Next morning the curate began studying a number of essays that the
Professor lent him, all written by exact thinkers, who disbelieved in
God, and thought Humanity adorable, and most important. Virginia lay on
the sofa, and sighed over one of Miss Broughton's novels; and it
occurred to the Professor that the island was just the place where, if
anywhere, the missing link might be found.
'Ah!' he exclaimed; 'all is still progress. Material progress came to an
end yesterday. Mental progress has begun to-day. One third of Humanity
is cultivating sentiment; another third is learning to covet truth. I,
the remaining and most enlightened third, will go and seek it. Glorious,
solemn Humanity! I will go and look about for its arboreal ancestor.'
Every step the Professor took he found the island more beautiful. But he
came back to luncheon, having been unsuccessful in his search. Events
had marched quickly in his absence. Virginia was at the beginning of her
third volume; and the curate had skimmed over so many essays, that he
professed himself able to give a thorough account of the want of faith
that was in him.
After luncheon the three sat together in easy chairs, in the verandah,
sometimes talking, sometimes falling into a half-doze. They all agreed
that they were wonderfully comfortable, and the Professor said--
'All Humanity is now at rest, and in utter peace. It is just taking
breath, before it becomes unspeakably and significantly happy.'
He would have said more, but he was here startled by a piteous noise of
crying, and the three found themselves confronted by an old woman
dripping with sea-water, and with an expression on her face of the
utmost misery. They soon recognised her as one of the passengers on the
ship. She told them how she had been floated ashore on a spar, and how
she had been sustained by a little roast pig, that kindly begged her to
eat it, having first lain in her bosom to restore her to warmth. She was
now looking for her son.
'And if I cannot find him,' said the old woman, 'I shall never smile
again. He has half broken my heart,' she went on, 'by his wicked ways.
But if I thought he was dead--dead in the midst of his sins--it would be
broken altogether; for in that case he must certainly be in hell.'
'Old woman,' said the Professor, very slowly and solemnly, 'be
comforted. I announce to you that your son is alive.'
'Oh, bless you, sir, for that word!' cried the old woman. 'But where is
he? Have you seen him? Are you sure that he is living?'
'I am sure of it,' said the Professor, 'because enlightened thought
shows me that he cannot be anything else. It is true that I saw him sink
for a third time in the sea, and that he was then snapped up by a shark.
But he is as much alive as ever in his posthumous activities. He has
made you wretched after him; and that is his future life. Become an
exact thinker, and you will see that this is so. Old woman,' added the
Professor solemnly, 'old woman, listen to me--_You and your son are in
hell._'
At this the old woman flew into a terrible rage.
'In hell, sir!' she exclaimed; 'me in hell!--a poor lone woman like me!
How dare you!' And she sank back in a chair and fainted.
'Alas!' said the Professor, 'thus is misery again introduced into the
world. A fourth part of Humanity is now miserable.'
The curate answered promptly that if no restoratives were given her,
she would probably die in a few minutes. 'And to let her die,' he said,
'is clearly our solemn duty. It will be for the greatest happiness of
the greatest number.'
'No,' said the Professor; 'for our sense of pity would then be wounded,
and the happiness of all of us would be marred by that.'
'Excuse me,' said the curate; 'but exact thought shows me that pity for
others is but the imagining of their misfortune falling on ourselves.
Now, we can none of us imagine ourselves exactly in the old woman's
case; therefore it is quite impossible that we can pity her.'
'But,' said the Professor, 'such an act would violate our ideas of
justice.'
'You are wrong again,' said the curate, 'for exact thought shows me that
the love of justice is nothing but the fear of suffering injustice. If
we were to kill strong men, we might naturally fear that strong men
would kill us. But whatever we do to fainting old women, we cannot
expect that fainting old women will do anything to us in return.'
'Your reasoning cannot be sound,' said the Professor, 'for it would lead
to the most horrible conclusions. I will solve the difficulty better. I
will make the old woman happy, and therefore fit to live. Old woman,' he
exclaimed, 'let me beg you to consider this. You are yourself by your
own unhappiness expiating your son's sins. Do but think of that, and you
will become unspeakably happy.'
Meanwhile, however, the old woman had died. When the Professor
discovered this he was somewhat shocked; but at length with a sudden
change of countenance, 'We neither of us did it,' he exclaimed; 'her
death is no act of ours. It is part of the eternal not-ourselves that
makes for righteousness--righteousness, which is, as we all know, but
another name for happiness. Let us adore the event with reverence.'
'Yes,' said the curate, 'we are well rid of her. She was an immoral old
woman, for happiness is the test of morality, and she was very unhappy.'
'On the contrary,' said the Professor, 'she was a moral old woman; for
she has made us happy by dying so very opportunely. Let us speak well of
the dead. Her death has been a holy and a blessed one. She has conformed
to the laws of matter. Thus is unhappiness destined to fade out of the
world. Quick! let us tie a bag of shot to all the sorrow and evil of
Humanity, which, after all, is only a fourth part of it, and let us sink
her in the bay close at hand, that she may catch lobsters for us.'