"Yes,I mean just that.Reform is born of need,not pity.No vital movement of the people's has worked down,for good or evil;fermented,instead,carried up the heaving,cloggy mass.
Think back through history,and you will know it.What will this lowest deep--thieves,Magdalens,negroes--do with the light filtered through ponderous Church creeds,Baconian theories,Goethe schemes?Some day,out of their bitter need will be thrown up their own light-bringer,--their Jean Paul,their Cromwell,their Messiah.""Bah!"was the Doctor's inward criticism.However,in practice,he adopted the theory;for,when,night and morning,afterwards,he prayed that power might be given these degraded souls to rise,he glowed at heart,recognizing an accomplished duty.
Wolfe and the woman had stood in the shadow of the works as the coach drove off.The Doctor had held out his hand in a frank,generous way,telling him to "take care of himself,and to remember it was his right to rise."Mitchell had simply touched his hat,as to an equal,with a quiet look of thorough recognition.Kirby had thrown Deborah some money,which she found,and clutched eagerly enough.They were gone now,all of them.The man sat down on the cinder-road,looking up into the murky sky.
"'T be late,Hugh.Wunnot hur come?"
He shook his head doggedly,and the woman crouched out of his sight against the wall.Do you remember rare moments when a sudden light flashed over yourself,your world,God?when you stood on a mountain-peak,seeing your life as it might have been,as it is?one quick instant,when custom lost its force and every-day usage?when your friend,wife,brother,stood in a new light?your soul was bared,and the grave,--a foretaste of the nakedness of the Judgment-Day?So it came before him,his life,that night.The slow tides of pain he had borne gathered themselves up and surged against his soul.His squalid daily life,the brutal coarseness eating into his brain,as the ashes into his skin:before,these things had been a dull aching into his consciousness;to-night,they were reality.He griped the filthy red shirt that clung,stiff with soot,about him,and tore it savagely from his arm.The flesh beneath was muddy with grease and ashes,--and the heart beneath that!And the soul?God knows.
Then flashed before his vivid poetic sense the man who had left him,--the pure face,the delicate,sinewy limbs,in harmony with all he knew of beauty or truth.In his cloudy fancy he had pictured a Something like this.He had found it in this Mitchell,even when he idly scoffed at his pain:a Man all-knowing,all-seeing,crowned by Nature,reigning,--the keen glance of his eye falling like a sceptre on other men.And yet his instinct taught him that he too--He!He looked at himself with sudden loathing,sick,wrung his hands With a cry,and then was silent.With all the phantoms of his heated,ignorant fancy,Wolfe had not been vague in his ambitions.They were practical,slowly built up before him out of his knowledge of what he could do.Through years he had day by day made this hope a real thing to himself,--a clear,projected figure of himself,as he might become.
Able to speak,to know what was best,to raise these men and women working at his side up with him:sometimes he forgot this defined hope in the frantic anguish to escape,only to escape,--out of the wet,the pain,the ashes,somewhere,anywhere,--only for one moment of free air on a hill-side,to lie down and let his sick soul throb itself out in the sunshine.But to-night he panted for life.The savage strength of his nature was roused;his cry was fierce to God for justice.
"Look at me!"he said to Deborah,with a low,bitter laugh,striking his puny chest savagely."What am I worth,Deb?Is it my fault that I am no better?My fault?My fault?"He stopped,stung with a sudden remorse,seeing her hunchback shape writhing with sobs.For Deborah was crying thankless tears,according to the fashion of women.
"God forgi'me,woman!Things go harder Wi'you nor me.It's a worse share."He got up and helped her to rise;and they went doggedly down the muddy street,side by side.
"It's all wrong,"he muttered,slowly,--"all wrong!I dunnot understan'.But it'll end some day.""Come home,Hugh!"she said,coaxingly;for he had stopped,looking around bewildered.
"Home,--and back to the mill!"He went on saying this over to himself,as if he would mutter down every pain in this dull despair.
She followed him through the fog,her blue lips chattering with cold.They reached the cellar at last.Old Wolfe had been drinking since she went out,and had crept nearer the door.The girl Janey slept heavily in the corner.He went up to her,touching softly the worn white arm with his fingers.Some bitterer thought stung him,as he stood there.He wiped the drops from his forehead,and went into the room beyond,livid,trembling.A hope,trifling,perhaps,but very dear,had died just then out of the poor puddler's life,as he looked at the sleeping,innocent girl,--some plan for the future,in which she had borne a part.He gave it up that moment,then and forever.
Only a trifle,perhaps,to us:his face grew a shade paler,--that was all.But,somehow,the man's soul,as God and the angels looked down on it,never was the same afterwards.
Deborah followed him into the inner room.She carried a candle,which she placed on the floor,closing the door after her.She had seen the look on his face,as he turned away:her own grew deadly.Yet,as she came up to him,her eyes glowed.He was seated on an old chest,quiet,holding his face in his hands.
"Hugh!"she said,softly.
He did not speak.
"Hugh,did hur hear what the man said,--him with the clear voice?Did hur hear?Money,money,--that it wud do all?"He pushed her away,--gently,but he was worn out;her rasping tone fretted him.
"Hugh!"
