robert falconer- 第91部分

had　been　paying　further　up　the　house；　he　went　into　the　room　whence

the　sound　came；　for　he　knew　a　little　of　the　occupant。　　He　was　one　De

Fleuri；　or　as　the　neighbours　called　him；　Diffleery；　in　whose

countenance；　after　generations　of　want　and　debasement；　the　delicate

lines　and　noble　cast　of　his　ancient　race　were　yet　emergent。　　This

man　had　lost　his　wife　and　three　children；　his　whole　family　except　a

daughter　now　sick；　by　a　slow…consuming　hunger；　and　he　did　not

believe　there　was　a　God　that　ruled　in　the　earth。　　But　he　supported

his　unbelief　by　no　other　argument　than　a　hopeless　bitter　glance　at

his　empty　loom。　　At　this　moment　he　sat　silenta　rock　against　which

the　noisy　waves　of　a　combative　Bible…reader　were　breaking　in　rude

foam。　　His　silence　and　apparent　impassiveness　angered　the　irreverent

little　worthy。　　To　Falconer's　humour　he　looked　a　vulgar　bull…terrier

barking　at　a　noble；　sad…faced　staghound。　　His　foolish　arguments

against　infidelity；　drawn　from　Paley's　Natural　Theology；　and　tracts

about　the　inspiration　of　the　Bible；　touched　the　sore…hearted

unbelief　of　the　man　no　nearer　than　the　clangour　of　negro　kettles

affects　the　eclipse　of　the　sun。　　Falconer　stood　watching　his

opportunity。　　Nor　was　the　eager　disputant　long　in　affording　him　one。

Socratic　fashion；　Falconer　asked　him　a　question；　and　was　answered；

followed　it　with　another；　which；　after　a　little　hesitation；　was

likewise　answered；　then　asked　a　third；　the　ready　answer　to　which

involved　such　a　flagrant　contradiction　of　the　first；　that　the　poor

sorrowful　weaver　burst　into　a　laugh　of　delight　at　the　discomfiture

of　his　tormentor。　　After　some　stammering；　and　a　confused　attempt　to

recover　the　line　of　argument；　the　would…be　partizan　of　Deity　roared

out；　'The　fool　hath　said　in　his　heart　there　is　no　God；'　and　with

this　triumphant　discharge　of　his　swivel；　turned　and　ran　down　the

stairs　precipitately。



Both　laughed　while　the　sound　of　his　footsteps　lasted。　　Then　Falconer

said；



'My。　De　Fleuri；　I　believe　in　God　with　all　my　heart；　and　soul；　and

strength；　and　mind；　though　not　in　that　poor　creature's　arguments。　　I

don't　know　that　your　unbelief　is　not　better　than　his　faith。'



'I　am　greatly　obliged　to　you；　Mr。　Falconer。　　I　haven't　laughed　so

for　years。　　What　right　has　he　to　come　pestering　me？'



'None　whatever。　　But　you　must　forgive　him；　because　he　is

well…meaning；　and　because　his　conceit　has　made　a　fool　of　him。

They're　not　all　like　him。　　But　how　is　your　daughter？'



'Very　poorly；　sir。　　She's　going　after　the　rest。　　A　Spitalfields

weaver　ought　to　be　like　the　cats：　they　don't　mind　how　many　of　their

kittens　are　drowned。'



'I　beg　your　pardon。　　They　don't　like　it。　　Only　they　forget　it　sooner

than　we　do。'



'Why　do　you　say　we；　sir？　　You　don't　know　anything　of　that　sort。'



'The　heart　knows　its　own　bitterness；　De　Fleuriand　finds　it　enough；

I　dare　say。'



The　weaver　was　silent　for　a　moment。　　When　he　spoke　again；　there　was

a　touch　of　tenderness　in　his　respect。



'Will　you　go　and　see　my　poor　Katey；　sir？'



'Would　she　like　to　see　me？'



'It　does　her　good　to　see　you。　　I　never　let　that　fellow　go　near　her。

He　may　worry　me　as　he　pleases；　but　she　shall　die　in　peace。　　That　is

all　I　can　do　for　her。'



'Do　you　still　persist　in　refusing　helpfor　your　daughterI　don't

mean　for　yourself？'



Not　believing　in　God；　De　Fleuri　would　not　be　obliged　to　his　fellow。

Falconer　had　never　met　with　a　similar　instance。



'I　do。　　I　won't　kill　her；　and　I　won't　kill　myself：　I　am　not　bound　to

accept　charity。　　It's　all　right。　　I　only　want　to　leave　the　whole

affair　behind；　and　I　sincerely　hope　there's　nothing　to　come　after。

If　I　were　God；　I　should　be　ashamed　of　such　a　mess　of　a　world。'



'Well；　no　doubt　you　would　have　made　something　more　to　your　mindand

better；　too；　if　all　you　see　were　all　there　is　to　be　seen。　　But　I

didn't　send　that　bore　away　to　bore　you　myself。　　I'm　going　to　see

Katey。'



'Very　well；　sir。　　I　won't　go　up　with　you；　for　I　won't　interfere　with

what　you　think　proper　to　say　to　her。'



'That's　rather　like　faith　somewhere！'　thought　Falconer。　'Could　that

man　fail　to　believe　in　Jesus　Christ　if　he　only　saw　himanything

like　as　he　is？'



Katey　lay　in　a　room　overhead；　for　though　he　lacked　food；　this　man

contrived　to　pay　for　a　separate　room　for　his　daughter；　whom　he

treated　with　far　more　respect　than　many　gentlemen　treat　their　wives。

Falconer　found　her　lying　on　a　wretched　bed。　　Still　it　was　a　bed；

and　many　in　the　same　house　had　no　bed　to　lie　on。　　He　had　just　come

from　a　room　overhead　where　lived　a　widow　with　four　children。　　All　of

them　lay　on　a　floor　whence　issued　at　night；　by　many　holes；　awful

rats。　　The　children　could　not　sleep　for　horror。　　They　did　not　mind

the　little　ones；　they　said；　but　when　the　big　ones　came；　they　were

awake　all　night。



'Well；　Katey；　how　are　you？'



'No　better；　thank　God。'



She　spoke　as　her　father　had　taught　her。　　Her　face　was　worn　and　thin；

but　hardly　death…like。　　Only　extremes　met　in　itthe　hopelessness

had　turned　through　quietude　into　comfort。　　Her　hopelessness　affected

him　more　than　her　father's。　　But　there　was　nothing　he　could　do　for

her。



There　came　a　tap　at　the　door。



'Come　in；'　said　Falconer；　involuntarily。



A　lady　in　the　dress　of　a　Sister　of　Mercy　entered　with　a　large　basket

on　her　arm。　　She　started；　and　hesitated　for　a　moment　when　she　saw

him。　　He　rose；　thinking　it　better　to　go。　　She　advanced　to　the

bedside。　　He　turned　at　the　door；　and　said；



'I　won't　say　good…bye　yet；　Katey；　for　I'm　going　to　have　a　chat　with

your　father；　and　if　you　will　let　me；　I　will　look　in　again。'



As　he　turned　he　saw　the　lady　kiss　her　on　the　forehead。　　At　the　sound

of　his　voice　she　started　again；　left　the　bedside　and　came　towards

him。　　Whether　he　knew　her　by　her　face　or　her　voice　first；　he　could

not　tell。



'Robert；'　she　said；　holding　out　her　hand。



It　was　Mary　St。　John。　Their　hands　met；　joined　fast；　and　lingered；　as

they　gazed　each　in　the　other's　face。　　It　was　nearly　fourteen　years

since　they　had　parted。　　The　freshness　of　youth　was　gone　from　her

cheek；　and　the　signs　of　middle　age　were　present　on　her　forehead。

But　she　was　statelier；　nobler；　and　gentler　than　ever。　　Falconer

looked　at　her　calmly；　with　only　a　still　swelling　at　the　heart；　as　if

they　met　on　the　threshold　of　heaven。　　All　the　selfishness　of　passion

was　gone；　and　the　old　earlier　adoration；　elevated　and　glorified；　had

returned。　　He　was　a　boy　once　more　in　the　presence　of　a　woman…angel。

She　did　not　shrink　from　his　gaze；　she　did　not　withdraw　her　hand

from　his　clasp。



'I　am　so　glad；　Robert！'　was　all　she　said。



'So　am　I；'　he　answered　quietly。　'We　may　meet　sometimes　then？'



'Yes。　Perhaps　we　can　help　each　other。'



'You　can　help　me；'　said　Falconer。　'I　have　a　girl　I　don't　know　what

to　do　with。'



'Send　her　to　me。　　I　will　take　care　of　her。'



'I　will　bring　her。　　But　I　must　come　and　see　you　first。'



'That　will　tell　you　where　I　live；'　she　said；　giving　him　a　card。

Good…bye。'



'Till　to…morrow；'　said　Falconer。



'She's　not　like　that　Bible　fellow；'　said　De　Fleuri；　as　he　entered

his　room　again。　'She　don't　walk　into　your　house　as　if　it　was　her

own。'



He　was　leaning　against　his　idle　loom；　which；　like　a　dead　thing；

filled　the　place　with　the　mournfulness　of　death。　　Falconer　took　a

broken　chair；　the　only　one；　and　sat　down。



'I　am　going　to　take　a　liberty　with　you；　Mr。　De　Fleuri；'　he　said。



'As　you　please；　Mr。　Falconer。'



'I　want　to　tell　you　the　only　fault　I　have　to　you。'



'Yes？'



'You　don't　do　anything　for　the　people　in　the　house。　　Whether　you

believe　in　God　or　not；　you　ought　to　do　what　you　can　for　your

neighbour。'



He　held　that　to　help　a　neighbour　is　the　strongest　antidote　to

unbelief；　and　an　open　door　out　of　the　bad　air　of　one's　own　troubles；

as　well。



De　Fleuri　laughed　bitterly；　and　rubbed　his　hand　up　and　down　his

empty　pocket。　　It　was　a　pitiable　action。　　Falconer　understood　it。



'There　are　better　things　than　money：　sympathy；　for　instance。　　You

could　talk　to　them　a　little。'



'I　have　no　sympathy；　sir。'



'You　would　find　you　had；　if　you　would　let　it　out。'



'I　should　only　make　them　more　miserable。　　If　I　believed　as　you　do；

now；　there　might　be　some　use。'



'There's　that　widow　with　her　four　children　in　the　garret。　　The　poor

little　things　are　tormented　by　the　rats：　couldn't　you　nail　bits　of

wood　over　their　holes？'



De　Fleuri　laughed　again。



'Where　am　I　to　get　the　bits　of　wood；　except　I　pull　down　some　of

those　laths。　　And　they　wouldn't　keep　them　out　a　night。'



'Couldn't　you　ask　some　carpenter？'



'I　won't　ask　a　favour。'



'I　shouldn't　mind　asking；　now。'



'That's　because　you　don't　know　the　bitterness　of　needing。'



'Fortunately；　however；　there's　no　occasion　for　it。　　You　have　no

right　to　refuse　for　another　what　you　wouldn't　accept　for　yourself。

Of　course　I　could　send　in　a　man　to　do　it；　but　if　you　would　do　it；

that　would　do　her　heart　good。　　And　that's　what　most　wants　doing　good

toisn't　it；　now？'



'I　believe　you're　right　there；　sir。　　If　it　wasn't　for　the　misery　of

it；　I　shouldn't　mind　the　hunger。'



'I　should　like　to　tell　you　how　I　came　to　go　poking　my　nose　into

other　people's　affairs。　　Would　you　like　to　hear　my　story　now？'



'If　you　please；　sir。'



A　little　pallid　curiosity　seemed　to　rouse　itself　in　the　heart　of　the

hopeless　man。　　So　Falconer　began　at　once　to　tell　him　how　he　had　been

brought　up；　describing　the　country　and　their　ways　of　life；　not

excluding　his　adventures　with　Shargar；　until　he　saw　that　the　man　was

thoroughly　interested。　　Then　all　at　once；　pulling　out　his　watch；　he

said；



'But　it's　time　I　had　my　tea；　and　I　haven't　half　done　yet。　　I　am　not

fond　of　being　hungry；　like　you；　Mr。　De　Fleuri。'



The　poor　fellow　could　only　manage　a　very　dubious　smile。



'I'll　tell　you　what；'　said　Falconer；　as　if　the　thought　had　only　just

struck　him'c