The Village by the River Part 13

"How are you taking to the life down here? Do you like it?" he asked, as they started off together.

"I don't quite know," Sally said with a frank smile. "At first it was delightful--a new experience,--but the novelty is wearing off. And Paul said this morning that we were both of us fish out of water; that he must stay here, at any rate for the present, but that I might please myself."

"And what particular pond do you want to swim in?"

"London. And that's not to be described as a pond, is it? but rather a great, strong river. You see, down here, there is literally nothing to do."

"Plenty, if you choose to do it," replied Mr. Curzon, quietly.

Sally shook her head. "You would only want workers of your own way of thinking."

"I should prefer them, certainly; if by _my_ way of thinking you mean the Church to which I belong--to which you belong also, I expect."

"Only by name. I was baptized, but I've not been brought up on church lines. I've been allowed to think for myself, and judge the truth for myself. Paul says that that is the only truth worth believing."

"It still leaves you finally dependent on other people's judgment, does it not? In your case, I should say, your views unconsciously are moulded entirely by your brother."

"But it is so with every one more or less!" retorted Sally, quickly.

"You've got your ideas, either from the people who have influenced you the most, or the books you have read."

"Quite so. The books that have influenced me most largely are those contained in the Bible; but the only person upon whose judgment and character I find I can wholly rely, is the Lord Himself. An old-fas.h.i.+oned belief, you will say, but I find it practically true."

"But Paul says the only facts based on history in the Gospels are that Christ lived and died a martyr to his opinions," said Sally.

"So many men say nowadays. If so, it is curious that faith in the Name of a Jew who died nearly two thousand years ago, is still able to work moral miracles in hundreds and thousands of lives in the present day; that men and women, tied and bound with the chain of their sins, looking to Him and asking help, can rise and walk in the glorious liberty of the sons of G.o.d. When I see that, as, thank G.o.d, I have seen it, I feel I have a reason for the faith that is in me, that Jesus is, as He claims to be, the Son of G.o.d; that it was no idle boast on His part that He would give His Spirit to those that seek it."

Sally caught her breath. There was no doubting the sincerity of the speaker, but the very simplicity of the teaching was an argument against accepting it.

"Well, of course, you as a clergyman have to do with people's morals,"

she said hurriedly; "but the bodily wretchedness and misery of hundreds and thousands of people in London and other big places appeals more to me. I feel it's not a bit of good telling them to be good in this world, and they will be happy in the next, whilst they have bad houses to live in, and bad food to eat, and insufficient wages, and never a ray of brightness in their lives. To stay down here and potter about amongst a few children and sick people seems such a small thing to do, when one might help to set any one of these great wrongs right."

She pulled herself up, and broke into a peal of laughter.

"I'm talking of things that I dare say you will think I don't understand," she said; "but Paul has interested me in them, and I had thought, if I went on studying, I might some day work and speak about them. Lots of women do."

"And why not? One of the best speakers I ever heard was a woman."

"I thought you would be sure to hate the notion."

"Why should I, unless----"

"Unless what?"

"You should speak any word against the Master whom I serve," said the rector. "On philanthropic subjects I could go with you heart and soul."

"I would not speak on a subject of which I know nothing," said Sally, eagerly. "I've told you that I am only a seeker after truth, picking up a sc.r.a.p here and there as I can find it."

"And you will reach the truth after a time," said Mr. Curzon, holding out his hand, "if you are ready to acknowledge a Power higher than yourself, to Whom you may safely appeal to guide you to all truth.

Without that, you will grope along in the darkness."

Before Sally could answer he had gone. Was there such a power she wondered? What rest and comfort such a conviction would bring with it.

She made no mention of her talk to the rector to Paul when he came in; she shrank from his glib criticism of Mr. Curzon's simple declaration of faith.

As Mr. Curzon walked home he caught sight of Tom Burney leaning over a gate with his back turned towards the road. The very poise of his head, and droop of his shoulders, showed depression of body and mind; and with intuitive sympathy Mr. Curzon stopped and laid a kindly hand on his shoulder.

"The very man I was wanting!" he said cheerily. "I thought you would be sure to come and see me to-night."

For a moment Tom's dark, handsome eyes sought his; then dropped for very shame.

"No, I wasn't," he said bluntly. "But I'm glad to have the chance of telling you that I've got the sack for what happened last night. Dixon took good care to report me; and I'm to leave at the end of this week."

"What is your quarrel with Dixon?"

There was a long pause. "We're after the same girl," said Tom, a little huskily; "and he don't care what he does as long as he can get me out of the way. He made me drunk last night."

"Oh no," replied Mr. Curzon, shortly; "you made yourself drunk. Tell the truth about it, Tom."

"Well, I'll tell you straight what happened. We were all in the public together----"

"You went there of your own free will, I suppose?"

"Yes. I've been there plenty of times before, and never had a drop too much," said Tom, rather resentfully, "and I was just going away last night, when Dixon offered me another gla.s.s; and Allison laughed and said, 'Don't you take it, young 'un; head ain't strong and temper too short.' And I told him I could drink against any man if I chose, and keep my wits about me too; and Dixon said he'd stand treat, and see whose head would last the longest, mine or Allison's----"

"With the result that I found you how and when I did, and you've lost your place into the bargain. Truly the wages of sin are hard,"

commented Mr. Curzon; "but I'm ready to help you, Tom, if you are willing to help yourself, for I think, to a certain extent, you've been hardly done by. If you are sorry for what has happened, and really wish to turn over a new leaf, and make yourself worthy of the girl you love, you'll take my advice and sign the pledge. If you see your way to doing this, I know of a situation that I could offer you; if not, I strongly advise you to go away altogether."

"And leave the field clear for Dixon? I'll never do it!" said Tom, fiercely. "And what would he call me but a coward if I signed the pledge, just because I've been beastly drunk once in my life? There's no reason why I should do it again."

"That you will do it again is an absolute certainty; and with your hot temper and the rivalry that exists between you and Dixon, there will be serious mischief if you allow drink to get the upper hand. The place I offer you is that of gardener at the rectory. Old Plumptree is retiring on a pension; he's too old to do the work any longer. But I tell you frankly that I dare not undertake the responsibility of keeping you here unless I feel that you are determined, G.o.d helping you, to make a better start. You need not decide in a hurry; you can call to-morrow evening and let me know about it. Until then I will keep the situation open for you."

It was on the tip of Tom's tongue to tell the rector that he needed no time for consideration, that he readily accepted the required condition, and should be thankful for the situation that he offered, when, as ill-luck would have it, Dixon pa.s.sed by on a swift-trotting horse, and turned upon Tom with a mocking smile.

"He thinks I'm catching it," thought poor Tom; "but I'll let him know better."

"It's not that I'm ungrateful, sir, for your kindness last night, but my mind's pretty well made up now. I can't face Dixon and Allison, and all the lot of 'em calling me a fool who can't take his gla.s.s without getting drunk; I'll show 'em different. But I'll promise you this: it's the first time as any one of em, sneaks as they are, could tell you that I'd been drunk, and it's the last too! You shall hear no more of it."

"And it's a promise that I tell you honestly you'll not keep," answered Mr. Curzon, sadly. "But you'll think it over; you won't decide until to-morrow."

"Yes, sir; I've made up my mind, thank you kindly all the same," said Tom. "It's a thing I must settle for myself."

"Good night, then; I've nothing more to say except that at any time if you are in trouble I shall be glad to see you. I don't wish you to think that this difference of opinion need separate us; although, remember, I feel sure that I am right and you wrong."

The next morning, when Paul Lessing started for his walk, Tom Burney stood waiting at the gate.

"Beg your pardon, sir," he said, touching his hat; "but I want to know if you can give me work?"

Paul turned to the speaker with dawning recognition in his glance.

"Why, aren't you the fellow who gave me a lift for nothing the first evening I came into the place."