‘You should use the plural form, Reuben,’ urged the schoolmaster gently, ‘the railways. There are dozens of them. Why, there are three great lines running to Birmingham! I’ve got a map of it.’
‘And how about the Parliament?’ struck in the Ancient, pre-occupied, and not unnaturally, with the question of legislation. ‘Over a thousand people to make the laws; and at it day and night, too! The moment anything goes wrong anywhere, there they are, waiting on the premises, as you may say, to put it right. We’ve nothing like that here. Not that we want it either; I only make the remark.’
This touching disposition to take us in good faith had no limits. In their quaint conception of our corporate life, all things existed to that great end of the crown of virtue. Nothing was merely neutral or indifferent. To talk of making people virtuous by Act of Parliament would, for them, have had none of the significance of a sneer. What else were Acts of Parliament for? So, churches were to promote brotherhood and love, with no reserves for a Pickwickian sense; armies, to suppress the wicked. Rank and riches, as we have just seen, were mere equivalents for more opportunity; if a baroness made fifty thousand people happy, what might not a duchess do? The islanders simply multiplied our means by their own yearnings, and the product was a colossal sum in good. Everything seemed to count; from a question the Ancient put to me as to the number of cabs and omnibuses in the British capital, I more than suspect that these, too, contributed to his grand total. The drivers were obliging persons whose chief concern was to give tired Righteousness a lift.
‘I want to see St. Paul’s and the railways,’ murmured Reuben again, in an amended version, as he wandered away from the group.
Victoria’s wistful gaze went after him: ‘Poor fellow!’
‘Is anything the matter with him, Victoria?’
‘Yes, but he daren’t tell anyone but me; he wants to go.’
‘To go where?’
‘Out there,’ she said, with a gesture that was meant to indicate the world at large. ‘He wants to see it all; he can never rest here. These things our people talk about with strangers trouble him. He’s venturous; he must see and know. He was always like that: he dived two fathoms lower than anyone else—off the Point, and brought up a watch from the old ship. No one can follow him on the rocks. He discovered an island once—over there. I went to see it: I’ll take you one day. Now it’s England. He can never rest here. But, oh! how I dread it! and, besides, you know, they will never let him go.’
‘Did he find so much in the first island, then, that he longs to try the other?’