CHAPTER III.

STREAKS OF DAWN.

Next day proved warm and sunny, and we started early, to enjoy the luxury of a good long chat before he would be obliged to leave me.

“This neighbourhood has more than its due proportion of the _very_ poor,” I remarked, as we passed a group of hovels, too dilapidated to deserve the name of “cottages.”

“But the few rich,” Arthur replied, “give more than their due proportion of help in charity. So the balance is kept.”

“I suppose the _Earl_ does a good deal?”

“He _gives_ liberally; but he has not the health or strength to do more. Lady Muriel does more in the way of school-teaching and cottage-visiting than she would like me to reveal.”

“Then _she_, at least, is not one of the ‘idle mouths’ one so often meets with among the upper classes. I have sometimes thought they would have a hard time of it, if suddenly called on to give their _raison d’être_, and to show cause why they should be allowed to live any longer!”

“The whole subject,” said Arthur, “of what we may call ‘idle mouths’ (I mean persons who absorb some of the material _wealth_ of a community—in the form of food, clothes, and so on—without contributing its equivalent in the form of productive _labour_) is a complicated one, no doubt. I’ve tried to think it out. And it seemed to me that the simplest form of the problem, to start with, is a community without _money_, who buy and sell by _barter_ only; and it makes it yet simpler to suppose the food and other things to be capable of _keeping_ for many years without spoiling.”

“Yours is an excellent plan,” I said. “What is your solution of the problem?”

“The commonest type of ‘idle mouths,’” said Arthur, “is no doubt due to money being left by parents to their own children. So I imagined a man—either exceptionally clever, or exceptionally strong and industrious—who had contributed so much valuable labour to the needs of the community that its equivalent, in clothes, &c., was (say) five times as much as he needed for himself. We cannot deny his _absolute_ right to give the superfluous wealth as he chooses. So, if he leaves _four_ children behind him (say two sons and two daughters), with enough of all the necessaries of life to last them a life-time, I cannot see that the _community_ is in any way wronged if they choose to do nothing in life but to ‘eat, drink, and be merry.’ Most certainly, the community could not fairly say, in reference to _them_, ‘_if a man will not work, neither let him eat_.’ Their reply would be crushing. ‘The labour has already been _done_, which is a fair equivalent for the food we are eating; and you have had the benefit of it. On what principle of justice can you demand _two_ quotas of work for _one_ quota of food?’”

“Yet surely,” I said, “there is something wrong _somewhere_, if these four people are well able to do useful work, and if that work is actually _needed_ by the community, and they elect to sit idle?”

“I think there _is_,” said Arthur: “but it seems to me to arise from a Law of God—that every one shall do as much as he can to help others—and not from any _rights_, on the part of the community, to exact labour as an equivalent for food that has already been fairly earned.”

“I suppose the _second_ form of the problem is where the ‘idle mouths’ possess _money_ instead of _material_ wealth?”

“Yes,” replied Arthur: “and I think the simplest case is that of _paper_-money. _Gold_ is itself a form of material wealth; but a bank-note is merely a _promise_ to hand over so much _material_ wealth when called upon to do so. The father of these four ‘idle mouths,’ had done (let us say) five thousand pounds’ worth of useful work for the community. In return for this, the community had given him what amounted to a written promise to hand over, whenever called upon to do so, five thousand pounds’ worth of food, &c. Then, if he only uses _one_ thousand pounds’ worth himself, and leaves the rest of the notes to his children, surely they have a full right to _present_ these written promises, and to say ‘hand over the food, for which the equivalent labour has been already done.’ Now I think _this_ case well worth stating, publicly and clearly. I should like to drive it into the heads of those Socialists who are priming our ignorant paupers with such sentiments as ‘Look at them bloated haristocrats! Doing not a stroke o’ work for theirselves, and living on the sweat of _our_ brows!’ I should like to _force_ them to see that the _money_, which those ‘haristocrats’ are spending, represents so much labour _already done_ for the community, and whose equivalent, in _material_ wealth, is _due from the community_.”

“Might not the Socialists reply ‘Much of this money does not represent _honest_ labour _at all_. If you could trace it back, from owner to owner, though you might begin with several legitimate steps, such as gift, or bequeathing by will, or ‘value received,’ you would soon reach an owner who had no moral right to it, but had got it by fraud or other crimes; and of course his successors in the line would have no better right to it than _he_ had.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” Arthur replied. “But surely that involves the logical fallacy of _proving too much_? It is _quite_ as applicable to _material_ wealth, as it is to _money_. If we once begin to go back beyond the fact that the _present_ owner of certain property came by it honestly, and to ask whether any previous owner, in past ages, got it by fraud, would _any_ property be secure?”

After a minute’s thought, I felt obliged to admit the truth of this.

“My general conclusion,” Arthur continued, “from the mere standpoint of human _rights_, man against man, was this—that if some wealthy ‘idle mouth,’ who has come by his money in a lawful way, even though not one atom of the labour it represents has been his own doing, chooses to spend it on his own needs, without contributing any labour to the community from whom he buys his food and clothes, that community has no _right_ to interfere with him. But it’s quite another thing, when we come to consider the _divine_ law. Measured by _that_ standard, such a man is undoubtedly doing wrong, if he fails to use, for the good of those in need, the strength or the skill, that God has given him. That strength and skill do _not_ belong to the community, to be paid to _them_ as a _debt_: they do _not_ belong to the man _himself_, to be used for his _own_ enjoyment: they _do_ belong to God, to be used according to _His_ will; and we are not left in doubt as to what that will is. ‘_Do good, and lend, hoping for nothing again._’”

“Anyhow,” I said, “an ‘idle mouth’ very often gives away a great deal in charity.”

“In _so-called_ ‘charity,’” he corrected me. “Excuse me if I seem to speak _un_charitably. I would not dream of _applying_ the term to any _individual_. But I would say, _generally_, that a man who gratifies every fancy that occurs to him—denying himself in _nothing_—and merely gives to the poor some part, or even _all_, of his _superfluous_ wealth, is only deceiving himself if he calls it _charity_.”

“But, even in giving away _superfluous_ wealth, he _may_ be denying himself the miser’s pleasure in hoarding?”

“I grant you that, gladly,” said Arthur. “Given that he _has_ that morbid craving, he is doing a good deed in restraining it.”

“But, even in spending on _himself_,” I persisted, “our typical rich man often does good, by employing people who would otherwise be out of work: and that is often better than pauperising them by _giving_ the money.”

“I’m glad you’ve said that!” said Arthur. “I would not like to quit the subject without exposing the _two_ fallacies of that statement—which have gone so long uncontradicted that Society now accepts it as an axiom!”

“What are they?” I said. “I don’t even see _one_, myself.”

“One is merely the fallacy of _ambiguity_—the assumption that ‘_doing good_’ (that is, benefiting somebody) is necessarily _a good thing to do_ (that is, a _right_ thing). The other is the assumption that, if one of two specified acts is _better_ than another, it is necessarily a _good_ act in itself. I should like to call this the fallacy of _comparison_—meaning that it assumes that what is _comparatively_ good is therefore _positively_ good.”

“Then what is _your_ test of a good act?”

“That it shall be _our best_,” Arthur confidently replied. “And even _then_ ‘_we are unprofitable servants_.’ But let me illustrate the two fallacies. Nothing illustrates a fallacy so well as an extreme case, which fairly comes under it. Suppose I find two children drowning in a pond. I rush in, and save one of the children, and then walk away, leaving the other to drown. Clearly I have ‘_done good_,’ in saving a child’s life? But——. Again, supposing I meet an inoffensive stranger, and knock him down, and walk on. Clearly that is ‘_better_’ than if I had proceeded to jump upon him and break his ribs? But——”

“Those ‘buts’ are quite unanswerable,” I said. “But I should like an instance from _real_ life.”

“Well, let us take one of those abominations of modern Society, a Charity-Bazaar. It’s an interesting question to think out—how much of the money, that reaches the object in view, is _genuine_ charity; and whether even _that_ is spent in the _best_ way. But the subject needs regular classification, and analysis, to understand it properly.”

“I should be glad to _have_ it analysed,” I said: “it has often puzzled me.”

“Well, if I am really not boring you. Let us suppose our Charity-Bazaar to have been organised to aid the funds of some Hospital: and that A, B, C _give_ their services in making articles to sell, and in acting as salesmen, while X, Y, Z buy the articles, and the money so paid goes to the Hospital.

“There are two distinct species of such Bazaars: one, where the payment exacted is merely the _market-value_ of the goods supplied, that is, exactly what you would have to pay at a shop: the other, where _fancy-prices_ are asked. We must take these separately.

“First, the ‘market-value’ case. Here A, B, C are exactly in the same position as ordinary shopkeepers; the only difference being that they give the proceeds to the Hospital. Practically, they are _giving their skilled labour_ for the benefit of the Hospital. This seems to me to be genuine charity. And I don’t see how they could use it better. But X, Y, Z, are exactly in the same position as any ordinary purchasers of goods. To talk of ‘charity’ in connection with _their_ share of the business, is sheer nonsense. Yet they are very likely to do so.

“Secondly, the case of ‘fancy-prices.’ Here I think the simplest plan is to divide the payment into two parts, the ‘market-value’ and the excess over that. The ‘market-value’ part is on the same footing as in the first case: the _excess_ is all we have to consider. Well, A, B, C do not _earn_ it; so we may put _them_ out of the question: it is a _gift_, from X, Y, Z, to the Hospital. And my opinion is that it is not given in the best way: far better buy what they choose to _buy_, and give what they choose to _give_, as two _separate_ transactions: then there is _some_ chance that their motive in giving may be real charity, instead of a mixed motive—half charity, half self-pleasing. ‘The trail of the serpent is over it all.’ And _therefore_ it is that I hold all such spurious ‘Charities’ in _utter_ abomination!” He ended with unusual energy, and savagely beheaded, with his stick, a tall thistle at the road-side, behind which I was startled to see Sylvie and Bruno standing. I caught at his arm, but too late to stop him. Whether the stick reached them, or not, I could not feel sure: at any rate they took not the smallest notice of it, but smiled gaily, and nodded to me; and I saw at once that they were only visible to _me_: the ‘eerie’ influence had not reached to _Arthur_.

“Why did you try to save it?” he said. “_That’s_ not the wheedling Secretary of a Charity-Bazaar! I only wish it were!” he added grimly.

“Doos oo know, that stick went right froo my head!” said Bruno. (They had run round to me by this time, and each had secured a hand.) “Just under my chin! I _are_ glad I aren’t a thistle!”

“Well, we’ve threshed _that_ subject out, anyhow!” Arthur resumed. “I’m afraid I’ve been talking too much, for _your_ patience and for my strength. I must be turning soon. This is about the end of my tether.”

“Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee; Take, I give it willingly; For, invisible to thee, Spirits twain have crossed with me!”

I quoted, involuntarily.

“For utterly inappropriate and irrelevant quotations,” laughed Arthur, “you are ‘ekalled by few, and excelled by none’!” And we strolled on.

As we passed the head of the lane that led down to the beach, I noticed a single figure, moving slowly along it, seawards. She was a good way off, and had her back to us: but it was Lady Muriel, unmistakably. Knowing that Arthur had not seen her, as he had been looking, in the other direction, at a gathering rain-cloud, I made no remark, but tried to think of some plausible pretext for sending him back by the sea.

The opportunity instantly presented itself. “I’m getting tired,” he said. “I don’t think it would be prudent to go further. I had better turn here.”

I turned with him, for a few steps, and as we again approached the head of the lane, I said, as carelessly as I could, “Don’t go back by the road. It’s too hot and dusty. Down this lane, and along the beach, is nearly as short; and you’ll get a breeze off the sea.”

“Yes, I think I will,” Arthur began; but at that moment we came into sight of Lady Muriel, and he checked himself. “No, it’s too far round. Yet it certainly _would_ be cooler——” He stood, hesitating, looking first one way and then the other—a melancholy picture of utter infirmity of purpose!

How long this humiliating scene would have continued, if _I_ had been the only external influence, it is impossible to say; for at this moment Sylvie, with a swift decision worthy of Napoleon himself, took the matter into her own hands. “You go and drive _her_, up this way,” she said to Bruno. “I’ll get _him_ along!” And she took hold of the stick that Arthur was carrying, and gently pulled him down the lane.

He was totally unconscious that any will but his own was acting on the stick, and appeared to think it had taken a horizontal position simply because he was pointing with it. “Are not those _orchises_ under the hedge there?” he said. “I think that decides me. I’ll gather some as I go along.”

Meanwhile Bruno had run on beyond Lady Muriel, and, with much jumping about and shouting (shouts audible to no one but Sylvie and myself), much as if he were driving sheep, he managed to turn her round and make her walk, with eyes demurely cast upon the ground, in our direction.

The victory was ours! And, since it was evident that the lovers, thus urged together, _must_ meet in another minute, I turned and walked on, hoping that Sylvie and Bruno would follow my example, as I felt sure that the fewer the spectators the better it would be for Arthur and his good angel.

“And what sort of meeting was it?” I wondered, as I paced dreamily on.