The Passion for Life Part 50

"Then--then you will take this to Mr. Josiah Lethbridge!"

"Mr. Josiah Lethbridge, sir?"

"Yes, take it to him immediately. You must not delay a second."

"But what can happen to you, sir?"

"I know of nothing," I replied. "I am only taking a precaution. That is all, Simpson. Good-night."

I held the lamp in my hand as I spoke, while Simpson sat up in his bed staring at me.

"Excuse me, sir," he said, "but--but----" and then he put his hand under the pillow and took out his watch. "It is half-past three, sir, it won't be long before daylight; and--and haven't you been to bed, sir?"

"Good-night, Simpson," I said, and then found my way into my little room. Five minutes later, I had got into bed, and blown out the lamp. I was still strangely awake, and was again living over my experiences of the night. I heard Simpson groping cautiously around the house, and I knew he was looking at the fastenings of windows and doors.

"I shall have a busy day to-morrow," I said to myself. "I must see that my little wireless apparatus is in good order. I must be careful, too, that I arouse no suspicion in placing it on the spot I have prepared."

After this I began to arrange my plans concerning the work I had to do.

Then, little by little, things became hazy and indistinct to me. "I am falling asleep," I said to myself. "This is wonderful; I never thought I should sleep to-night."

I seemed to be pa.s.sing through one world into another, from the world of realities to the world of dreams, and yet the latter was as real to me as the former had been. I had a kind of consciousness that I was asleep, and yet the stuff of which my dreams were made was just as vivid as my experiences of that night.

I was far out at sea, but it was not such a sea as I had ever known. I felt the movement of the waters, and heard the roar of the machinery.

But I could see nothing. A great weight seemed to weigh me down. I felt, too, as though I were moving amidst great sea-monsters, the like of which I had never imagined before. I had a difficulty in breathing; it seemed to me as though the air which pa.s.sed through my lungs was artificial. I had the use of my senses, but those senses seemed to respond to new conditions. I heard, but my hearing was confused; I felt, but with a kind of numb consciousness. I heard sounds of voices, but the voices might have been hundreds of miles away. It was as though I were speaking to some one through a telephone, a long way off. I was in a kind of a room, but it was such a room as I had never seen before. It had neither shape nor dimension. Little by little, that which had been shadowy and unreal became more definite. I saw a table, with three men sitting beside it; in front of them was a chart.

"She will be there on Thursday," said one, placing his hand on a certain spot on the chart. "It's a long distance from here and we shall want more petrol."

"It will be easy for us to get it," said another; "we have everything in training. We must let him know."

As I said, the voices seemed to be hundreds of miles away, as though they were speaking through a long-distance telephone. Yet every word was plain.

I realized at that moment that they were speaking in German, and saw, too, that the men had German faces, and wore German clothes.

I was not in the least surprised or disturbed. It seemed to me as though it were all a part of a prearranged plan. The sense of wonder had altogether departed from me.

"There will be a greater yell than ever about German atrocities,"

laughed one of the men. "After all, it does seem a devilish thing to attack pa.s.senger vessels."

"What has that to do with us? We must obey orders."

"But what good will it do?"

"G.o.d 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.