"You"re a Catholic," she said. "People say that you Catholics don"t mind this kind of thing--me and the Major, I mean."
There was a dreadful sort of sly suggestiveness about this remark that stung him. He exploded: and his wounded pride gave him bitterness.
"My good girl," he said, "Catholics simply loathe it. And even, personally, I think it"s beastly."
"Well--I ..."
"I think it"s beastly," said Frank didactically. "A good girl like you, well-brought-up, good parents, nice home, religious--instead of which "--he ended in a burst of ironical reminiscence--"you go traveling about with a--" he checked himself--"a man who isn"t your husband. Why don"t you marry him?"
"I can"t!" wailed Gertie, suddenly stricken again with remorse; "his wife"s alive."
Frank jumped. Somehow that had never occurred to him. And yet how amazingly characteristic of the Major!
"Well--leave him, then!"
"I can"t!" cried poor Gertie. "I can"t!... I can"t!"
CHAPTER IV
(I)
Frank awoke with a start and opened his eyes.
But it was still dark and he could see nothing. So he turned over on the other side and tried to go to sleep.
The three of them had come to this little town last night after two or three days" regular employment; they had sufficient money between them; they had found a quite tolerable lodging; they had their programme, such as it was, for the next day or so; and--by the standard to which he had learned to adjust himself--there was no sort of palpable cause for the horror that presently fell on him. I can only conjecture that the origin lay within, not without, his personality.
The trouble began with the consciousness that on the one side he was really tired, and on the other that he could not sleep and, to clinch it, the knowledge that a twenty-mile walk lay before him. He began to tell himself that sleep was merely a question of will--of will deliberately relaxing attention. He rearranged his position a little; shifted his feet, fitted himself a little more closely into the outlines of the bed, thrust one hand under the pillow and bade himself let go.
Then the procession of thoughts began as orderly as if by signal.
He found himself presently, after enumerating all the minor physical points of discomfort--the soreness of his feet, the k.n.o.bbiness of the bed, the stuffiness of the room in which the three were sleeping, the sound of the Major"s slow snoring--beginning to consider the wisdom of the whole affair. This was a point that he had not consciously yet considered, from the day on which he had left Cambridge. The impetus of his first impulse and the extreme strength of his purpose had, up to the present--helped along by novelty--kept him going. Of course, the moment had to come sooner or later; but it seems a little hard that he was obliged to face it in that peculiarly dreary clarity of mind that falls upon the sleepless an hour or two before the dawn.
For, as he looked at it all now, he saw it as an outsider would see it, no longer from the point of view of his own personality. He perceived a young man, of excellent abilities and prospects, sacrificing these things for an idea that fell to pieces the instant it was touched. He touched it now with a critical finger, and it did so fall to pieces; there was, obviously, nothing in it at all. It was an impulse of silly pride, of obstinacy, of the sort of romance that effects nothing. There was Merefield waiting for him--for he knew perfectly well that terms could be arranged; there was all that leisureliness and comfort and distinction in which he had been brought up and which he knew well how to use; there was Jenny; there was his dog, his horse ... there was, in fact, everything for which Merefield stood. He saw it all now, visualized and clear in the dark; and he had exchanged all this--well--for this room, and the Major"s company, and back-breaking toil.... And for no reason.
So he regarded all this for a good long while; with his eyes closed, with the darkness round him, with every detail visible and insistent, seen as in the cold light of morning before colors rea.s.sert themselves and reconcile all into a reasonable whole....
"... I must really go to sleep!" said Frank to himself, and screwed up his eyes tight.
There came, of course, a reaction presently, and he turned to his religion. He groped for his rosary under his pillow, placed before him (according to the instructions given in the little books) the "Mystery of the Annunciation to Mary," and began the "Our Father." ... Half-way through it he began all over again to think about Cambridge, and Merefield and Jack Kirkby, and the auction in his own rooms, and his last dinner-party and the design on the menu-cards, and what a fool he was; and when he became conscious of the rosary again he found that he held in his fingers the last bead but three in the fifth decade. He had repeated four and a half decades without even the faintest semblance of attention. He finished them hopelessly, and then savagely thrust the string of beads under his pillow again; turned over once more, rearranged his feet, wished the Major would learn how to sleep like a gentleman; and began to think about his religion in itself.
After all, he began to say to himself, what proof was there--real scientific proof--that the thing was true at all? Certainly there was a great deal of it that was, very convincing--there was the curious ring of a.s.sertion and confidence in it, there was its whole character, composed (like personality) of countless touches too small to be definable; there was the definite evidence adduced from history and philosophy and all the rest. But underneath all that--was there, after all, any human evidence in the world sufficient to establish the astounding dogmas that lay at the root? Was it conceivable that any such evidence could be forthcoming?
He proceeded to consider the series of ancient dilemmas which, I suppose, have presented themselves at some time or another to every reasonable being--Free-will and Predestination; Love and Pain; Foreknowledge and Sin; and their companions. And it appeared to him, in this cold, emotionless mood, when the personality shivers, naked, in the presence of monstrous and unsympathetic forces, that his own religion, as much as every other, was entirely powerless before them.
He advanced yet further: he began to reflect upon the innumerable little concrete devotions that he had recently learned--the repet.i.tion of certain words, the performance of certain actions--the rosary for instance; and he began to ask himself how it was credible that they could possibly make any difference to eternal issues.
These things had not yet surrounded themselves with the atmosphere of experience and a.s.sociation, and they had lost the romance of novelty; they lay before him detached, so to say, and unconvincing.
I do not mean to say that during this hour he consciously disbelieved; he honestly attempted to answer these questions; he threw himself back upon authority and attempted to rea.s.sure himself by reflecting that human brains a great deal more acute than his own found in the dilemmas no final obstacles to faith; he placed himself under the shelter of the Church and tried to say blindly that he believed what she believed. But, in a sense, he was powerless: the blade of his adversary was quicker than his own; his will was very nearly dormant; his heart was entirely lethargic, and his intellect was clear up to a certain point and extraordinarily swift....
Half an hour later he was in a pitiable state; and had begun even to question Jenny"s loyalty. He had turned to the thought of her as a last resort for soothing and rea.s.surance, and now, in the chilly dawn, even she seemed unsubstantial.
He began by remembering that Jenny would not live for ever; in fact, she might die at any moment; or he might; and he ended by wondering, firstly, whether human love was worth anything at all, and, secondly, whether he possessed Jenny"s. He understood now, with absolute cert.i.tude, that there was nothing in him whatever which could possibly be loved by anyone; the whole thing had been a mistake, not so much on his part as on Jenny"s. She had thought him to be something he was not.
She was probably regretting already the engagement; she would certainly not fulfill it. And could she possibly care for anyone who had been such an indescribable fool as to give up Merefield, and his prospects and his past and his abilities, and set out on this absurd and childish adventure? So once more he came round in a circle and his misery was complete.
He sat up in bed with a sudden movement as the train of thought clicked back into its own beginning, clasped his hands round his knees and stared round the room.
The window showed a faint oblong of gray now, beyond where the Major breathed, and certain objects were dingily and coldly visible. He perceived the broken-backed chair on which his clothes were heaped--with the exception of his flannel shirt, which he still wore; he caught a glimmer of white where Gertie"s blouse hung up for an airing.
He half expected that things would appear more hopeful if he sat up in bed. Yet they did not. The sight of the room, such as it was, brought the concrete and material even more forcibly upon him--the gross things that are called Facts. And it seemed to him that there were no facts beyond them. These were the bones of the Universe--a stuffy bedroom, a rasping flannel suit, a cold dawn, a snoring in the gloom, and three bodies, heavy with weariness.... There once had been other facts: Merefield and Cambridge and Eton had once existed; Jenny had once been a living person who loved him; once there had been a thing called Religion. But they existed no longer. He had touched reality at last.
Frank drew a long, dismal sigh; he lay down; he knew the worst now; and in five minutes he was asleep.
(II)
Of course, the thing wore away by midday, and matters had readjusted themselves. But the effect remained as a kind of bruise below the surface. He was conscious that it had once been possible for him to doubt the value of everything; he was aware that there was a certain mood in which nothing seemed worth while.
It was practically his first experience of the kind, and he did not understand it. But it did its work; and I date from that day a certain increased sort of obstinacy that showed itself even more plainly in his character. One thing or the other must be the effect of such a mood in which--even though only for an hour or two--all things other than physical take on themselves an appearance of illusiveness: either the standard is lowered and these things are treated as slightly doubtful; or the will sets its teeth and determines to live by them, whether they are doubtful or not. And the latter I take to be the most utter form of faith.
About midday the twine round Frank"s bundle broke abruptly, and every several article fell on to the road. He repressed a violent feeling of irritation, and turned round to pick them up. The Major and Gertie instinctively made for a gate in the hedge, rested down their bundles and leaned against it.
Frank gathered the articles--a shirt, a pair of softer shoes, a razor and brush, a tin of potted meat, a rosary, a small round cracked looking-gla.s.s and a piece of lead piping--and packed them once more carefully together on the bank. He tested his string, knotted it, drew it tight, and it broke again. The tin of potted meat--like some small intelligent animal--ran hastily off the path and dived into a small drain.
A short cry of mirth broke from the Major, and Gertie smiled.
Frank said nothing at all. He lay down on the road, plunged his arm into the drain and drew up the potted meat; it had some disagreeable-looking moist substance adhering to it, which he wiped off on to his sleeve, and then regretted having done so. Again he packed his things; again he drew the string tight, and again it snapped.
"Lord! man, don"t be so hard on it."
Frank looked up with a kind of patient fury. His instinct was to kick every single object that lay before him on the path as hard as possible in every direction.
"Have you any more string?" he said.
"No. Stick the things in your pocket and come on."