CHAPTER IX
The question had often been discussed by him to the furthest point possible (as he thought) for its consideration to be extended; and how was it that he found himself debating it at this time in its crudest form? He had long ago settled it to his own satisfaction, that his life was to be a lonely one through the world. Not for him were to be the pleasant cares of home or wife or child. Not for him was the tenderness of woman—not for him the babble of the little lips, every quiver of which is a caress. His work was sufficient for him, he had often said, and the contemplation of the possibility of anything on earth coming between him and his labours, filled him with alarm. He felt that if he were to cease to be absorbed in his work, he should be unfaithful to his trust. The only one that was truly faithful was the one who was ready to give up all to follow in the footsteps of the Master.
But being human and full of human sympathy, he had often felt a moment's envy entering the house of one of his friends who was married and become the father of children. The hundred little occurrences incidental to a household, where there was a nursery and a schoolroom, were marked by him—the clambering of little chubby legs up to the father's knee—the interpretation of the latest phrase that fell from baby lips—the charm of golden silk curls around an innocent child's face—all these and a score of other delights associated with the household had appealed to him, giving him an hour's longing at the time, and a tender recollection at intervals in after years.
“Not for me—not for me,” he had said. So jealous was he of his work that, as has been noted, the possibility of his becoming absorbed—even partially—by anything that was not directly pertaining to his work, was a dread to him. He set himself the task of crushing down within him every aspiration that might tend to interfere with the carrying out of the labour of his life, and he believed that, by stern and strict endeavour, he had succeeded in doing so.
Then why should he now find himself considering the question which he believed he had settled forever? Why should he now begin to see that the assurance that it was not good for a man to be alone was based upon a knowledge of men and was wise?
He found an apt illustration of the wisdom of the precept in the conduct of the girl who had shown such thoughtfulness in regard to him. “Mentem mortalia tangunt,” was the sors Virgiliana which came to his mind at the moment. He recognised the truth of it. A man was affected by the material conditions of his life. If the girl had not shown such thought for his comfort, he would well-nigh have been broken down by his exhausting labours of the day, followed up by an exhausting walk along the cliffs. He might not have returned to the house at which he was staying in time to dine, before setting out for a long drive to another place for an afternoon's meeting. So absorbed was he apt to be in his preaching that he became oblivious to every consideration of daily life. What were to him such trivial matters as eating and drinking at regular intervals? He neglected the needs of his body, and only when he had suffered for so doing did he feel that his carelessness was culpable. On recovering from its' immediate effects, however, he fell back into his old habits.
But now the thought that came to him was that he had need for someone to be by his side as (for example) Nelly Polwhele had been. He knew quite well, without having had the experience of married life, that if he had had a wife, he would not have been allowed to do anything so unwise as to walk straight away from the preaching to the cliffs, having eaten nothing since the early morning, and then only a single cake of bread. A good wife would have drawn him away from the people to whom he was talking, to the house where he was a guest, and when there have set about providing for him the food which he lacked and the rest which he needed to restore him after his arduous morning's work, so that he might set out for the afternoon's preaching feeling as fresh as he had felt in the morning.
He was grateful to the girl, not only for her attention to him, but also for affording him an illustration favourable to his altered way of looking at a question which he fancied had long ago been settled forever in his mind. (He had long ago forgiven the woman, who, in America, had taught him to believe that a life of loneliness is more conducive to one's peace of mind than a life linked to an unsympathetic companion.)