after which I went to sleepagain.

  When I again awoke I felt sure it was morning. I had no reason forbelieving this, but I had no doubt about it; the air was morning air,the sounds were morning sounds. The birds were chirping in the trees,the cattle were lowing in the meadows, the poultry were cackling in ayard near by, a thousand whispering voices everywhere told me that I hadawakened to the dawn of a new day. I moved in my bed; yes, I hadstrength enough for that, and the movement caused me no pain. In aninstant I heard footsteps, and Simpson again came to my side.

  "Can I do anything for you, sir? How are you to-day?"

  "I feel like a man reborn, Simpson," I said. And it was true. A life wassurging in my veins which I never remembered before; I felt as though mywhole being had been made clean and all my powers renewed. I wasunutterably weak, but I felt all a child's health and joy.

  "Tell me what this means, Simpson," I said; "this is not my room, not mybed."

  "No, sir, but I am your man, sir," and his voice was husky.

  "Yes, I am glad you are with me, Simpson. It is good to wake up and findyou here."

  "I hope I shall never have to leave you, sir," and I saw him wipe awayhis tears.

  "Tell me about it, Simpson--tell me where I am and what has happened tome."

  "I am forbidden to talk, sir; the doctor won't allow me. You see----"

  "What doctor?" I interrupted.

  "Dr. Rhomboid, sir."

  "Dr. Rhomboid? Dr. Rhomboid?" The name was familiar to me.

  "Where am I, Simpson?"

  "You are at Trecarrel, sir; Miss Lethbridge insisted on----"

  "Miss Lethbridge! Miss Lethbridge!" Then like a flash the veil droppedfrom my memory. I called to mind the struggle on the beach, thehand-to-hand fight, the plot which I had determined to expose.

  "Miss Lethbridge insisted on my being brought here, did she, Simpson?"

  "Yes, sir; you see, sir, that man Liddicoat struck you with somethingheavy. I--I--but there, I mustn't tell you."

  "Yes, you must, Simpson; I insist upon knowing everything. I rememberall that happened now: I was leaning against the rock waiting, when thedog barked, and the man Liddicoat sprang upon me. I struggled with himfor a long time, and then suddenly everything became dark."

  "Yes, sir, after they had finished----"

  "Finished what?" I asked.

  "I can't tell you now, sir; but Miss Lethbridge insisted on your beingbrought here. And really, sir, the road is easier here than it is to ourhouse, and I gave in."

  "But how did Miss Lethbridge get there?"

  "I don't know, sir. I expect she will be telling you herself as soon asyou are strong enough. Then I insisted upon sending for Dr. Rhomboid,and, sir, as Providence would have it, he was staying at the TolgarrickManor Hotel. The Squire had heard of it, sir; that was why, as soon asyou were broug
ht here...."

  I felt that my mind was weakening, and that I had no longer any strengthto grasp the things which Simpson was saying. I lost interest in them,too, and I remember falling asleep with the thought in my mind that Iwas in the house where Isabella Lethbridge had insisted upon bringingme.

  I awoke again, and I knew that I was stronger; everything was outlinedmore clearly to me. Not only the objects by which I was surrounded, butmy thoughts seemed more definite. It was now night; the room in which Ilay was only illumined by a candle, but I saw everything plainly.Sitting by my side was the nurse whom I remembered previously; shestarted up on hearing me move and looked at me anxiously.

  "You need not fear, nurse," I said. "I am better; the cobwebs havegone."

  The nurse smiled, then she placed her hand upon my wrist.

  "Yes," she said, "you are better, stronger. Can you bear to have this inyour mouth a minute?"

  "I can bear anything, nurse."

  Evidently she was pleased with me, for a minute later she smiledconfidently.

  "Your pulse is normal and you have no fever," she said.

  "Why am I here, nurse? What has happened to me? Tell me everything."

  "No, no; go to sleep now, and in the morning you may be strong enough tobear it."

  "I should sleep far better if I knew everything," I replied; "don't befoolish, nurse."

  "What do you want to know?"

  "Dr. Rhomboid has been here, I am told," I said. "What did he say aboutme? When I saw him in London he wrote my death-warrant."

  "Now he has given you a reprieve," was her reply, "and more than areprieve. In fact, he said that if you got through the operation youwould live!"

  I was not surprised; I felt that life, and not death, was surging withinme.

  "Don't try to keep things back from me, nurse," I said. "I remembereverything that took place. I remember the struggle on the beach and thedarkness which followed. Simpson tells me that I have been brought toMr. Lethbridge's house, and that, as if by special Providence, Dr.Rhomboid was staying at the Tolgarrick Hotel. What was his verdict?"

  "He sent for a London surgeon," said the nurse, "and he told us that ifyou recovered from the operation you would live. You have recovered."

  "Then he made a wrong diagnosis in London. That means I had somethinggrowing in me, and now it's cut out I shall live?"

  The nurse nodded and smiled.

  "That's all I must tell you now," she said; "take this and go to sleep."

  I obeyed her like a child; a feeling of utter contentment possessed me,and I felt myself dropping into a deep, untroubled sleep.

  When I awoke again I had a feeling that it was morning. I knew that thedewdrops were shining on the grass, that the day was new-born; I knew,too, that the sun was rising in a cloudless sky, that the time wassummer.

  I was in the same room, but somehow it was different. A new atmospherepervaded it; I saw vases of flowers, flowers that were wet with themorning dew, flowers that had been gathered that morning. Their perfumewas as sweet as the spices of Araby. A feeling of delicious restfulnesspossessed me; I was as weak as a child; but there was new life in mybeing, a life that would overcome everything. I closed my eyes with theconsciousness that all was well; nothing troubled me, no thought of careweighed upon my brain or heart. I caught myself remembering those linesof Browning:

  "The lark's on the wing, The morning's at seven, The hillside's dew-pearled, The snail's on the thorn; God's in His heaven, All's right with the world!"

  I heard a sob close by my side.

  I did not know how it was, but the sob seemed to be in accord with mythoughts, for it contained no sorrow.

  I opened my eyes and saw Isabella Lethbridge leaning over my bed. Ididn't speak, I couldn't; my life was filled with wonder, a wonder whichI cannot put into words.

  She was dressed, I remember, all in white; this I thought strange,because I imagined she would show some kind of mourning for her deadbrother; but I gave it only a passing thought, for it was of noimportance; the thing that impressed me was the new light in her eyes,the new joy in her face.

  The barrier which had always stood between us had melted away; she wastransformed, glorified. There was no need to tell me that a wondrouschange had come over her; that some joy to which she had hitherto beenblind possessed her; that a new power was pulsating in her life:Isabella Lethbridge was transformed, beautified beyond all thought.

  We looked at each other without speaking a word; there was no need forwords; words at that moment would have seemed like sacrilege.

  A thousand questions flashed through my mind, but I did not ask them;there was only one question which I longed to ask, a question whichembraced everything.

  Still we did not speak; we remained looking in each other's eyes, as ifeach were trying to find what we looked for.

  Then I saw the tears well up, saw them trickle down her cheeks, saw herlips quiver, and then she could no longer hold back her words.

  "Don't you know, don't you know?" she sobbed.

  I held out my arms, and a second later our lips met, and we wereuttering incoherent words which none but those who know the language ofthe heart can interpret.

  "You know now, don't you?" she said at length.

  "Yes, I know," I said.

  And yet it was all a wonder to me. When last I had spoken to her aninvisible barrier stood between us. I had admired her beauty, her keenintelligence; I thought, too, that I saw wondrous possibilities in hernature; but I did not love her. Something, I knew not what, forbade thatlove. I had told her so, told her that I did not love her, that I onlyloved the woman she ought to be. Now it seemed as though a magician'shand had swept away the barrier; that some divine power had illuminedher life and filled it with a new and divine element. I saw herennobled, glorified; the old repellent look had gone; those eyes whichhad flashed with scorn were now filled with infinite tenderness. Why wasit? And what had wrought the change?

  Presently she lifted her head, and I saw a look of fear come into hereyes.

  "You said you didn't love me; is that true?"

  "You know," I replied.

  "But tell me, tell me!"

  "I can't," I replied; "words only mock me; they would only suggest thefaintest shadow of what fills my life. The barriers are gone! What haswrought the change?"

  "Are you sure you are strong enough to hear? Oh, it is wrong of me tospeak to you like this, and you so weak!"

  "Your every word is giving me new life," was my reply; "tell meeverything."

  "And you are sure, sure--that--that----"

  "That I see in you the woman God meant you to be," was my reply. "Butwhat has wrought the change?"

  "I can hardly find words to tell you, it seems so unreal, so--so beyondthe power of words to express. But--but years ago I could not love; Ilonged to love and could not; something held me back, what, I didn'tknow. I tried to break down that something. I--I was called a flirt, youknow," and she laughed nervously.

  "Yes, yes, I remember," I said.

  "I did it as an experiment. I fancied that somehow if I won the love ofsome one, the casement around my heart would break, would melt away; butit was no use. And all the time I knew that I was missing the joy oflife. Then you came. Yes, you were right; I thought I saw in you one whomight break the hard crust around my heart, and I tried to fascinateyou, tried to--to--do what you said. You remember?"

  "Yes, I remember."

  "But you were right. If you had loved me then, I had nothing to giveyou. At the centre of my heart there was a burning fire; but that firewas confined; I didn't love you; I wanted to, longed to, but I couldnot. And yet all the time I knew that if ever love came to me it wouldbe for you, only you."

  She ceased speaking for a few seconds, and I heard her tremulousbreathing.

  "Do you understand? Do you forgive me?" she asked.

  "Yes, I understand; go on, tell me."

  "Then came that day, before--before--the awful night. You know when youto
ld me that you believed you were going to die, and you hinted thatthat very night you were going on an enterprise which meant danger,possibly death, I think I went mad; I have no remembrance of anythingexcept the feeling that I must watch you, save you! So all that eveningI waited around your hut unseen. I saw you at your little wirelessstation; I saw you send Simpson away; I saw you go down through thecopse towards the beach. I followed you, watching all the time. Eventhen I didn't know my secret; I acted as though I had no will of my own,as though I were driven by some power I could not understand. I didn'tknow your plans, but I felt that I must be silent and watch. Then whenthat man leapt on you something seemed to break within me, something wasliberated, I didn't know what; but I knew that I loved you, I knew thatthe power of love had come to me, and that I was ready to die to saveyou. Without thought or comprehension of what I was doing, I flungmyself upon the woman, and--and...."

  "Oh, my love, my love!" I murmured. "Thank God for all His goodness!"

  For some time we were silent.

  "Tell me all the rest," I said presently.

  "That's all, isn't it?"

  There was a great deal more, but I cared nothing about it. At thatmoment it seemed to me that all I had tried to do and hoped to do for mycountry was swallowed up in the one great possession, the one great factwhich overwhelmed everything.

  "Am I doing wrong in telling you this?" she asked. "It seems as thoughthere is nothing else in life now but that, because it has meanteverything else--faith, religion, God. It has made the world new, it hasbroken down all barriers and glorified all life. Oh, my love, my love,do you understand?"

  "I understand," I replied, "I understand."

  And then the truth which had contained everything, the truth which wasthe centre and circumference of all that came to me during the time Ithought I was dead, flooded my heart and brain.

  "Life and love are everything, for these mean God."

  I did not ask her the result of my struggle with Liddicoat, or theoutcome of the plans I had made. I wanted to ask her, and yet I did not;somehow that did not seem to matter.

  I heard the birds singing in the trees around the house; heard thelowing of the cattle in the meadows; saw the sunlight streaming throughthe window; breathed the sweetness of the morning air.

  I had indeed entered the light and life of a new day; the world wasflooded with a glory that was infinite; barriers were broken downbecause I had learnt the secret of life!

  For some time we were silent; again there seemed nothing to say, becauseeverything was too wonderful for words.

  "During the time your life hung on a thread, and when the doctorsdoubted whether you could live, even then I had no fear," she went onpresently. "That which had come to me was so wonderful that it seemed tomake everything possible, and--I cannot put it into words--but while Iwas almost mad with anxiety, in spite of a kind of certainty whichpossessed me, I knew that all was well, I knew that somehow--somehow weshould be brought together and that life's secret would be ours."

  A knock came to the door and the nurse entered.

  "How is the patient, Miss Lethbridge?" she asked.

  "I feel wonderful," I replied; "far stronger than I was when you werehere last, nurse."

  "Yes, you are all right," said the nurse smilingly. "Miss Lethbridgecame directly you fell asleep, and insisted on my going to bed. I amsure it was awfully good of her to relieve me."

  "She has proved a good substitute, nurse," I replied; "but you mustinsist upon her going to bed now if she has been watching all thenight."

  "Yes, and you look as though you need washing and your hair brushed,"laughed the nurse. "You must not get on too fast, you know."

  "I shall be quite well enough to receive visitors soon," was my reply.

  "Visitors!" laughed the nurse; "you will be inundated with them as soonas you are strong enough. A man has come all the way from London to seeyou; he wants to interview you for one of the London newspapers. Yousee, having succeeded in exposing that German plot, and causing thearrest of a lot of dangerous people, you have been the talk of thecountry."

  "I was successful, then?" I said.

  "Successful! Oh, of course you don't know; but you will hear all aboutit later, as soon as you are stronger."

  "How long is it since it happened?" I asked curiously.

  "I have been here just five weeks," replied the nurse.