A Man and a Woman Part 4

But neither quoits nor Jenny Bierce sufficed at all times for forgetfulness. Harlson was in the grasp of that enemy--or friend--who gives vast problems, and with them no solution. He could not rest. He read his Bible, but that only puzzled him the more, because there seemed to him, of necessity, degrees of wrong, and he could not find a commandment which was flexible. He chafed because there was no measure for his sentence.

A pebble at the rivulet's head will turn the tiny current either way, and so change the course of eventual creek and river. The pebble fell near the source in Grant Harlson's case, for never before in his life had he studied much the moral problem. His had been the conventional training, which is to-day the training which asks one to accept, unreasoning, the belief of yielding predecessors, and, until he felt the p.r.i.c.k of conscience, he had never cared to question the inheritance. Now he wanted proof. If he could not plead not guilty, might he not, at least, find weakness in the law? Then fell the pebble.

It was only a country newspaper, and it was only the chance verses clipped from some unknown source which turned the tide that might have grown yet have run forever between narrow banks.

For the verses--who wrote them?--were those of that brief poem which has made more doubters than any single revelation of the hollow-heartedness of some famed G.o.dly one; than any effort of oratory of some great agnostic; than any chapter of any book that was ever written:

I think till I'm weary of thinking, Said the sad-eyed Hindoo king, And I see but shadows around me, Illusion in every thing.

How knowest thou aught of G.o.d, Of His favor or His wrath?

Can the little fish tell what the lion thinks, Or map out the eagle's path!

Can the Finite the Infinite search!

Did the blind discover the stars?

Is the thought that I think a thought, Or a throb of a brain in its bars?

For aught that my eyes can discern, Your G.o.d is what you think good-- Yourself flashed back from the gla.s.s When the light pours on it in flood.

You preach to me to be just, And this is His realm, you say; And the good are dying with hunger, And the bad gorge every day.

You say that He loveth mercy, And the famine is not yet gone; That He hateth the shedder of blood And He slayeth us every one.

You say that my soul shall live, That the spirit can never die: If He was content when I was not, Why not when I have pa.s.sed by?

You say I must have a meaning: So must dung, and its meaning is flowers; What if our souls are but nurture For lives that are greater than ours?

When the fish swims out of the water, When the birds soar out of the blue, Man's thoughts may transcend man's knowledge, And your G.o.d be no reflex of you!

One night in after life I sat with Grant Harlson, in his rooms in a great city, and he told me of this, his time of doubt and tribulation, and repeated to me the poem.

"The questions it asks have not yet been answered, so far as I know,"

said he, "and I do not think they can be by the alleged experts in such things."

Then a sudden fancy seized him, and he broke out with a novel proposition:

"You have little to do to-morrow, nor have I much on my hands.

Speaking of this to you has awakened an old interest in me and made me curious. Help me to-morrow. We'll make up now a list of twenty leading clergymen. I know most of them personally, and some of them can reason. We'll each take a cab and each visit ten, exhibiting these verses, going over them stanza by stanza, explaining the doubts they have aroused, and asking for such solution as the clergymen have, and such solace as it may afford. That will be rather an interesting experiment, will it not?"

I fell in with his whim, and the next day we made the rounds agreed upon.

What a curious thing it was! How men of various creeds felt confident and repeated the old plat.i.tudes, and would be anything but logical!

How one or two were honest, and said they could not answer.

And how absurd, we said at night, the keeping of men to tell us what can no more be learned in a theological school than in a blacksmith shop, and in neither place as well as in the woods or on the sea! Yet there was no scoffing in it. We were neither irreligious.

To this young man building the fence there came a resisting mood, and he was puzzled still, but slept more pleasantly again upon his clover-mow. He was groping, but less despondent, that was all. It seemed all strange to him, for the old farm life had become largely a memory, and it was but yesterday that he was in college, one of a thousand, full of all energy and lightsomeness, and here he was alone in the wood as in a monastery, and all else was somehow like a dream.

Only the oxen and the logs and the ax and the maul and the growing fence were real by day. But, in the evening, there was Jenny Bierce, and she was very real, as well as charming.

Ho wondered if she cared for him. She was apparently pleased when he found her, and they had taken long walks alone in the twilight. Once he had kissed her, and she had not been angry. What sort of drift was this, and why was he so carried by it? How different it all was from even the life of a few weeks ago! Then there came before his eyes a picture of the great, splendid animal in town, and it remained with him. It bothered him for many a day and night.

If the Hindoo king were right, if all were so undefined, why not do as did the birds and squirrels, and seek all sunny places? He could not work at his fence Sunday. He had not done that yet, but he would walk the miles Sat.u.r.day night and spend his Sunday in the town.

As he thought, so he did. He did not swing the maul late the next Sat.u.r.day that came, but took up his journey and reached home in early evening.

He had been absent but three weeks, yet his family had much to ask, and his father laughed at his hardened palms, and congratulated him. He changed his garb and took the way toward Mrs. Rolfston's. She had not looked for him sooner, though she knew men well, for she had seen his growing trouble and she knew his will. Her eyes blazed as might the eyes of some hungry thing to which food is brought. It was late when he reached his home again, and the next day he must read a book, he said, that he had found at Mrs. Rolfston's. At night he was stalking across the country again, to his couch on the dry clover; and he thought not even of the Hindoo king. Mrs. Rolfston's school of theology was not of the sort which worries one with puzzling things, and he had been in a receptive mood.

The next day he worked like a giant. In the early evening he found Jenny Bierce. She questioned him, but he had not much to answer.

"Is there some one in the town ?" she asked.

"There are several hundred people there."

"You know what I mean. Is there any one in particular?"--this poutingly.

He said that of late the only one, to speak of, he had found anywhere was a girl in a calico dress.

CHAPTER XI.

SETTLING WITH WOODELL.

So pa.s.sed the days away. What added brawn came to the strong young fellow's arms from the driving of the rails and lifting them to place!

Brown, almost, as the changing beech-leaves his face, and the palms of his hands became like celluloid. He was unlike the farmers, though, for he lacked the farmers' stoop--he had not to dig nor mow, nor rake nor bind. He swung his ax or maul, and commanded the red oxen in country speech, and deeper and deeper into the forest grew the fence.

And, of evenings, he was with Jenny, and Sundays he was in the town.

What days they were, with all their force, and health, and lawless abandonment, though in the line of nature. He drank not, nor smoked, nor ate made dishes. He was like an unreasoning bobolink, or hawk, or fawn, or wolf. But there grew apace the problem of Jenny.

One night, as the two were walking, each caught a glimpse of something dark, which moved swiftly through the bushes some distance from the road.

The girl started.

"What is the matter?" Harlson said.

"Did you not see it--that shadow in the bushes?"

"Yes. Some one was there. What of it? Some of the boys are c.o.o.n-hunting."

"It wasn't that," she whispered. "I know what it was. It was Harrison Woodell, and he is watching."

"Well, he might be in much better business. Are you fond of him?"

"I like him very much," she answered, simply, "but sometimes I am afraid."

He laughed.

"He'll not hurt you. He dare not."