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, if folk say true! Don't tha be vexed--I'm not saying it to cheek tha. But Mr. Barron, ee says ee'll make tha give up. Ee's been goin' roun' the village, talkin' to folk. I doan't care about that--an' I've never been one o' your men--not pious enough, be a long way--but I'd like to hear--now as I can't do tha no harm, Rector, now as I'm goin', an' you cawn't deny me--what tha does really believe. Will tha tell me?"
He turned, open-eyed, impulsive, intelligent, as he had always been in life.
The Rector started. The inward challenge had taken voice.
"Certainly I will tell you, if it will help you--if you're strong enough."
Bateson waved his hand contemptuously.
"I feel as strong as onything. That sup o' brandy has put some grit in me. Give me some more. Thank tha ... Does tha believe in God, Rector?"
His whimsical, half-teasing, yet, at bottom, anxious look touched Meynell strangely.
"With all my life--and with all my strength!"
Meynell's gaze was fixed intently on his questioner. The night-light in the basin on the farther side of the room threw the strong features into shadowy relief, illumining the yearning kindliness of the eyes.
"What made tha believe in Him?"
"My own life--my own struggles--and sins--and sufferings," said Meynell, stooping toward the sick man, and speaking each word with an intensity behind which lay much that could never be known to his questioner. "A good man, Bateson, put it once in this way, 'There is something in me that asks something of me.' That's easy to understand, isn't it? If a man wants to be filthy, or drunken, or cruel, there is always a voice within--it may be weak or it may be strong--that asks of him to be--instead--pure and sober and kind. And perhaps he denies the Voice, refuses it--talks it down--again and again. Then the joy in his life dies out bit by bit, and the world turns to dust and ashes. Every time that he says No to the Voice he is less happy--he has less power of being happy. And the voice i