It was a poor enough philosophy no doubt, but there was no denying the tonic virtue in it. And perhaps it was the only kind of medicine for this mind diseased, as Arthur came to see. For a nature of such stubborn fibre the commonplaces of religion had no efficacy. And with that stubbornness there was allied a certain indomitable honesty, which perceived their essential falsity. Let it stand to Masterman's credit that he was unwilling to blame God for his own misdoings, or to ask for a release to which he knew he had no right. He would bear his own burden, simply because, in the long run, that was what all men had to do, religion notwithstanding. And, whereas the attempt to shift his burden upon God would have fed his weakness, the very effort to bear it alone increased his strength.
One evening, when the gentler mood was on him, he drew from Arthur his story of his own doings since the day he left London. Up to this time he had not manifested the least interest; it was a subject he had purposely avoided. When Arthur described the life upon the ranch, he had many questions to ask.
"Then you worked with your hands, did you?"
"Of course, father. No day labourer ever worked harder."
"And you liked it?"
"Yes, I liked it. It was hard enough at first; but I soon got used to that, and I liked it."
"Well, I wouldn't have believed it if you hadn't told me. It seems sort of queer when you come to think about it."
"What's queer about it?"
"Why, this. I never meant that you should do anything of that kind, schemed to avoid it—sent you to Oxford, made a gentleman of you, as the saying is; and why did I do it? Because I'd had a hard life, and didn't want you to have it. And here you go and do just what I did at your age—work like a common labourer. Seems a kind of destiny in it, as if it had to be."
"Then destiny has been kind, father, for I have never been so truly happy as at Kootenay. I would a thousand times rather work with my hands, and eat the fruit of my labour, than get the softest job a city could offer me."