Strangely, but in accordance with his nature, while he denied God, he denied him resentfully. He lost his love of reading. The books which came to him now he no longer ministered to with his mind and heart, but only with his hands. He hated the very look of poetry. Where, in such a world as he now lived in, could live a worthy God? Richard made his own weather, and it was bad enough. Happily, no law compels a man to keep up the weather or the world he has made. Never will any man devise or develop mood or world fit to dwell in. He must inhabit a world that inhabits him, a world that envelops and informs every thought and imagination of his heart.

In Richard’s world, the one true, the one divine thing was its misery, for his misery was his need of God.

30. A Drunken Disclosure

— Thirty —

A Drunken Disclosure

One day, in the midst of his suffering, it suddenly flashed into Richard’s mind what a selfish fellow he was—his own troubles had made him forget Alice and Arthur! He must find them!

He knew the street where the firm employing Arthur used to have its offices. He went to the old address and found that one of the men there chanced to know where the firm had moved. The next day he told his father he would like to have a day off. He walked into the city, and found the place easily enough, but no Arthur. He had not been there for a week, they said. No one seemed to know where he lived, but Richard went on inquiring until at length he found a cabman who lived in the same street. He set out for it at once.

It was a long walk. The neighbourhood where at last he found the house was a very poor one, and the house one of the dingiest of all. The door stood open. He walked in and up to the second floor, where he knocked at the first door on the landing. A feeble sound, hardly a voice, answered, and Richard opened the door. There sat Arthur, muffled in an old rug, sitting in front of a wretched fire. He held out a pallid hand and greeted him with a sunless smile, but did not speak.

“My poor dear fellow!” said Richard. “What is the matter with you? Why didn’t you let me know?”

Tears came to Arthur’s eyes and he struggled to answer, but his voice was gone. He seemed horribly ill—perhaps dying. He took a piece of paper from his pocket, and a scribbled conversation followed.

“What is the matter with you?”

“Only a bad cold.”

“Where is Alice?”

“At the shop. She will be back at eight o’clock.”

“Where is your mother?”

“I don’t know—she is out.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”