CHAPTER THE FOURTH

WAR

Section 1

From that moment when I insulted old Mrs. Verrall I became representative, I was a man who stood for all the disinherited of the world.  I had no hope of pride or pleasure left in me, I was raging rebellion against God and mankind.  There were no more vague intentions swaying me this way and that; I was perfectly clear now upon what I meant to do.  I would make my protest and die.

I would make my protest and die.  I was going to kill Nettie—­Nettie who had smiled and promised and given herself to another, and who stood now for all the conceivable delightfulnesses, the lost imaginations of the youthful heart, the unattainable joys in life; and Verrall who stood for all who profited by the incurable injustice of our social order.  I would kill them both.  And that being done I would blow my brains out and see what vengeance followed my blank refusal to live.

So indeed I was resolved.  I raged monstrously.  And above me, abolishing the stars, triumphant over the yellow waning moon that followed it below, the giant meteor towered up towards the zenith.

“Let me only kill!” I cried.  “Let me only kill!”

So I shouted in my frenzy.  I was in a fever that defied hunger and fatigue; for a long time I had prowled over the heath towards Lowchester talking to myself, and now that night had fully come I was tramping homeward, walking the long seventeen miles without a thought of rest.  And I had eaten nothing since the morning.

I suppose I must count myself mad, but I can recall my ravings.

There were times when I walked weeping through that brightness that was neither night nor day.  There were times when I reasoned in a topsy-turvy fashion with what I called the Spirit of All Things.  But always I spoke to that white glory in the sky.

“Why am I here only to suffer ignominies?” I asked.  “Why have you made me with pride that cannot be satisfied, with desires that turn and rend me?  Is it a jest, this world—­a joke you play on your guests?  I—­even I—­have a better humor than that!”

“Why not learn from me a certain decency of mercy?  Why not undo?  Have I ever tormented—­day by day, some wretched worm—­making filth for it to trail through, filth that disgusts it, starving it, bruising it, mocking it?  Why should you?  Your jokes are clumsy.  Try—­try some milder fun up there; do you hear?  Something that doesn’t hurt so infernally.”

“You say this is your purpose—­your purpose with me.  You are making something with me—­birth pangs of a soul.  Ah!  How can I believe you?  You forget I have eyes for other things.  Let my own case go, but what of that frog beneath the cart-wheel, God?—­and the bird the cat had torn?”

And after such blasphemies I would fling out a ridiculous little debating society hand.  “Answer me that!”