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166 The Freelands
The one who was going to bite made a
queer, deep little noise; it was not a laugh,
however, and it seemed as if he knew she
could not bear him to look at her just
then.
"H'm!" he said. ''Every one does
that—according to their natures. Some
call God IT, some HIM, some HER, nowadays—that's
all. You might as well ask
—do I believe that I'm alive?"
"Yes," said Nedda, "but which do you
call God?"
As she asked that, he gave a wriggle,
and it flashed through her: 'He must
think me an awful enfant terrible!' His
face peered round at her, queer and pale
and puffy, with nice, straight eyes; and
she added hastily:
"It isn't a fair question, is it? Only
you talked about darkness, and the only
way—so I thought "
"Quite a fair question. My answer is,
of course: 'All three'; but the point is
rather: Does one wish to make even an attempt
to define God to oneself ? Frankly,
I don't! I'm content to feel that there is
in one some kind of instinct toward perfection
that one will still feel, I hope, when
the lights are going out; some kind of
honor forbidding one to let go and give up.
That's all I've got; I really don't know
what I want more."
Nedda clasped her hands.
"I like that," she said; "only—what is
perfection, Mr. Cuthcott?"
Again he emitted that deep little sound.
"Ah!" he repeated, "what is perfection?
Awkward, that—isn't it?"
"Is it"—Nedda rushed the words out
—"is it always to be sacrificing yourself,
or is it—is it always to be—to be expressing
yourself?"
"To some—one; to some—the other;
to some—half one, half the other."
"But which is it to me?"
"Ah! that you've got to find out for
yourself. There's a sort of metronome
inside us—wonderful, self-adjusting little
machine; most delicate bit of mechanism
in the world—people call it conscience—that
records the proper beat of
our tempos. I guess that's all we have to
go by."
Nedda said breathlessly:
"Yes; and it's frightfully hard, isn't
it?"
"Exactly," Mr. Cuthcott answered.
"That's why people devised religions and
other ways of having the thing done second-hand.
We all object to trouble and
responsibility if we can possibly avoid it.
Where do you live?"
"In Hampstead."
"Your father must be a stand-by, isn't
he?"
"Oh, yes; Dad's splendid; only, you
see, I am a good deal younger than he.
There was just one thing I was going to
ask you. Are these very Bigwigs?"
Mr. Cuthcott turned to the room and
let his screwed-up glance wander. He
looked just then particularly as if he were
going to bite.
"If you take 'em at their own valuation:
Yes. If at the country's: So-so.
If at mine: Ha! I know what you'd like
to ask: Should I be a Bigwig in their estimation
? Not I! As you knock about,
Miss Freeland, you'll find out one thing—
all bigwiggery is founded on: Scratch my
back, and I'll scratch yours. Seriously,
these are only tenpenny ones; but the mischief
is, that in the matter of 'the Land,'
they are—bar half a dozen, perhaps—
about as big as you could catch. Nothing
short of a rising such as there was in 1832
would make the land question real, even .
for the moment. Not that I want to see
one—God forbid ! Those poor doomed
devils were treated worse than dogs, and
would be again."
Before Nedda could pour out questions
about the rising in 1832, Stanley's voice
said:
"Cuthcott, I want to introduce you !"
Her new friend screwed his eyes up
tighter and, muttering something, put out
his hand to her.
"Thank you for our talk. I hope we
shall meet again. Any time you want to
know anything—I'll be only too glad.
Good night!"
She felt the squeeze of his hand, warm
and dry, but rather soft, as of a man who
uses a pen too much; saw him following
her uncle across the room, with his shoulders
a little hunched, as if preparing to inflict,
and ward off, blows. And with the
thought: 'He must be jolly when he gives
them one!' she turned once more to the
darkness, than which he had said there
was nothing nicer. It smelled of new-