Part 17 (1/2)
”No; not the whole,” persisted the curate; ”for I fancy you will yourself admit there is some blind driving law behind the phenomenon.
But now I will beg the whole question, if you like to say so, for the sake of a bit of purely metaphysical argument: the law of life behind, if it be spontaneously existent, can not be a blind, deaf, unconscious law; if it be unconscious of itself, it can not be spontaneous; whatever is of itself must be G.o.d, and the source of all non-spontaneous, that is, all other existence.”
”Then it has been only a dispute about a word?” said Faber.
”Yes, but a word involving a tremendous question,” answered Wingfold.
”Which I give up altogether,” said the doctor, ”a.s.serting that there is _nothing_ spontaneous, in the sense you give the word--the original sense I admit. From all eternity a blind, unconscious law has been at work, producing.”
”I say, an awful living Love and Truth and Right, creating children of its own,” said the curate--”and there is our difference.”
”Yes,” a.s.sented Faber.
”Anyhow, then,” said Wingfold, ”so far as regards the matter in hand, all we can say is, that under such and such circ.u.mstances life _appears--whence_, we believe differently; _how_, neither of us can tell--perhaps will ever be able to tell. I can't talk in scientific phrase like you, Faber, but truth is not tied to any form of words.”
”It is well disputed,” said the doctor, ”and I am inclined to grant that the question with which we started does not immediately concern the great differences between us.”
It was rather hard upon Faber to have to argue when out of condition and with a lady beside to whom he was longing to pour out his soul--his antagonist a man who never counted a sufficing victory gained, unless his adversary had had light and wind both in his back. Trifling as was the occasion of the present skirmish, he had taken his stand on the lower ground. Faber imagined he read both triumph and pity in Juliet's regard, and could scarcely endure his position a moment longer.
”Shall we have some music?” said Wingfold. ”--I see the piano open. Or are you one of those wors.h.i.+pers of work, who put music in the morning in the same category with looking on the wine when it is red?”
”Theoretically, no; but practically, yes,” answered Faber, ”--at least for to-day. I shouldn't like poor Widow Mullens to lie listening to the sound of that old water-wheel, till it took up its parable against the faithlessness of men in general, and the doctor in particular. I can't do her much good, poor old soul, but I can at least make her fancy herself of consequence enough not to be forgotten.”
The curate frowned a little--thoughtfully--but said nothing, and followed his visitor to the door. When he returned, he said,
”I wonder what it is in that man that won't let him believe!”
”Perhaps he will yet, some day,” said Juliet, softly.
”He will; he must,” answered the curate. ”He always reminds me of the young man who had kept the law, and whom our Lord loved. Surely he must have been one of the first that came and laid his wealth at the apostles' feet! May not even that half of the law which Faber tries to keep, be school-master enough to lead him to Christ?--But come, Miss Meredith; now for our mathematics!”
Every two or three days the doctor called to see his late patient. She wanted looking after, he said. But not once did he see her alone. He could not tell from their behavior whether she or her hostess was to blame for his recurring disappointment; but the fact was, that his ring at the door-bell was the signal to Juliet not to be alone.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE PASTOR'S STUDY.
Happening at length to hear that visitors were expected, Juliet, notwithstanding the a.s.surances of her hostess that there was plenty of room for her, insisted on finding lodgings, and taking more direct measures for obtaining employment. But the curate had not been idle in her affairs, and had already arranged for her with some of his own people who had small children, only he had meant she should not begin just yet. He wanted her both to be a little stronger, and to have got a little further with one or two of her studies. And now, consulting with Helen, he broached a new idea on the matter of her lodgment.
A day or two before Jones, the butcher, had been talking to him about Mr. Drake--saying how badly his congregation had behaved to him, and in what trouble he had come to him, because he could not pay his bill. The good fellow had all this time never mentioned the matter; and it was from growing concern about the minister that he now spoke of it to the curate.
”We don't know all the circ.u.mstances, however, Mr. Jones,” the curate replied; ”and perhaps Mr. Drake himself does not think so badly of it as you do. He is a most worthy man. Mind you let him have whatever he wants. I'll see to you. Don't mention it to a soul.”
”Bless your heart and liver, sir!” exclaimed the butcher, ”he's ten times too much of a gentleman to do a kindness to. I couldn't take no liberty with that man--no, not if he was 'most dead of hunger. He'd eat the rats out of his own cellar, I do believe, before he'd accept what you may call a charity; and for buying when he knows he can't pay, why he'd beg outright before he'd do that. What he do live on now I can't nohow make out--and that's what doos make me angry with him--as if a honest tradesman didn't know how to behave to a gentleman! Why, they tell me, sir, he did use to drive his carriage and pair in London! And now he's a doin' of his best to live on nothink at all!--leastways, so they tell me--seem' as how he'd have 'em believe he was turned a--what's it they call it!--a--a--a wegetablarian!--that's what he do, sir! But I know better. He may be eatin' gra.s.s like a ox, as did that same old king o' Israel as growed the feathers and claws in consequence; and I don't say he ain't; but one thing I'm sure of, and that is, that if he be, it's by cause he can't help it. Why, sir, I put it to you--no gentleman would--if he could help it.--Why don't he come to me for a bit o'
wholesome meat?” he went on in a sorely injured tone. ”He knows I'm ready for anythink in reason! Them peas an' beans an' cabbages an'
porridges an' carrots an' turmits--why, sir, they ain't nothink at all but water an' wind. I don't say as they mayn't keep a body alive for a year or two, but, bless you, there's nothink in them; and the man'll be a skelinton long before he's dead an' buried; an' I shed jest like to know where's the good o' life on sich terms as them!”
Thus Jones, the butcher--a man who never sold bad meat, never charged for an ounce more than he delivered, and when he sold to the poor, considered them. In buying and selling he had a weakness for giving the fair play he demanded. He had a little spare money somewhere, but he did not make a fortune out of hunger, retire early, and build churches. A local preacher once asked him if he knew what was the plan of salvation.