There & Back

“As you please! It’s nothing to me.”

“Alice, why do you speak to me like that? Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Everything is wrong. Everybody is wrong. The whole world is wrong.”

Her voice was a little stronger. She raised herself, and looked him in the face.

“I hope not.”

“I hope it is!”

“Why should you?”

“To think things were right would be too terrible! I say everything’s wrong.”

“What’s to be done, then?” sighed Richard.

“I must get out of it all.”

“But how?”

“There is only one way.”

“What is that?”

“Everybody knows.”

“Alice,” cried Richard, nearly in despair like herself, “are you out of your mind?”

“Pretty nearly.—Why shouldn’t I be? There are plenty of us!”

“Alice, if you won’t tell me what is the matter with you, if you won’t let me help you, I will sit down by you till the morning.”

“What if I drop?”

“Then I will carry you away. The sooner you drop the better.” Her resolution seemed to break.

“I ‘ain’t eaten a mouthful to-day,” she said.

“My poor girl! Promise me to wait till I come back. Here, put on my coat.”

She was past resisting more, and allowed him to button his coat about her.

But he was in great perplexity: where was he to get anything for her? And how was she to live till he brought it! It was terrible to think of! Alice with nothing to eat, and no refuge but a stone in the moonlight! This was what her religion had done for Alice!

“Miss Wylder’s God!” he said to himself with contempt.

“He’s well enough for the wind and the stars and the moonlight! but for human beings—for Alice—for creatures dying of hunger, what a mockery! If he were there, it would be a sickness to talk of him! Beauty is beauty, but for anything behind it—pooh!”

He stood a moment hesitating. Alice swayed on her seat, and would have fallen. He caught her—and in the act remembered a little cottage, a hut rather, down a lane a short way off. He took her in his arms and started for it.

She was dreadfully thin, but a strong man cannot walk very fast carrying a woman, however light she be, and she had half come to herself before he reached the cottage.

“Richard, dear Richard!” she murmured at his ear, “where are you carrying me? Are you going to kill me, or are you taking me home with you? Do set me down. Where’s Arthur? I will let you be good to me! I will! I can’t hold out for ever!”

She seemed to be dreaming—apparently about their meeting in Regent-street; or perhaps she was delirious from want of food. He walked on without attempting to answer her. Some great wrong had been done her, and his heart sank within him; for he believed in no judgment, no final setting right of wrongs. He knew of nothing better than that the wronged and the wronger would cease together. Certainly, if his creed represented fact, the best thing in existence is that it has no essential life in it, that it cannot continue, that it must cease: the good of living is that we must die. The hope of death is the inspiration of Buddhism! His heart ached with pity for the girl. His help, his tenderness expanded, and folded her in the wings of a shelter that was not empty because his creed was false.

“She belongs to me!” he said to himself. “The world has thrown her off: ‘be it lawful I take up what’s cast away!’ Here is the one treasure, a human being! the best thing in the world! I will cherish it. Poor girl! she shall at least know one man a refuge!”

The cottage was a wretched place, but a labourer and his family lived in it. He knocked many times. A sleepy voice answered at last, and presently a sleepy-eyed man half opened the door.

“What’s the deuce of a row?” he grunted.

“Here’s a young woman half dead with hunger and cold!” said Richard. “You must take her in or she’ll die!”

“Can’t you take her somewhere else?”

“There’s nowhere else near enough.—Come, come, let us in! You wouldn’t have her die on your doorstep!”

“I don’ow as I see the sense o’ bringin’ her here!” answered the man sleepily. “We ain’t out o’ the hunger-wood ourselves yet!—Wife! here’s a chap as says he’s picked up a young ‘oman a dyin’ o’ ‘unger!—‘tain’t likely, be it, i’ this land o’ liberty?”

“Likely enough, Giles, where the liberty’s mainly to starve!” replied a feminine voice. “Let un bring the poor thing in. There ain’t nowhere to put her, an’ there ain’t nothin’ to give her, but she can’t lie out in the wide world!”

“‘Ain’t you got a drop o’ milk?” asked Richard.

“Milk!” echoed the woman; “it’s weeks an’ weeks the childer ‘ain’t tasted of it! The wonder to me is that the cows let a poor man milk ‘em!”

Richard set Alice on her feet, but she could not stand alone; had he taken his arm from round her, she would have fallen in a heap. But the woman while she spoke had been getting a light, and now came to the door with a candle-end. Her husband kept prudently in her shadow.

“Poor thing! poor thing! she be far gone!” she said, when she saw her. “Bring her in, sir. There’s a chair she can sit upon. I’ll get her a drop o’ tea—that’ll be better’n milk! There’s next to no work, and the squire he be mad wi’ Giles acause o’ some rabbit or other they says he snared—which they did say it was a hare—I don’ow: take the skin off, an’ who’s to tell t’one from t’other! I do know I was right glad on’t for the childer! An’ if the parson tell me my man ‘ill be damned for hare or rabbit, an’ the childer starvin’, I’ll give him a bit o’ my mind.—‘No, sir!’ says I; ‘God ain’t none o’ your sort!’ says I. ‘An’ p’r’aps the day may be at hand when the rich an’ the poor ‘ill have a turn o’ a change together! Leastways there’s somethin’ like it somewheres i’ the Bible,’ says I. ‘An’ if it be i’ the Bible,’ says I, ‘it’s likely to be true, for the Bible do take the part o’ the rich—mostly!’”

She was a woman who liked to hear herself talk, and so spoke as one listening to herself. Like most people, whether they talk or not, she got her ideas second-hand; but Richard was nowise inclined to differ with what she said about the Bible, for he knew little more and no better about it than she. Had parson Wingfold, who did know the Bible as few parsons know it, heard her, he would have told her that, by search express and minute, he had satisfied himself that there was not a word in the Bible against the poor, although a multitude of words against the rich. The sins of the poor are not once mentioned in the Bible, the sins of the rich very often. The rich may think this hard, but I state the fact, and do not much care what they think. When they come to judge themselves and others fairly, they will understand that God is no respecter of persons, not favouring even the poor in his cause.

Richard set Alice on the one chair, by the poor little fire the woman was coaxing to heat the water she had put on it in a saucepan. Alice stared at the fire, but hardly seemed to see it. The woman tried to comfort her. Richard looked round the place: the man was in the bed that filled one corner; a mattress in another was crowded with children; there was no spot where she could lie down.

“I shall be back as soon’s ever I can,” he said, and left the cottage.

CHAPTER XXVII. A SISTER

He hurried back over the bare, moon-white road. He had seen Miss Wylder come that morning, and hoped to reach the house, which was not very far off, before she should have gone to bed. Of her alone in that house did he feel he could ask the help he needed. If she had gone home, he would try the gardener’s wife! But he wanted a woman with wit as well as will. He would help himself from the larder if he could not do better—but there would be no brandy there!

Many were the thoughts that, as now he walked, now ran, passed swiftly through his mind. It was strange, he said to himself, that this girl, of whom he had seen so little, yet in whom he felt so great an interest, should reappear in such dire necessity! When last he saw her, she hurt herself in frantic escape from him: now she could not escape!

“And this is the world,” he went on, “that the priests would have you believe ruled by the providence of an all powerful and all good being! My heart is sore for the girl—a good girl, if ever there was one, so that I would give—yes, I think I would give my life for her! I certainly would, rather than see her in misery! Of course I would! Any man would, worth calling a man! When it came to the point, I should not think twice about it! And there is he, sitting up there in his glory, and looking down unmoved upon her wretchedness! I will not believe in any such God!”

Of course he was more than right in refusing to believe in such a God! Were such a being possible, he would not be God. If there were such a being, and all powerful, he would be the one not to be worshipped. But was Richard, therefore, to believe in no God altogether different? May a God only be such as is not to be believed in? Is it not rather that, to be God, the being must be so good that a man is hardly to be found able—must I say also, or willing—to believe in him? Perhaps, if he had been as anxious to do his duty all over, out and out, as he was where his feelings pointed to it, Richard might have had a “What if” or two to propose to himself. Might he not for instance have said, “What if a certain being should even now be putting in my way the honour and gladness of helping this woman—making me his messenger to her?” What if his soul was too impatient to listen for the next tick of the clock of eternity, and was left therefore to declare there was no such clock going! Ought he not even now to have been capable of thinking that there might be a being with a design for his creatures yet better than merely to make them happy? What if, that gained, the other must follow! Here was a man judging the eternal, who did not even know his own name!

As he drew near the house, the question arose in his mind: if Miss Wylder was gone to her room, what was he to do to find her? He did not know where her room was! He knew that, when she went up the stair, at the top of it she turned to the right—and he knew no more.