Part 84 (1/2)

”I can't tell you what pleasure and comfort your music is to me,” he used to say, again and again. ”It has been so ever since I knew you.

When I think of the thousands of poor devils who have to end their lives in some wretched, lonely, sordid fas.h.i.+on, after hards.h.i.+ps and struggles and very little hope, I can't help feeling that I am fortunate indeed, now and all through my life. I have grumbled at times, and there have been sharp experiences--few escape those--but take it all round, I have had my share of good things.”

He had one great satisfaction: that he had discovered, before the end of his days, the means which he had so long been seeking, of saving the death-agony of animals that are killed for food. Some day perhaps, he said, men might cease to be numbered among the beasts of prey, but till then, at least their victims might be spared as much pain as possible.

He had overcome the difficulty of expense, which had always been the main obstacle to a practical solution of the problem. Henceforth there was no need for any creature to suffer, in dying for man's use. If people only knew and realized how much needless agony is inflicted on these helpless creatures, in order to supply the daily demands of a vast flesh-eating population, they would feel that, as a matter of fact, he had been doing the human race a good turn as well as their more friendless fellow-beings. It was impossible to imagine that men and women would not suffer at the thought of causing suffering to the helpless, if once they realized that suffering clearly. Men and women were not devils! Theobald had always laughed at him for this part of his work, but he felt now, at the close of his life, that he could dwell upon that effort with more pleasure than on any other, although others had won him far more applause, and this had often brought him contempt.

If only he could be sure that the discovery would not be wasted.

”It shall be our business to see that it is not,” said Valeria, in a voice tremulous with unshed tears.

The Professor heaved a sigh of relief, at this a.s.surance.

”My earlier work is safe; what I have done in other directions, is already a part of human knowledge and resource, but this is just the sort of thing that might be so easily lost and forgotten. These sufferings are hidden, and when people do not see a wrong, they do not think of it; make them think, make them think!”

A week had gone by since the Professor's arrival at the Priory. He was in great pain, but had intervals of respite. He liked, in those intervals, to see his friends. They could scarcely believe that he was dying, for he still seemed so full of interest in the affairs of life, and spoke of the future as if he would be there to see it. One of the most distressing interviews was with Mr. Fullerton, who could not be persuaded that the invalid had but a short time to live. The old man believed that death meant, beyond all question, annihilation of the personality, and had absolutely no hope of meeting again.

”Don't be too sure, old friend,” said the Professor; ”don't be too sure of anything, in this mysterious universe.”

The weather kept warm and genial, and this was favourable to his lingering among them a little longer. But his suffering, at times, was so great that they could scarcely wish for this delay. Hadria used always to play to him during some part of the afternoon. The robin had become a constant visitor, and had found its way to the window of the sick-room, where crumbs had been scattered on the sill. The Professor took great pleasure in watching the little creature. Sometimes it would come into the room and hop on to a chair or table, coquetting from perch to perch, and looking at the invalid, with bright inquisitive eyes. The crumbs were put out at a certain hour each morning, and the bird had acquired the habit of arriving almost to the moment. If, by chance, the crumbs had been forgotten, the robin would flutter ostentatiously before the window, to remind his friends of their neglected duty.

During the last few days, Hadria had fancied that the Professor had divined Valeria's secret, or that she had betrayed it.

There was a peculiar, reverent tenderness in his manner towards her, that was even more marked than usual.

”Can't we save him? can't we save him, Hadria?” she used to cry piteously, when they were alone. ”Surely, surely there is some hope.

Science makes such professions; why doesn't it do something?”

”Ah, don't torture yourself with false hope, dear Valeria.”

”The world is monstrous, life is unbearable,” exclaimed Valeria, with a despairing break in her voice.

But one afternoon, she came out of the sick-room with a less distraught expression on her worn face, though her eyes shewed traces of tears.

The dying man used to speak often about his wife to Hadria. This had been her room, and he almost fancied her presence about him.

”Do you know,” he said, ”I have found, of late, that many of my old fixed ideas have been insidiously modifying. So many things that I used to regard as preposterous have been borne in upon me, in a singular fas.h.i.+on, as by no means so out of the question. I have had one or two strange experiences and now a hope--I might say a faith--has settled upon me of an undying element in our personality. I feel that we shall meet again those we have loved here--some time or another.”

”What a sting that would take from the agony of parting,” cried Hadria.

”And, after all, is it less rational to suppose that there is some survival of the Self, and that the wild, confused earthly experience is an element of a spiritual evolutionary process, than to suppose that the whole universe is chaotic and meaningless? For what we call mind exists, and it must be contained in the sum-total of existence, or how could it arise out of it? Therefore, some reasonable scheme appears more likely than a reasonless one. And then there is that other big fact that stares us in the face and puts one's fears to shame: human goodness.”

Hadria's rebellious memory recalled the fact of human cruelty and wickedness to set against the goodness, but she was silent.

”What earthly business has such a thing as goodness or pity to appear in a fortuitous, mindless, soulless universe? Where does it come from? What is its origin? Whence sprang the laws that gave it birth?”

”It gives more argument to faith than any thing I know,” she said, ”even if there had been but one good man or woman since the world began.”

”Ah, yes; the pity and tenderness that lie in the heart of man, even of the worst, if only they can be appealed to before they die, may teach us to hope all things.”

There was a long silence. Through the open window, they could hear the soft cooing of the wood-pigeons. Among the big trees behind the house, there was a populous rookery, noisy now with the squeaky voices of the young birds, and the deeper cawing of the parent rooks.