COMPLEXITIES OF LIFE.
"The same old baffling questions! O my friend,
I cannot answer them . . .
• • • •
"I have no answer for myself or thee,
Save that I learned beside my mother's knee
'All is of God that is, and is to be;
And God is good.' Let this suffice us still,
Resting in childlike trust upon His will
Who moves to His great ends, unthwarted by the ill."
J. G. WHITTIER.
NEARLY a fortnight had passed since the memorable dinner-party; and Mr.
Trevelyan had been unwell, even ill, all the fortnight through. That
one moment of dire alarm about Jean appeared to have acted on him as
the "last straw," minus which he might presumably have fought on a few
weeks longer.
Nobody else would have fought on half as long: so said Dr. Ingram,
called in three days later.
Mr. Trevelyan made nothing of the slight attack of unconsciousness,
which frightened Jean, after their return home; but all next day he was
heavy and listless, unable to employ himself. He still strove against
the need for medical advice, declaring that a day or two of rest would
set him up. A severe cold next laid hold upon him, however, with
persistent hoarseness, and sharp rheumatic pains; and at length, he
succumbed.
Dr. Ingram found the once vigorous frame of Stewart Trevelyan enfeebled
to an extent which would hardly have been thought credible by any one
who had witnessed only a few days earlier his apparent energy. The
energy had long been a matter of iron will, not of physical strength;
and the marvel was that a breakdown had not arrived sooner.
"Then I am to take care of myself, as a matter of duty," stated Mr.
Trevelyan, after listening to Dr. Ingram's opinion. "Very well. If it
is my duty, there's no more to be said."
Mr. Trevelyan's notion of "taking care" might not altogether coincide
with his doctor's; still, so far as his reasoning faculties were
convinced, he promised to make a difference. He would not for the
present walk so far, or sit up so late; and he would endeavour to be
in by sundown—unless urgently wanted out. Duty to his people would, of
course, come first.
"Duty to them may be included in duty to yourself," suggested Dr.
Ingram. "If you are not careful, your duty to them may be short-lived."
"Thanks for plain-speaking. Now I know what I am about," said Mr.
Trevelyan.
Jean gave herself up to the care of her father; went hither and thither
unweariedly, that he might have the less to do; and left mere calls
upon friends for the future. The Lucases, like others, had to wait.
To have Mr. Trevelyan even partially incapacitated was a new experience
for Jean. She had never before realised the amount of work which he
daily accomplished without fuss, for the thorough care of his extensive
though not thickly-populated Parish, until now, when much had to be
left undone, and much rested on her own shoulders.
He was little better yet—one dismally wet day, about a fortnight after
the dinner-party. Cold and hoarseness, rheumatism and weakness, were
persistent; and fight as he might against these ailments, he could not
vanquish them.
For two Sundays, he had been unable to preach from sheer voicelessness.
It was all very well for him to promise "not to attempt so much as
usual." What he did do was the very utmost that he had power to
accomplish; and none knew this better than Dr. Ingram.
The temperature was barely above freezing-point; and the intense chill
of almost frozen fog and mud and prevailing damp penetrated everywhere.
Mr. Trevelyan had not been out since lunch; and he had found it
impossible to keep warm, even over the blazing study fire. Rheumatic
aching had him in its grasp; hoarseness was worse; and he looked so ill
that Jean wished it had been Dr. Ingram's day for a call. He would come
on the morrow; and meantime, as occasional hot baths were ordered, Jean
persuaded her father to take one early, and to go straight to bed. For
a wonder, Mr. Trevelyan complied.
Somewhat later, Jean went softly into his room, to find him sound
asleep; so she moved softly away.
A mass of Parish accounts, which she had taken out of his hands,
required attention. It was past six o'clock, and Jean counted on a
quiet hour for work. Nobody could be expected to call late on such a
day. But hardly had she taken up her pen, before a quick double tinkle
of the back-door bell sounded.
"Somebody wanting something, I suppose," she murmured, with a little
thrill of impatience.
"If you please, Miss Trevelyan—"
Jean turned to face the parlour-maid, a new and raw importation.
"Yes, Elizabeth."
"Master's wanted, Miss—very particular."
"My father? He cannot go out."
"There's a man dying, Miss—up the gorge. He's dreadful bad, and he
wants to see master as quick as can be."
"Impossible! Up the gorge, in his state—a day like this. What is the
man's name?"
"Barclay, Miss."
Jean knew what this meant; knew in a moment, as with a flash. She
recalled at once her father's last interview with Barclay. The man had
been especially insolent, threatening physical force, and Mr. Trevelyan
had said at parting, "I shall not call again at present. I cannot force
you to listen. But remember one thing—if you are in need, send, and I
will come!"
He had told this to Jean on his return; and she understood, only
too well, how he would regard his own promise, as well as Barclay's
necessity.
"Who has brought the message?"
"It's a man who lives near there—Smithson, the name is."
Elizabeth was a stranger to the neighbourhood.
"Call him into the study, please."
Jean was there, waiting, when Smithson entered—a large and
broad-shouldered yet stooping man, with a pale face, well known to
Jean as a member of the choir. He was one of Jean's greatest devotees,
and would have done anything in the world for Mr. Trevelyan. His
home was in a little row of cottages beyond the V-point; and, as he
at once began to tell Jean, business had taken him that day past
Barclay's solitary cottage. He had not entered it before during
Barclay's tenancy, since the latter's determined seclusion prevented
all intercourse with his neighbours; but a sound of loud groans induced
Smithson to open the door. He found Barclay struck down by apparently
mortal illness, though still ready to protest that he wanted no help.
Smithson, then on his way to Dutton by a shorter cut than down the
gorge, had lingered only to summon his wife to the aid of the unhappy
man; after which, he sped as quickly as possible in quest of Mr. Evans,
the Parish doctor. No needless time was lost thenceforward; but the
time already lost had settled the matter.
When Smithson once more passed the cottage, on his way from Dutton,
late in the afternoon, he found his wife still present, and Barclay in
worse agony than before. The doctor had pronounced it a hopeless case.
Too late to do anything, he said. He would look in again next morning,
and he promised some medicine meantime; but he did not expect Barclay
to outlive the night.
Barclay knew all this, and his one cry, in the face of approaching
death, was for the man he had persistently repelled.
"Send for the Parson! I must see Mr. Trevelyan. For the love of heaven,
fetch him quick! For pity's sake, make haste!" were the entreaties and
commands gasped out in the midst of mortal pain.
Smithson tried to speak of Mr. Trevelyan's ill-health, but he was not
so much as listened to.
"For the love of heaven, be quick! I tell you he'll come! He promised
he'd come! For the love of heaven, make haste!"
The labouring breath gave force to these imploring words.
"So I just come off sharp, for I didn't see what else I was to do,"
continued Smithson: "and I thought you'd know! If it wasn't a matter
of life and death—! And Mr. Trevelyan that set on bein' good to him!
The times an' agen I've seen him a-goin' there, and the way he's been
treated! But anyway it wasn't for me to say 'No' to a man, and he
dying."
"You don't think it would do to send for Mr. James Trevelyan? He would
go at once."
"Barclay says he'll see none but the Parson, Miss! He's that bent on
it! I asked him, and he shouted out 'No!' louder than I'd have thought
he could. And I doubt there mightn't be time," in a lower voice. "He's
awful bad. The doctor telled my missis, he might be gone any minute.
Seems hard, if he can't have his dying wish, poor chap! But if Mr.
Trevelyan ain't fit—"
Jean had never in her life so longed, for some one to appeal to;
some one of whom to ask advice. How could she take upon herself the
responsibility of calling her father?—Yet how could she take upon
herself the other responsibility of not calling him? Jean's was no
weak nature, loving to shirk responsibilities; but this was a terrible
ordeal. It might be a matter of life and death for Mr. Trevelyan! Yet,
if Barclay should die, vainly craving the promised help, because she
had deliberately withheld it—what would her father say?
The echo of that passionate appeal—
"For the love of heaven, be quick!" filled the room, and entered into
Jean's compassionate heart.
She tried to speak of her father's state, of the peril to him of such
an expedition; but the words died on her lips. Jean knew already that
the thing had to be.
"Wait here till I come back," she said; and she went upstairs.
What ought she to do? That question stood out prominently. She had no
doubt at all as to what her father would expect her to do; but the
question was, ought she to sacrifice him to the needs of Barclay?—She,
his child!
It might mean the sacrifice of his health, if not worse. Jean faced
this fact. In his weakened state, a long walk in such weather after
dark might mean a fatal chill. The possibility was not so vivid for
Jean, as it would have been for most people, since she been educated to
disregard questions of health; still she was conscious of danger. Dr.
Ingram had spoken serious warnings.
If she awakened her father, and appealed to his judgment, he would go.
Jean knew this perfectly well. He had never been used to put his own
comfort or safety before the needs of his people; and she knew that he
would not do so now. By calling him, Jean would practically decide the
matter.
He would inevitably blame her if she did not call him; he would be
displeased—nay, more than displeased, absolutely wrathful. Jean had
never yet dared to go against Mr. Trevelyan's iron will; but she had it
in her to dare, if only she could feel herself right in so going. She
would be able to face his anger, if only convinced of what ought to be
done. Would she be right to leave him in ignorance of Barclay's state?
Jean had fought the same battle many a time in miniature; but she had
never known so hard a fight. She could far more easily have sacrificed
herself than another. That her lips should be the ones to summon him
to peril was bitter indeed. Yet from the main question she did not
flinch. If the thing were right, she would do it. Many a woman in her
place would have very easily decided to let Mr. Trevelyan sleep on,
sending the messenger to Jem; but with Jean, such a course of action
was impossible, unless she deliberately felt it to be her duty. Then
she would be strong to do, and brave to endure all consequences. But if
she saw distinctly the peril to her father, she saw no less distinctly
the reverse side of the matter—Barclay's need, and Mr. Trevelyan's
responsibility.
He was sleeping still when she entered the room; drops of heat and
weakness standing on his brow; the face drawn and thin. A great wave
of distress and perplexity rolled over Jean. She to have to rouse him
from his quiet sleep; to send him forth into the chill evening air;
to summon him, perhaps, to his death. And for what? For a graceless
wretch who, during long months, had stubbornly resisted Mr. Trevelyan's
kindness, had utterly refused his offered help.
And yet—if she did not?
Barclay had had a loveless and embittering life. He had been almost
without softening influences. If now, at last, he were repentant—if in
his dire extremity and ignorance, he craved help—if Mr. Trevelyan alone
could give that help—might Jean, dared Jean, deny it to him, knowing
her father's great pity for and interest in the man?
She held the bedstead with one hand, looking down on the worn face,
and tried to imagine herself in Mr. Trevelyan's position—bound by his
duties and responsibilities, bound also in this case by a particular
promise, Jean knew at once, with vivid certainty, that she would count
herself bound to go, irrespective of personal risk; that she would
expect to be called; that she would blame severely any one who should
venture to deny to her the choice.
Suppose Mr. Trevelyan were allowed to sleep, unknowing; suppose
Smithson were sent on, two miles further, to find Jem; suppose
meanwhile Barclay died; suppose Mr. Trevelyan should wake up next
morning to find things thus—Barclay dead, the promise not kept, the
longed-for words not spoken, all through Jean's refusal, and all a part
of the irrevocable past!
Jean shuddered, with a sick dread, at the thought of his look.
Yet she could have done it, could have dared all, had she felt sure
she would be doing rightly. But that she could not feel. She pictured
herself, for one moment in Barclay's place! Then came another question,
"If CHRIST were here, would HE hold back?"
"Father," she said quietly.
He did not move.
"Father!"
"Jean! Yes."
"I don't quite know what to do."
"Something happened? Yes—tell me."
He was wide awake in a moment.
"A man up the gorge is ill—and he has sent. Don't you think we can ask
Jem to go?"
"Wants me?"
"Smithson has brought the message."
"Who is it?"
"Barclay. He is very ill—dying."
"And he has sent for me?"
"You can't go. It is impossible!" That side of the matter was all Jean
could see now. The responsibility lay with her father since she had
called him, and she would do all in her power to keep him back. "You
can't go. It is so cold and wet—a dreadful evening—and you are not well
enough."
"I can't help that. Run, my dear. I shall be ready in a few minutes."
"If it were anywhere else—where you could drive! But up the gorge—"
"Yes. Is Smithson still here? Tell him to wait for me. I shall be glad
of his arm, going uphill. You don't know what is wrong with Barclay?"
"It is an acute attack—something internal, I fancy. Mr. Evans has seen
him, and says nothing can be done. He is in great pain."
"Run away, my dear."
"Father, you don't think—if I were to go to the cottage with Smithson,
and tell him Jem would come? The gardener could go for Jem."
"You need not be afraid. A man can always do his duty. I will wrap up
well, and take all precautions. Make me a cup of hot coffee, if you
like—and give Smithson some too."
Jean retreated, with a terrible weight at her heart; ran down to speak
to Smithson; ordered the coffee; then rushed upstairs to don hat and
ulster. But disappointment awaited her. When Mr. Trevelyan appeared, a
negative movement of his head greeted the outdoor apparel.
"No, Jean."
"I am coming, of course?"—desperately.
"No; it is unnecessary. You have had a great deal to do lately, and
you are tired—" which was true, though Jean imagined he had not seen
it. "You can do no possible good by coming; and I don't wish you to be
there . . . It is practically almost a one-roomed cottage—every sound
heard. Stay at home, and keep up good fires."
"You needn't be afraid, Miss," put in Smithson. "I'll see him home
safe—I promise you."
"You will not let my father come back alone?"
"No, Miss Trevelyan, I won't! Not if it's ever so!"
Jean was fain to submit. She knew from her father's face, the
uselessness of further protest.
He drank his coffee, allowed her to put his comforter over his mouth,
gave a little parting smile of encouragement, and was off.
Jean followed him to the front door, where the cold chill of the almost
freezing fog struck them as with an invisible hand. Then she was
ordered back; but not before the thought came—what would the gorge be
like, on such an evening? For herself, she would have thought nothing
of it; but for Mr. Trevelyan—!
Jean took off her walking things, and resolutely returned to the Parish
accounts, putting from her as far as possible the fears which sought to
obtain dominion.
She had wanted a quiet hour, and now she had it. The Parish accounts
were gainers thereby; but at the hour's end, Jean could do no more.
Even her self-mastery for once failed under the strain. She could
neither work nor read, but could only walk to and fro, restlessly
questioning with herself; one moment bitterly regretting her own
action; the next, feeling that if all should come over again, no other
decision would be possible. She knew well that, if she had not called
her father, she would be quite as unhappy now from the opposite cause.
Another ring—this time at the front door—and James Trevelyan walked in.
"Jem, if you had only come an hour ago!" was his unexpected greeting.
"Why, Jean! You are as pale as a ghost."
"My father has been so unwell to-day; and he has gone up the gorge."
"Whew! Nice afternoon!"
Jem held two cold hands to the fire, and examined Jean with kind eyes.
He had rarely seen her so troubled. She grew whiter as she told him
what had passed, and sought his face sorrowfully for an opinion.
"What do you think? Was I right? Could I do anything else?"
"You had hardly a right to decide for your father. I wish he had not
felt obliged to go."
"He promised, you know! Not that that makes much difference. He would
have gone anyhow. But if it should make him worse—Jem, shall I have
done wrongly?"
"Questions of right and wrong don't hinge upon consequences."
"You would have done the same in my place?"
"Can't be sure. I might not have had the courage."
"I almost thought I hadn't the courage not to call him."
"Would it not have been easier to face his displeasure than to risk
doing him harm? Be just to yourself, Jean."
Jean smiled. "I see," she said. "Yes—then it really was conscience. One
gets so puzzled . . . And to have to settle in such a hurry—not able to
see ahead . . . Did you come on business?"
"Nothing pressing. It can wait till another day. I wanted to know how
your father was."
He debated silently how soon to go after Mr. Trevelyan; a step already
resolved on. Jean had looked so forlorn when he entered, that he would
not at once leave her.
"I should have sent for you, if only I could have felt sure—But if
Barclay had died meantime—"
"Yes; I can hardly think you would have been justified."
"I am glad you think so," with a more restful look. After a break, she
resumed, "I was telling you, the other day, all about Barclay—the sort
of life his has been. I wanted to ask you a question; only we were
interrupted. It puzzles me sometimes how a man like that—brought up
as he was—how he can help being what he is . . . I mean—can he help
it? . . . If he has inherited all sorts of evil ways—and if all his
associations were so bad—things he could not alter—doesn't it seem as
if he must have grown into his present shape, without any choice of his
own? And if that is true, how can he be responsible for it?"
"No man is responsible for what he cannot help."
"Or for its results—"
"Or for results; so far as he has been absolutely powerless to prevent
those results."
"If Barclay had had a different home and education, he would have
turned out differently, of course."
"To some extent, yes—either better or worse. You and I cannot judge how
far he might, if he would, have changed his associations—or resisted
them. We don't know where he has or has not deliberately yielded to
evil."
"But isn't yielding or resisting a matter of will? And isn't will
inherited?"
"Yes—partly, no doubt. The natural will may be strong or weak; and it
becomes stronger or weaker through training."
"And if a man's will is paralysed—?"
"I doubt if any sane man's will is paralysed. Most people have will
enough to do what they like. Apparent paralysis is commonly shown only
in apparent powerlessness to do what they don't like."
"But if the will is what it is, through heredity and training—"
pronounced Jean slowly—"and if a man can't control either the heredity
or the training—then I don't see how he can help being what he is?"
"Not badly put, for a one-sided view of the question. But you must take
care not to lose sight of the other side—the absolute freedom of the
will—its God-given freedom. No man living can be forced into evil. It
is a matter of inducement, not of force. The will sways right or left,
according to the strength of the inducements offered—inducements to
self-pleasing on the one hand, inducements to right-doing on the other
hand."
"That brings one again to a man's surroundings. But suppose Barclay's
surroundings have been all bad? Suppose he has never once had the
strong-enough inducement to do right?"
"Jean, are you trying to climb upon the judgment-seat?" asked Jem, in
a quiet low voice; and a flush rose to her face. "No wonder your task
proves puzzling! Omniscient Eyes are needed there to discriminate—to
award due praise or blame. I suppose there is nothing in which we
blunder more fearfully."
"Then one ought not to look into the question?"
"Look into it as an abstract question, if you like; but don't try to
judge. Leave individual cases alone. The matter is in wiser and more
loving Hands than ours . . . And be very sure of one thing—that no
lawful excuse exists for Barclay, which will not, by-and-by, be taken
into account. Every possible excuse will be made—every difficult
circumstance and hardening influence will be allowed for. He will not
be expected to have done what he could not do; but only to have done
what he could do;—heredity, training, weak will, and aught else, fully
considered . . . Do you really think that HE Who made the man doesn't
know and understand all this far better than you and I can do? Be
reasonable, Jean!"
Jean's "Thank you!" was full of thought.
"Nothing is easier than to get into a tangle of perplexity—looking
through our limited peep-holes. You may dwell upon heredity, and all
that it entails, until you look upon a man as a mere agglomeration of
inherited molecules, unable to move hand or foot, voice or will, except
in obedience to inherited proclivities. Or you may dwell upon training
and its results, until you look upon a man as a mere lump of dough,
pounded and rolled into a permanent shape, from which he can never
depart. But these are one-sided views. Heredity has enormous influence.
Training has immense power. Nevertheless, through all, a man's will is
free; and for his actions, he is and must be accountable . . . After
all, few men are ready to carry out these pretty theories to their
legitimate end. If a thief comes, and makes away with the plate, we
don't say pityingly, 'Poor fellow! He can't help it! He was obliged to
act so! All the result of the bias he has inherited from his father,
and the want of a sufficient inducement to be honest!' We treat him
like a rational being, with a will of his own, and clap him into
prison. Thereby, no doubt, supplying an inducement for the future."
Jem was glad to have made Jean laugh.
"Follow out that line of thought for yourself," he said, rising. "Now,
it is unsociable to run away so soon; but don't you think I had better
meet your father?"
"O Jem! Will you? How kind!"
"We shall soon be back, I dare say." As Jem was putting on his
great-coat, he said with rather an odd intonation—
"Cyril seems greatly taken with these Lucases! Is it—the father—the
mother—or—?"
"I don't know," Jean answered, startled less by the question than by a
sudden pulse of feeling through her own frame. "I have not called yet."
"I have. The daughter is a nice little girl. Not quite desirable for
Cyril, though."
"Oh, I should not think—!" and a pause. "Yes, he is always going there.
But I thought it was Captain Lucas."
"Perhaps you are right. I hope so. Good-bye for the moment."
Jean went slowly back to the drawing-room, thinking—not of her father,
but of Cyril. "Can it be?" she asked. "Cyril—to marry Miss Lucas! Why
didn't I see before?"
She tried to laugh, then threw herself back in an easy-chair; an
unwonted action for Jean, little given to lounging.
"Oh, how tired I am! I shouldn't have been half so tired if I had gone
up gorge! . . . Cyril to do—that! But why not? . . . Cyril!"
She heard herself sigh, as she might have heard another person sigh.
"Well—why not? After all, why not? If it will make him happy!"
Nine o'clock struck before feet sounded on the gravel-walk; and Jean
hastened out to open the door. Mr. Trevelyan came in slowly, leaning on
Jem's arm.
"He's rather done!" Jem said cheerily. "But all right, now we are back.
The study, Jean—and he shall have some hot brandy and water at once.
No, I know he doesn't take stimulants commonly; but to-night he must!
We'll do our best to keep out the chill. Smithson came half-way, and
then I sent him back."
Mr. Trevelyan did not speak till divested of his damp cloak, and placed
in his big chair near the blazing fire.
"This is nice," he tried to say, and the words were almost too hoarse
to be intelligible. "Fog—got into my throat," he added with a smile.
"Father, were you in time?" asked Jean, as Jem went off for the remedy
he advised.
"Nearly an hour. He was past saying much—great pain—but he listened—and
I think he understood. I am glad you were not there. The suffering was
terrible."
"And—then—?" in a low voice.
The answer came almost like an echo of what Jem had said—
"My dear, we can only leave him now—in just and merciful Hands . . .
ONE who knows all about him—better than you or I! . . . But I would not
for worlds not have gone."
Jean laid a hand on his, and it received warm pressure. Whatever the
consequences might be, she felt at the moment that she had acted
rightly.