CHAPTER XVI

DOUBTS AND DIFFICULTIES

Æmilius paced the rope‐walk in deep thought. He did not speak during several turns, and the bishop respected his meditation and kept silence as well.

Presently the young man burst forth with: “This is fairly put, plausible and attractive doctrine. But what we lawyers demand is evidence. When was the revelation made? In the reign of the god Tiberius? That was two centuries ago. What proof is there that this be not a cleverly elaborated philosophy—as you say, a groping upwards—pretending to be, and showing off itself as, a lightening downwards?”

“The evidence is manifold,” answered Castor. “In the first place, the sayings and the acts of the Divine Revealer were recorded by evangelists who lived at the time, knew Him, heard Him, or were with those who had daily companied with Him.”

“Of what value is such evidence when we cannot put the men who gave it in the witness‐box and cross‐question them? I do not say that their evidence is naught, but that it is disputable.”

“There is other evidence, ever‐living, ever‐present.”

“What is that?”

“Your own reason and conscience. You, Æmilius Lentulus, have these witnesses in yourself. He who made you seated a conscience in your soul to show you that there is such a thing as a law of right and wrong, though, as far as you know, unwritten. Directly I spoke to you of the _sin_ of murdering men to make pastime, your color changed; you _knew_ that I was right. Your conscience assented to my words.”

“I allow that.”

“My friend, let me go further. When your mind is not obscured by passion or warped by prejudice, then you perceive that there is a sphere of holiness, of virtue, of purity, to which men have not yet attained, and which, for all you see, is unattainable situated as you are, but one into which, if man could mount, then he would be something nobler than even the poets have conceived. You have flashes of summer lightning in your dark sky. You reject the monstrous fables of the gods as inconsistent with what your reason and conscience tell you comport with divinity. Has any of your gods manifested himself and left such a record of his appearance as is fairly certain? If he appeared, or was fabled to have appeared, did he tell men anything about the nature of God, His will, and the destiny of man? A revelation must be in agreement with the highest aspirations of man. It must be such as will regulate his life, and conduce to his perfection and the advantage of the community. It must be such as will supply him with a motive for rejecting what is base, but pleasing to his coarse nature, and striving after that which is according to the luminous ideal that floats before him. Now the Christian revelation answers these conditions, and is therefore probably true. It supplies man with a reason why he should contend against all that is gross in his nature; should be gentle, courteous, kindly, merciful, pure. It does more. It assures him that the Creator made man in order that he might strive after this ideal, and in so doing attain to serenity and happiness. No other religion that I know of makes such claims; no other professes to have been revealed to man as the law of his being by Him who made man. No other is so completely in accordance on the one hand with what we conceive is in agreement with the nature of God, and on the other so completely accords with our highest aspirations.”

“I can say nothing to that. I do not know it.”

“Yes, you do know it. The babe declared it; gave you the marrow and kernel of the gospel: Love God and man.”

“To fear God is what I can understand; but to love Him is more than I can compass.”

“Because you do not know God.”

“I do not, indeed.”

“God is love.”

“A charming sentiment; a rhetorical flourish. What evidence can you adduce that God is love?”

“Creation.”

“The earth is full of suffering; violence prevails; wrong overmasters right. There is more of misery than of happiness, saving only to the rich and noble; they are at any rate supposed to be exempt, but, by Hercules, they seem to me to be sick of pleasure, and every delight gluts and leaves a bad taste in the mouth.”

“That is true; but why is there all this wretchedness? Because the world is trying to get along without God. Look!” The bishop stooped and took up a green‐backed beetle. “If I cast this insect into the water it will suffer and die. If I fling it into the fire it will writhe and perish in agony. Neither water nor fire is the element for which it was created—in which to exist and be happy. The divine law is the atmosphere in which man is made to live. Because there is deflection from that, and man seeks other ends than that for which he was made, therefore comes wretchedness. The law of God is the law man must know, and knowing, pursue to be perfectly happy and to become a perfect being.”

“Now I have you!” exclaimed Æmilius, with a laugh. “There are no men more wretched than Christians who possess, and, I presume, keep this law. They abstain from our merry‐makings, from the spectacles; they are liable to torture and to death.”

“We abstain from nothing that is wholesome and partaken in moderation; but from drunkenness, surfeiting, and what is repugnant to the clean mind. As to the persecution we suffer, the powers of evil rebel against God, and stir up bad men to resist the truth. But let me say something further—if I do not weary you.”

“Not at all; you astonish me too much to weary me.”

“You are dropped suddenly—cast up by the sea on a strange shore. You find yourself where you have never been before. You know not where to go—how to conduct yourself among the natives; what fruits you may eat as wholesome, and must reject as poisonous. You do not know what course to pursue to reach your home, and fear at every step to get further from it. You cry out for a chart to show you where you are, and in what direction you should direct your steps. Every child born into this world is in a like predicament. It wants a chart, and to know its bearings. This is not the case with any animal. Every bird, fish, beast, knows what to do to fulfill the objects of its existence. Man alone does not. He has aspirations, glimmerings, a law of nature traced, but not filled in. He has lived by that natural law—you live under it, and you experience its inadequacy. That is why your conscience, all mankind, with inarticulate longing desires something further. Now I ask you, as I did once before, is it conceivable that the Creator of man, who put in man’s heart that aspiration, that longing to know the law of his being, without which his life is but a miserable shipwreck—is it conceivable that He should withhold from him the chart by which he can find his way?”

“You have given me food for thought. Yet, my doubts still remain.”

“I cannot give you faith. That lightens down from above. It is the gift of God. Follow the law of your conscience and He may grant it you. I cannot say when or how, and what means he may employ—but if you are sincere and not a trifler with the truth—He will not deny it you. But see—here comes some one who desires to speak with you.”

Æmilius looked in the direction indicated, and saw Callipodius coming up from the water‐side, waving his hand to him. So engrossed had he been in conversation with Castor, that he had not observed the arrival of a boat at the landing‐place.

At once the young lawyer sped to meet his client, manifesting the utmost impatience.

“What tidings—what news?” was his breathless question.

“As good as may be,” answered Callipodius. “The gods work to fulfill thy desire. It is as if thou wert a constraining destiny, or as though it were a pleasure to them to satisfy the wishes of their favorite.”

“I pray, lay aside this flattery, and speak plain words.”

“Resplendent genius that thou art! thou needest no flattery any more than the sun requires burnishing.”

“Let me entreat—the news!”

“In two words——”

“Confine thyself to two words.”

“She is safe.”

“Where? How?”

“Now must I relax my tongue. In two words I cannot satisfy thy eagerness.”

“Then, Body of Bacchus! go on in thine own fashion.”

“The account may be crushed into narrow compass. When I left your radiant presence, then I betook myself to the town and found the place in turmoil—the statue of the god had been broken, and the deity was braying like a washerwoman’s jackass. The populace was roused and incensed by the outrage, and frightened by the voice of the god. All had quieted down previously, but this worked up the people to a condition of frantic rage and panic. I hurried about in quest of the Lady Perpetua; and as I learned that she had been conveyed from the pool by Baudillas Macer, I went into the part of the town where he lives; noble once, now slums. Then, lo! thy genius attending and befriending me, whom should I stumble against but a fellow named Tarsius, a slave of a wool merchant to whom I owe moneys, which I haven’t yet paid. I knew the fellow from a gash he had received at one time across nose and cheek. He was drunk and angry because he had been expelled the Christian society which was holding its orgies. I warrant thee I frightened the poor wretch with promises of the little horse, the panthers, and the cross, till he became pliant and obliging. Then I wormed out of him all I required, and made him my tool to obtain possession of the pretty maid. I learned from him that the Lady Quincta and her daughter were at the house of Baudillas, afraid to return home because their door was observed by some of the Cultores Nemausi. Then I suborned the rascal to act a part for me. From thy house I dispatched two litters and carriers, and sent that tippling rogue with them to the dwelling of Macer, to say that he was commissioned by his master, Litomarus, to conduct them to his country house for their security. They walked into the snare like fieldfare after juniper berries. Then the porters conveyed the girl to thy house.”

“To my house!” Æmilius started.

“Next, she was hurried off as soon as ever the gates were opened, to your villa at Ad Fines.”

“And she is there now, with her mother?”

“With her mother! I know better than to do that. I bade the porters convey the old lady in her palanquin to the goose and truffle market and deposit her there. No need to be encumbered with her.”

“The Lady Quincta not with her daughter?”

“You were not desirous for further acquaintance with the venerable widow, I presume.”

“But,” said Æmilius, “this is a grave matter. You have offered, as from me, an insult most wounding to a young lady, and to a respectable matron.”

“Generous man! how was it possible for me to understand the niceties that trouble your perspicuous mind? But be at ease. Serious sickness demands strong medicines. Great dangers excuse bold measures. The priestess has demanded the restoration of the virgin. The _flamen Augustalis_ is backing her up. So are all the _Seviri_. The religious corporation feel touched in their credit and insist on the restitution. They will heap on fuel, and keep Nemausus in a boil. By no possibility could the damsel have remained hidden in the town. I saw that it was imperiously necessary for me to remove her. I could think of no other place into which to put her than Ad Fines. I managed the matter in admirable fashion; though it is I who say it. But really, by Jupiter Capitolinus, I believe that your genius attended me, and assisted in the execution of the design, which was carried out without a hitch.”

Æmilius knitted his arms behind his back, and took short turns, in great perturbation of mind.

“By Hercules!” said he, “you have committed an actionable offense.”

“Of course, you look on it from a legal point of view,” said Callipodius, a little nettled. “I tell you it was a matter of life or death.”

“I do not complain of your having conveyed the young lady to Ad Fines, but of your not having taken her mother there along with her. You have put me in a very awkward predicament.”

“How was I to judge that the old woman was to be deported as well?”

“You might have judged that I would cut off my right hand rather than do aught that might cause people to speak lightly of Perpetua.”

The client shrugged his shoulders. “You seem to breed new scruples.”

“I thank you,” said Æmilius, “that you have shown so good a will, and have been so successful in your enterprise. I am, perhaps, over hasty and exacting. I desired you to do a thing more perfectly than perhaps you were able to perform it. Leave me now. I must clear my mind and discover what is now to be done.”

“There is no pleasing some folk,” said Callipodius moodily.