WATERSPRINGS

BY

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

 "For in the wilderness shall waters break out, and streams in the desert"

1913

CONTENTS

 I. THE SCENE II. RESTLESSNESS III. WINDLOW IV. THE POOL V. ON THE DOWN VI. THE HOME CIRCLE VII. COUNTRY LIFE VIII. THE INHERITANCE IX. THE VICAR X. WITH MAUD ALONE XI. JACK XII. DIPLOMACY XIII. GIVING AWAY XIV. BACK TO CAMBRIDGE XV. JACK'S ESCAPADE XVI. THE VISIT XVII. SELF-SUPPRESSION XVIII. THE PICNIC XIX. DESPONDENCY XX. HIGHMINDEDNESS XXI. THE AWAKENING XXII. LOVE AND CERTAINTY XXIII. THE WEDDING XXIV. DISCOVERIES XXV. THE NEW KNOWLEDGE XXVI. LOVE IS ENOUGH XXVII. THE NEW LIFE XXVIII. THE VICAR'S VIEW XXIX. THE CHILD XXX. CAMBRIDGE AGAIN XXXI. MAKING THE BEST OF IT XXXII. HOWARD'S PROFESSION XXXIII. ANXIETY XXXIV. THE DREAM-CHILD XXXV. THE POWER OF LOVE XXXVI. THE TRUTH

WATERSPRINGS

I

THE SCENE

The bright pale February sunlight lay on the little court of BeaufortCollege, Cambridge, on the old dull-red smoke-stained brick, the stonemullions and mouldings, the Hall oriel, the ivied buttresses andbattlements, the turrets, the tiled roofs, the quaint chimneys, and thelead-topped cupola over all. Half the court was in shadow. It wasincredibly picturesque, but it had somehow the look of a fortressrather than of a house. It did not exist only to be beautiful, but hada well-worn beauty of age and use. There was no domestic adornment offlower-bed or garden-border, merely four squares of grass, looking likefaded carpets laid on the rather uncompromising pebbles which flooredthe pathways. The golden hands of the clock pointed to a quarter toten, and the chimes uttered their sharp, peremptory voices. Two orthree young men stood talking at the vaulted gateway, and one or twofigures in dilapidated gowns and caps, holding books, fled out of thecourt. 

A firm footstep came down one of the stairways; a man of about fortypassed out into the court--Howard Kennedy, Fellow and ClassicalLecturer of the College. His thick curly brown hair showed a trace ofgrey, his short pointed beard was grizzled, his complexion sanguine, his eyebrows thick. There were little vague lines on his forehead, andhis eyes were large and clear; an interesting, expressive face, nottechnically handsome, but both clever and good-natured. He wascarelessly dressed in rather old but well-cut clothes, and had an airof business-like decisiveness which became him well, and made him seemcomfortably at home in the place; he nodded and smiled to theundergraduates at the gate, who smiled back and saluted. He met a youngman rushing down the court, and said to him, "That's right, hurry up!You'll just be in time, " a remark which was answered by a gesture ofdespair from the young man. Then he went up the court towards the Hall, entered the flagged passage, looked for a moment at the notices on thescreen, and went through into the back court, which was surrounded by atiny cloister. 

Here he met an elderly man, clean-shaven, fresh-coloured, acute-looking, who wore a little round bowler hat perched on a thickshock of white hair. He was dressed in a black coat and waistcoat, witha black tie, and wore rather light grey trousers. One would have takenhim for an old-fashioned country solicitor. He was, as a matter offact, the Vice-Master and Senior Fellow of the College--Mr. Redmayne, who had spent his whole life there. He greeted the younger man with akindly, brisk, ironical manner, saying, "You look very virtuous, Kennedy! What are you up to?"

"I am going for a turn in the garden, " said Howard; "will you come withme?"

"You are very good, " said Mr. Redmayne; "it will be quite like adialogue of Plato!"

They went down the cloister to a low door in the corner, which Howardunlocked, and turned into a small old-fashioned garden, surrounded onthree sides by high walls, and overlooking the river on the fourthside; a gravel path ran all round; there were a few trees, bare andleafless, and a big bed of shrubs in the centre of the little lawn, just faintly pricked with points of green. A few aconites showed theiryellow heads above the soil. 

"What are those wretched little flowers?" said Mr. Redmayne, pointingat them contemptuously. 

"Oh, don't say that, " said Howard; "they are always the first tostruggle up, and they are the earliest signs of spring. Those areaconites. "

"Aconites? Deadly poison!" said Mr. Redmayne, in a tone of horror. "Well, I don't object to them, --though I must say that I prefer theworks of man to the works of God at all times and in all places. Idon't like the spring--it's a languid and treacherous time; it alwaysmakes me feel that I wish I were doing something else. "

They paced for some minutes round the garden gossiping, Redmayne makingvery trenchant criticisms, but evidently enjoying the younger man'scompany. At something which he said, Howard uttered a low laugh, whichwas pleasant to hear from the sense of contented familiarity which itgave. 

"Ah, you may laugh, my young friend, " said Redmayne, "but when you havereached my time of life and see everything going to pieces round you, you have occasionally to protest against the general want of backbone, and the sentimentality of the age. "

"Yes, but you don't REALLY object, " said Howard; "you know you enjoyyour grievances!"

"Well, I am a philosopher, " said Mr. Redmayne, "but you are overdoingyour philanthropics. Luncheon in Hall for the boys, dinner atseven-thirty for the boys, a new cricket-ground for the boys; youpamper them! Now in my time, when the undergraduates complained aboutthe veal in Hall, old Grant sent for us third-year men, and said thathe understood there were complaints about the veal, of which he fullyrecognised the justice, and so they would go back to mutton and beefand stick to them, and then he bowed us out. Now the Bursar would sendfor the cook, and they would mingle their tears together. "

Howard laughed again, but made no comment, and presently said he mustgo back to work. As they went in, Mr. Redmayne put his hand in Howard'sarm, and said, "Don't mind me, my young friend! I like to have mygrowl, but I am proud of the old place, and you do a great deal for it. "

Howard smiled, and tucked the old man's hand closer to his side with amovement of his arm. "I shall come and fetch you out again somemorning, " he said. 

He got back to his rooms at ten o'clock, and a moment afterwards ayoung man appeared in a gown. Howard sat down at his table, pulled achair up to his side, produced a corrected piece of Latin prose, madesome criticisms and suggestions, and ended up by saying, "That's a goodpiece! You have improved a good deal lately, and that would get you asolid mark. " Then he sat for a minute or two talking about the bookshis pupil was reading, and indicating the points he was to look outfor, till at half-past ten another youth appeared to go through thesame process. This went on until twelve o'clock. Howard's manner waskindly and business-like, and the undergraduates were very much attheir ease. One of them objected to one of his criticisms. Howardturned to a dictionary and showed him a paragraph. "You will see I amright, " he said, "but don't hesitate to object to anything I say--theseusages are tricky things!" The undergraduate smiled and nodded. 

Just before twelve o'clock he was left alone for five minutes, and aservant brought in a note. Howard opened it, and taking a sheet ofpaper, began to write. At the hour a youth appeared, of very boyishaspect, curly-haired, fresh-looking, ingenuous. Howard greeted him witha smile. "Half a minute, Jack!" he said. "There's the paper--not theSportsman, I'm afraid, but you can console yourself while I just finishthis note. " The boy sat down by the fire, but instead of taking thepaper, drew a solemn-looking cat, which was sitting regarding thehearth, on to his knee, and began playing with it. Presently Howardthrew his pen down. "Come along, " he said. The boy, still carrying thecat, came and sat down beside him. The lesson proceeded as before, butthere was a slight difference in Howard's manner of speech, as of anuncle with a favourite nephew. At the end, he pushed the paper into theboy's hand, and said, "No, that isn't good enough, you know; it's alltoo casual--it isn't a bit like Latin: you don't do me credit!" Hespoke incisively enough, but shook his head with a smile. The boy saidnothing, but got up, vaguely smiling, and holding the cat tucked underhis arm--a charming picture of healthy and indifferent youth. Then hesaid in a rich infantile voice, "Oh, it's all right. I didn't do myselfjustice this time. You shall see!"

At this moment the old servant came in and asked Howard if he wouldtake lunch. 

"Yes; I won't go into Hall, " said Howard. "Lunch for two--you can stayand lunch with me, Jack; and I will give you a lecture about your sins. "

The boy said, "Yes, thanks very much; I'd love to. "

Jack Sandys was a pupil of Howard's in whom he had a special interest. He was the son of Frank Sandys, the Vicar of the Somersetshire parishwhere Mrs. Graves, Howard's aunt, lived at the Manor-house. FrankSandys was a cousin of Mrs. Graves' deceased husband. She had advisedthe Vicar to send Jack to Beaufort, and had written speciallycommending him to Howard's care. But the boy had needed littlecommendation. From the first moment that Jack Sandys had appeared, smiling and unembarrassed, in Howard's room, a relation that was almostfilial and paternal had sprung up between them. He had treated Howardfrom the outset with an innocent familiarity, and asked him the mostdirect questions. He was not a particularly intellectual youth, thoughhe had some vague literary interests; but he was entirely healthy, good, and quite irresistibly charming in his naivete and simplicity. Howard had a dislike of all sentimentality, but the suppressed paternalinstinct which was strong in him had been awakened; and though he madeno emotional advances, he found himself strangely drawn to the boy, with a feeling for which he could not wholly account. He did not carefor Jack's athletic interests; his tastes and mental processes wereobscure to him. Howard's own nature was at once intellectual andimaginative, but he felt an extreme delight in the fearless and directconfidence which the boy showed in him. He criticised his workunsparingly, he rallied him on his tastes, he snubbed him, but all witha sense of real and instinctive sympathy which made everything easy. The boy never resented anything that he said, asked his advice, lookedto him to get him out of any small difficulties that arose. They werenot very much together, and mostly met only on official occasions. Howard was a busy man, and had little time, or indeed taste, for vagueconversation. Jack was a boy of natural tact, and he treated all theauthorities with the same unembarrassed directness. Undergraduates arequick to remark on any sort of favouritism, but only if they think thatthe favoured person gets any unfair advantage by his intimacy. ButHoward came down on Jack just as decisively as he came down on anyoneelse whose work was unsatisfactory. It was known that they were a sortof cousins; and, moreover, Jack Sandys was generally popular, thoughonly in his first year, because he was free from any touch ofuppishness, and of an imperturbable good-humour. 

But his own feeling for the boy surprised Howard. He did not think himvery interesting, nor had they much in common except a perfectgoodwill. It was to Howard as if Jack represented something beyond andfurther than himself, for which Howard cared--as one might love a housefor the sake of someone that had inhabited it, or because of eventsthat had happened there. He tried vaguely to interest Jack in some ofthe things he cared about, but wholly in vain. That cheerful youth wentquietly on his own way--modest, handsome, decided, knowing exactly whathe liked, with very material tastes and ambitions, not in the leastemotional or imaginative, and yet with a charm of which all wereconscious. He was bored by any violent attempts at friendship, andquite content in almost anyone's company, naturally self-contained andtemperate, making no claims and giving no pledges; and yet Howard wasdeeply haunted by the sense that Jack stood for something almostbewilderingly fine which he himself could not comprehend or interpret, and of which the boy himself was wholly and radiantly unconscious. Itgave him, indeed, a sudden warmth about the heart to see Jack in thecourt, or even to think of him as living within the same walls; butthere was nothing jealous or exclusive about his interest, and whenthey met, there was often nothing particular to say. 

Presently lunch was announced, and Howard led the way to a littlepanelled parlour which looked out on the river. They both ate withhealthy appetites; and presently Jack, looking about him, said, "Thisroom is rather nice! I don't know how you make your rooms so nice?"

"Mostly by having very little in them except what I want, " said Howard. "These panelled rooms don't want any ornaments; people spoil rooms bystuffing them, just as you spoil my cat, "--Jack was feeding the catwith morsels from his plate. 

"It's a nice cat, " said Jack; "at least I like it in your rooms. Iwouldn't have one in my rooms, not if I were paid for it--it would bewhat the Master calls a serious responsibility. " Presently, after amoment's silence, Jack said, "It's rather convenient to be related to adon, I think. By the way, what sort of screw do they give you--I meanyour income--I suppose I oughtn't to ask?"

"It isn't usually done, " said Howard, "but I don't mind your asking, and I don't mind your knowing. I have about six hundred a year here. "

"Oh, then I was right, " said Jack. "Symonds said that all the dons hadabout fifteen hundred a year out of the fees; he said that it wouldn'tbe worth their while to do it for less. But I said it was much less. Myfather only gets about two hundred a year out of his living, and it allgoes to keep me at Cambridge. He says that when he is vexed aboutthings; but he must have plenty of his own. I wish he would really tellme. Don't you think people ought to tell their sons about theirincomes?"

"I am afraid you are a very mercenary person, " said Howard. 

"No, I'm not, " said Jack; "only I think one ought to know, and then onecould arrange. Father's awfully good about it, really; but if ever Ispend too much, he shakes his head and talks about the workhouse. Iused to be frightened, but I don't believe in the workhouse now. "

When luncheon was over, they went back to the other room. It was truethat, as Jack had said, Howard managed to make something pleasant outof his rooms. The study was a big place looking into the court; it wasmostly lined with books, the bookcases going round the room in a bandabout three feet from the floor and about seven feet high. It was atheory of Howard's that you ought to be able to see all your bookswithout either stooping or climbing. There was a big knee-hole tableand half a dozen chairs. There was an old portrait in oils over themantelpiece, several arm-chairs, one with a book-rest. Half a dozenphotographs stood on the mantelpiece, and there was practically nothingelse in the room but carpets and curtains. Jack lit a cigarette, sankinto a chair, and presently said, "You must get awfully sick of theundergraduates, I should think, day after day?"

"No, I don't, " said Howard; "in fact I must confess that I like workand feel dull without it--but that shows that I am an elderly man. "

"Yes, I don't care about my work, " said Jack, "and I think I shall getrather tired of being up here before I have done with it. It's ratherpointless, I think. Of course it's quite amusing; but I want to dosomething real, make some real money, and talk about business. I shallgo into the city, I think. "

"I don't believe you care about anything but money, " said Howard; "youare a barbarian!"

"No, I don't care about money, " said Jack; "only one must haveenough--what I like are REAL things. I couldn't go on just learningthings up till I was twenty-three, and then teaching them till I wassixty-three. Of course I think it is awfully good of you to do it, butI can't think why or how you do it. "

"I suppose I don't care about real things, " said Howard. 

"No, I can't quite make you out, " said Jack with a smiling air, "because of course you are quite different from the other dons--nobodywould suppose you were a don--everyone says that. "

"It's very kind of you to say so, " said Howard, "but I am not sure thatit is a compliment--a tradesman ought to be a tradesman, and not to beashamed of it. I'm a sophist, of course. "

"What's a sophist?" said Jack. "Oh, I know. You lectured about thesophists last term. I don't remember what they were exactly, but Ithought the lecture awfully good--quite amusing! They were a sort ofparsons, weren't they?"

"You are a wonderful person, Jack!" said Howard, laughing. "I declare Ihave never had such extraordinary things said to me as you have said inthe last half-hour. "

"Well, I want to know about people, " said Jack, "and I think it pays toask them. You don't mind, do you? That's the best thing about you, thatI can say what I think to you without putting my foot in it. But yousaid you were going to lecture me about my sins--come on!"

"No, " said Howard, "I won't. You are not serious enough to-day, and Iam not vexed enough. You know quite well what I think. There isn't anyharm in you; but you are idle, and you are inquisitive. I don't wantyou to be very different, on the whole, if only you would work a littlemore and take more interest in things. "

"Well, " said Jack, "I do take interest--that's the mischief; thereisn't time to work--that's the truth! I shall scrape through the Trip, and then I shall have done with all this nonsense about the classics;it really is humbug, isn't it? Such a fuss about nothing. The books Ilike are those in which people say what they might say, not those inwhich they say what they have had days to invent. I don't see the goodof that. Why should I work, when I don't feel interested?"

"Because whatever you do, you will have to do things in which you arenot interested, " said Howard. 

"Well, I think I will wait and see, " said Jack. "And now I must be off. I really have said some awful things to you to-day, and I mustapologise; but I can't help it when I am with you; I feel I must sayjust what comes into my head; I must fly; thank you for lunch; and Itruly will do better, but mind only for YOU, and not because I thinkit's any good. " He put down the cat with a kiss. "Good-bye, Mimi, " hesaid; "remember me, I beseech you!" and he hurried away. 

Howard sat still for a minute or two, looking at the fire; then he gavea laugh, got up, stretched himself, and went out for a walk. 

Even so quiet a thing as a walk was not unattended by a certain amountof ceremonial. Howard passed some six or seven men of his acquaintance, some of whom presented a stick or raised a stiff hand without a smileor indeed any sign of recognition; one went so far as to say, "Hullo, Kennedy!" and one eager conversationalist went so far as to say, "Outfor a walk?" Howard pushed on, walking lightly and rapidly, and foundhimself at last at Barton, one of those entirely delightful pastoralvillages that push up so close to Cambridge on every side; a vaguecollection of quaint irregular cottages, whitewashed and thatched, withbits of green common interspersed, an old manorial farm with its byresand ricks, surrounded by a moat fringed with little pollarded elms. Theplain ancient tower of the church looked gravely out over all. In thedistance, over pastoral country, rose low wolds, pleasantly shaped, skirted with little hamlets, surrounded by orchards; the old untroublednecessary work of the world flows on in these fields and villages, peopled with lives hardly conscious of themselves, with no aims ortheories, just toiling, multiplying, dying, existing, it would seem, merely to feed and clothe the more active part of the world. Howardloved such little interludes of silence, out in the fresh country, whenthe calm life of tree and herb, the delicate whisper of dry, evenly-blowing breezes, tranquillised and hushed his restless thoughts. He lost himself in a formless reverie, exercising no control over histrivial thoughts. 

By four o'clock he was back, made himself some tea, put on a cap andgown, and walked out to a meeting. In a high bare room in theUniversity offices the Committee sat. The Vice-Chancellor, a big, grave, solid man, Master of St. Benedict's, sat in courteous state. Half a dozen dons sat round the great tables, ranged in a square. Thebusiness was mostly formal. The Vice-Chancellor read the points from apaper in his resonant voice, comments and suggestions were made, andthe Secretary noted down conclusions. Howard was struck, as he oftenhad been before, to see how the larger questions of principle passedalmost unnoticed, while the smaller points, such as the wording of anotice, were eagerly and humorously debated by men of acute minds andeasy speech. It was over in half an hour. Howard strolled off with oneof the members, and then, returning to his rooms, wrote some letters, and looked up a lecture for the next day, till the bell rang for Hall. 

Beaufort was a hospitable and sociable College, and guests oftenappeared at dinner. On this night Mr. Redmayne was in the chair, at theend of a long table; eight or ten dons were present. A gong was struck;an undergraduate came up and scrambled through a Latin Grace from aboard which he held in his hand. The tables filled rapidly with livelyyoung men full of talk and appetite. Howard found himself sitting nextone of his colleagues, on the other side of him being an ancient cronyof Mr. Redmayne's, the Dean of a neighbouring College. The talk wasmainly local and personal, diverging at times into politics. It wasbrisk, sensible, good-natured conversation, by no means unamusing. Mr. Redmayne was an unashamed Tory, and growled denunciations at ademocratic Government, whom he credited with every political vice underthe sun, depicting the Cabinet as men fishing in troubled seas withphilanthropic baits to catch votes. One of the younger dons, an ardentLiberal, made a mild protest. "Ah, " said Mr. Redmayne, "you are stillthe prey of idealistic illusions. Politics are all based, not onprinciples or programmes, but on the instinctive hatred of opponents. "There was a laugh at this. "You may laugh, " said Mr. Redmayne, "but youwill find it to be true. Peace and goodwill are pretty words to playwith, but it is combativeness which helps the world along; not thedesire to be at peace, but the wish to maul your adversary!"

It was the talk of busy men who met together, not to discuss, but toeat, and conversed only to pass the time. But it was all good-humouredenough, and even the verbal sharpness which was employed was evidenceof much mutual confidence and esteem. 

Howard thought, looking down the Hall, when the meal was in full fling, what a picturesque, cheerful, lively affair it all was. The Hall waslighted only by candles in heavy silver candlesticks, which flared awayall down the tables. In the dark gallery a couple of sconces burnedstill and clear. The dusty rafters, the dim portraits above thepanelling, the gleam of gilded cornices were a pleasant contrast to thelively talk, the brisk coming and going, the clink and clatter below. It was noisy indeed, but noisy as a healthy and friendly family partyis noisy, with no turbulence. Once or twice a great shout of laughterrang out from the tables and died away. There was no sign ofdiscipline, and yet the whole was orderly enough. The carvers carved, the waiters hurried to and fro, the swing-doors creaked as the menhurried out. It was a very business-like, very English scene, withoutany ceremony or parade, and yet undeniably stately and vivid. 

The undergraduates finished their dinners with inconceivable rapidity, and the Hall was soon empty, save for the more ceremonious anddeliberate party at the high table. Presently these adjourned inprocession to the Parlour, a big room, comfortably panelled, openingoff the Hall, where the same party sat round the fire at little tables, sipped a glass of port, and went on to coffee and cigarettes, while thetalk became more general. Howard felt, as he had often felt before, howlittle attention even able and intellectual Englishmen paid to the formof their talk. There was hardly a grammatical sentence uttered, neveran elaborate one; the object was, it seemed, to get the thought utteredas quickly and unconcernedly as possible, and even the anecdotes werepared to the bone. A clock struck nine, and Mr. Redmayne rose. Theparty broke up, and Howard went off to his rooms. 

He settled down to look over a set of compositions. But he was in asomewhat restless frame of mind to-night, and a not unpleasant mood ofreflection and retrospect came over him. What an easy, full, livelyexistence his was! He seemed to himself to be perfectly contented. Heremembered how he, the only son of rather elderly parents, had gonethrough Winchester with mild credit. He had never had any difficultiesto contend with, he thought. He had been popular, not distinguished atanything--a fair athlete, a fair scholar, arousing no jealousies orenmities. He had been naturally temperate and self-restrained. He haddrifted on to Beaufort as a Scholar, and it had been the same thingover again--no ambitions, no failures, friends in abundance. Then hisfather had died, and it had been so natural for him, on being electedto a Fellowship, just to carry on the same life; he had to settle towork at once, as his mother was not well off and much invalided. Shehad not long survived his father. He had taught, taken pupils, made afair income. He had had no break of travel, no touch with the world; afew foreign tours in the company of an old friend had given him nothingbut an emotional tincture of recollections and associations--a touch ofvarnish, so to speak. Suddenly the remembrance of some of the thingswhich Jack Sandys had said that morning came back to him; "real things"the boy had said, so lightly and yet so decisively. He wondered; had hehimself ever had any touch with realities at all? He had been touchedby no adversity or tragedy, he had been devastated by no disappointedambitions, shattered by no emotions. His whole life had been perfectlyunder his control, and he had grown into a sort of contempt for allunbalanced people, who were run away with by their instincts orpassions. It had been a very comfortable, sheltered, happy life; he wassure of that; he had enjoyed his work, his relations with others, hisfriendships; but had he ever come near to any fulness of living at all?Was it not, when all was said and done, a very empty affair--void ofexperience, guarded from suffering? "Suffering?" he hardly knew themeaning of the word. Had he ever felt or suffered or rebelled? Yes, there was one little thing. He had had a small ambition once; he hadstudied comparative religion very carefully at one time to illustratesome lectures, and a great idea had flashed across him. It was a big, afruitful thought; he had surveyed that strange province of humanemotion, the deepest strain of which seemed to be a disgust formingling with life, a loathing of bodily processes and instincts, whichdrove its votaries to a deliberate sexlessness, and set them atvariance with the whole solid force of Nature, the treacherous andalluring devices by which she drove men to reproduction with aninsatiable appetite; that mystical strain, which appeared at all timesand in all places, a spiritual rebellion against material bondage, wasnot that the desperate cry of the fettered spirit? The conception ofsin, by which Nature traversed her own activities and made themvoid--there was a great secret hidden here. He had determined to followthis up, and to disguise with characteristic caution and courtesy adaring speculation under the cloak of orthodox research. 

He had begun his work in a great glow of enthusiasm; but it had beensuspended time after time. He had sketched his theory out; but it laythere in one of his table-drawers, a skeleton not clothed with words. Why had he let this all drop? Why had he contented himself with theeasy, sociable life? Effective though he was as a teacher, he had noreal confidence in the things which he taught. They only seemed to hima device of reason for expending its energies, just as men deprived bycomplex life of manual labour sought to make up for the loss by theelaborate pursuit of games. He did not touch the springs of being atall. He had collapsed, he felt, into placid acquiescence; Nature hadbeen too strong for him. He had fitted so easily into the pleasantscheme of things, and he was doing nothing in the world but helping toprolong the delusion, just as men set painted glass in a window to shutout the raincloud and the wind. He was a conformist, he felt, ineverything--in religion, intellect, life--but a sceptic underneath. Washe not perhaps missing the whole object and aim of life and experience, in a fenced fortress of quiet? The thought stung him suddenly with akind of remorse. He was doing no part of the world's work, not sharingits emotions or passions or pains or difficulties; he was placidly atease in Zion, in the comfortable city whose pleasures were based on thetoil of those outside. That was a hateful thought! Had not the boy beenright after all? Must one not somehow link one's arm with life andshare its pilgrimage, even in weariness and tears?

There came a tap at the door, and one of his shyest pupils entered--asolitary youth, poor and unfriended, who was doing all he could to geta degree good enough to launch him in the world. He came to ask someadvice about work. Howard entered into his case as well as he could, told him it was important that he should get certain points clear, gavehim an informal lecture, distinctly and emphatically, and made a fewfriendly remarks. The man beamed with unexpressed gratitude. 

"What solemn nonsense I have been talking!" thought Howard to himselfas the young man slipped away. "Of course he must learn all this--butwhat for? To get a mastership, and to retail it all over again! It's avicious circle, this education which is in touch with nothing but thehigh culture of a nation which lived in ideas; while with us culture isjust a plastering of rough walls--no part of the structure! Why cannotwe put education in touch with life, try to show what human beings aredriving at, what arrangements they are making that they may live? It isall arrangements with us--the frame for the picture, the sheath for thesword--and we leave the picture and the sword to look after themselves. What a wretched dilettante business it all is, keeping these boyspractising postures in the anteroom of life! Cannot we get at the realthing, teach people to do things, fill their minds with ideas, breakdown the silly tradition of needless wealth and absurd success? And Imust keep up all this farce, simply because I am fit for nothingelse--I cannot dig, to beg I am ashamed. Oh, hold your tongue, youass!" said Howard, apostrophising his rebellious mind. "Don't you seewhere you are going? You can't do anything--it is all too big andstrong for you. You must just let it alone. "

II

RESTLESSNESS

A few days later the term drew to an end, and both dons andundergraduates, whose tempers had been wearing a little thin, gotsuddenly more genial, like guests when a visit draws to a close, anddisposed to think rather better of each other. 

Howard had made no plans; he did not wish to stay on at Cambridge, buthe did not want to go away: he had no relations to whose houses henaturally drifted; he did not like the thought of a visit; as a rule hewent off with an undergraduate or two to some lonely inn, where theyfished or walked and did a little work. But just now he had a vaguefeeling that he wanted to be alone; that he had something to face, somereckoning to cast up, and yet he did not know what it was. 

One afternoon--the spring was certainly advancing, and there was atouch of languor in the air, that heavenly languor which is so sweet athing when one is young and hopeful, so depressing a thing when one isliving on the edge of one's nervous force--he paid a call, which wasnot a thing he often did, on a middle-aged woman who passed for a sortof relation; she was a niece of his aunt's deceased husband, MonicaGraves by name. She was a woman of independent means, who had done someeducational work for a time, but had now retired, lived in her ownlittle house, and occupied herself with social schemes of varioussorts. She was a year or two older than Howard. They did not very oftenmeet, but there was a pleasant camaraderie between them, an almostbrotherly and sisterly relation. She was a small, quiet, able woman, whose tranquil manner concealed great clear-headedness anddecisiveness. Howard always said that it was a comfort to talk to her, because she always knew what her own opinion was, and did what sheintended to do. He found her alone and at tea. She welcomed him drilybut warmly. Presently he said, "I want your advice, Monnie; I want youto make up my mind for me. I have a feeling that I need a change. Idon't mean a little change, but a big one. I am suddenly aware that Iam a little stale, and I wish to be freshened up. "

Monica looked at him and said, "Yes, I expect you are right! You know Ithink we ought all to have one big change in our lives, about your age, I mean. Why don't you put in for a head-mastership? I have oftenthought you have rather a gift that way. "

"I might do that, " said Howard vaguely, "but I don't want a change ofwork so much as a change of mind. I have got suddenly bored, and I am alittle vexed with myself. I have always rather held with William Morristhat people ought to live in the same place and do the same things; andI had no intention of being bored--I have always thought that veryfeeble! But I have fallen suddenly into the frame of mind of knowingexactly what all my friends here are going to say and think, and thatrather takes the edge off conversation; and I have learned theundergraduate mind too. It's an inconsequent thing, but there's a lawin inconsequence, and I seem to have acquired a knowledge of theirtangents. "

"I must consider, " said Monica with a smile, "but one can't do thesethings offhand--that is worse than doing nothing. I'll tell you what todo NOW. Why not go and stay with Aunt Anne? She would like to see you, I know, and I have always thought it rather lazy of you not to gothere--she is rather a remarkable woman, and it's a pretty country. Have you ever been there?"

"No, " said Howard, "not to Windlow; I stayed with them once when I wasa boy, when Uncle John was alive--but that was at Bristol. What sort ofa place is Windlow? I suppose Aunt Anne is pretty well off?"

"I'm not very good at seeing the points of a place, " said Monica; "butit's a beautiful old house, though it is rather too low down for mytaste; and she lives very comfortably, so I think she must be rich; Idon't know about that; but she is an interesting woman--one of the fewreally religious people I know. I am not very religious myself, but shemakes it seem rather interesting to me--she has experiences--I don'tquite know what they are; but she is a sort of artist in religion, Ithink. That's a bad description, because it sounds self-conscious; andshe isn't that--she has a sense of humour, and she doesn't rub thingsin. You know how if one meets a real artist in anything--a writer, apainter, a musician--and finds them at work, it seems almost the onlything worth doing. Well, Aunt Anne gives me the same sort of senseabout religion when I am with her; and yet when I come away, and seehow badly other people handle it, it seems a very dull business. "

"That's interesting, " said Howard musingly; "but I am really ashamed tosuggest going there. She has asked me so often, and I have sent suchidiotic excuses. "

"Oh, you needn't mind that, " said Monica; "she isn't a huffy person. Iknow she would like to see you--she said to me once that the idea ofcoming didn't seem to amuse you, but she seemed disposed to sympathisewith you for that. Just write and say you would like to go. "

"I think I will, " said Howard, "and I have another reason why I shouldlike to go. You know Jack Sandys, your cousin, now my pupil. He israther a fascinating youth. His father is parson there, isn't he?"

"Yes, " said Monica; "there are two hamlets, Windlow and Windlow Malzoy, both in the same parish. The church and vicarage are at Malzoy; butFrank is rather a terror--my word, how that man talks! But I like Jack, though I have only seen him half a dozen times--that reminds me that Imust have him to dinner or something--and I like his sister evenbetter. But I am afraid that Jack may turn out a bore too--he is rathercharming at present, because he says whatever comes into his head; andit's all quite fresh; but that is what poor Cousin Frank does--onlyit's not at all fresh! However, there's nothing like living with a boreto teach one the merits of holding one's tongue. Poor old Frank! Ithought he would be the death of us all one evening at Windlow. Hesimply couldn't stop, and he had a pathetic look in his eye, as if hewas saying, 'Can't anyone assist me to hold my tongue?'"

Howard laughed and got up. "Well, " he said, "I'll take your advice. Idon't know anyone like you, Monnie, for making up one's mind. Youcrystallise things. I shall like to see Aunt Anne, and I shall like tosee Jack at home; and meanwhile will you think the matter over, andgive me a lead? I don't want to leave Cambridge at all, but I wouldrather do that than go sour, as some people do!"

"Yes, " said Monica, "when you get beneath the surface, Cambridge israther a sad place. There are a good many disappointed men here--peoplewho wake up suddenly in middle life, and realise that if they had goneout into the world they would have done better; but I like Cambridge;you can do as you like here--and then the rainfall is low. "

Howard went back to his rooms and wrote a short note to Mrs. Graves tosuggest a visit; he added that he felt ashamed of himself for nevercoming, "but Monica says that you would like to see me, and Monica isgenerally right. "

That evening Jack came in to say good-bye. He did not look forwards tothe vacation at all, he said; "Windlow is simply the limit! I believeit's the dullest place in the kingdom!"

"What would you feel if I told you that we shall probably meet?" saidHoward. "I am going to stay with Mrs. Graves--that is, if she will haveme. I don't mind saying that the fact that you are close by is aconsiderable reason why I think of going. "

"That's simply splendid!" said Jack; "we will have no end of a time. Doyou DO anything in particular--fish, I mean, or shoot? There's somewretched fishing in the river, and there is some rabbit-shooting on thedowns. Mrs. Graves has a keeper, a shabby old man who shoots, as theysay, for the house. I believe she objects to shooting; but you mightpersuade her, and we could go out together. "

"Yes, " said Howard, "I do shoot and fish in a feeble way. We will seewhat can be done. "

"There are things to see, I believe, " said Jack, "churches and houses, if you like that sort of thing--I don't; but we might get up someexpeditions--they are rather fun. I think you won't mind my sister. Sheisn't bad for a woman. But women don't understand men. They are alwayssympathising with you or praising you. They think that is what menlike, but it only means that it is what they would like. Men like to beleft alone--but I daresay she thinks I don't understand her. Thenthere's my father! He is quite a good sort, really; but by George, howhe does talk! I often think I'd like to turn him loose in theCombination Room. No one would have a chance. Redmayne simply wouldn'tbe in it with my father. I've invented rather a good game when he getsoff. I try to see how many I can count before I am expected to make aremark. I have never quite got up to a thousand, but once I nearly letthe cat out by saying nine hundred and fifty, nine hundred andfifty-one, when my father stopped for breath. He gave me a look, I cantell you, but I don't think he saw what I was after. Maud was seizedwith hysterics. But he isn't a bad sort of parent, as they go; hefusses, but he lets one do as one wants. I suppose I oughtn't to givemy people away; but I never can see why one shouldn't talk about one'speople just as if they were anybody else. I don't think I hold thingssacred, as the Dean says: 'Reticence, reticence, the truecharacteristic of the English gentleman and the sincere Christian!'"and Jack delivered himself of some paragraphs of the Dean's famousannual sermon to freshmen. 

"It's abominable, the way you talk, " said Howard; "you will corrupt myingenuous mind. How shall I meet your father if you talk like thisabout him?"

"You'll have to join in my game, " said Jack. "By George, what sport; weshall sit there counting away alternately, and we will have some moneyon the run. You have got to say all the figures quite distinctly toyourself, you know!"

Presently Jack said, "Why shouldn't we go down together? No, I supposeyou would want to go first? I can't run to that. But you must come assoon as you can, and stay as long as you can. I had half promised to goand stay a week with Travers. But now I won't. By George, there isn'tanother don I would pay that compliment to! It would simply freeze myblood if the Master turned up there. I shouldn't dare to show my faceoutside the house; that man does make me sweat! The very smell of hissilk gown makes me feel faint. "

"I'll tell you what I will do, " said Howard, "I'll give you somecoaching in the mornings. If anyone ever wanted coaching, it is you!"

Jack looked rather blue at this, but he said, "It will have to begratis, though! I haven't a cent. Besides, I am going to do better. Ihave a growing sense of duty!"

"It's not growing very FAST!" said Howard, "and it's a feeble motive atbest, you will find; you will have to get a better reason than that--itwon't carry you far. Why not do it to please me?"

"All right, " said Jack; "will you scribble me a list of books to takedown? I had meant to have a rest; but I would do a good deal of work toget a reasonable person down at Windlow. I simply daren't ask myfriends there; my father would talk their hindlegs off but he isn't abad old bird. "

III

WINDLOW

Mrs. Graves wrote back by return of post that she was delighted tothink that Howard was coming. "I am getting an old woman, " she said, "and fond of memories: and what I hear of you from your enthusiasticpupil Jack makes me wish to see my nephew, and proud of him too. Thisis a quiet house, but I think you would enjoy it; and it's a realkindness to me to come. I am sure I shall like you, and I am notwithout hopes that you may like me. You need not tie yourself down toany dates; just come when you can, and go when you must. "

Howard liked the simplicity of the letter, and determined to go down atonce. He started two days later. It was a fine spring day, and it waspleasant to glide through the open country all quickening into green. He arrived in the afternoon at the little wayside station. It was inthe south-east corner of Somersetshire, and Howard liked the look ofthe landscape, the steep green downs, with their wooded dinglesbreaking down into rich undulating plains, dappled with hedgerow treesand traversed by gliding streams. He was met at the station by anold-fashioned waggonette, with an elderly coachman, who said that Mrs. Graves had hoped to come herself, but was not very well, and thoughtthat Mr. Kennedy would prefer an open carriage. 

Howard was astonished at the charm of the whole countryside. Theypassed through several hamlets, with beautiful old houses, built of asoft orange stone, weathering to a silvery grey, with evidences ofcareful and pretty design in their mullioned windows and archeddoorways. The churches, with their great richly carved towers, piercedstone shutters, and clustered pinnacles, pleased him extremely, and heliked the simple and courteous greetings of the people who passed them. He had a sense, long unfamiliar to him, as though he were somehowcoming home. The road entered a green valley among the downs. To theleft, an outstanding bluff was crowned with the steep turfed bastionsof an ancient fort, and as they went in among the hills, the slopesgrew steeper, rich with hanging woods and copses, and the edges of thehigh thickets were white with bleached flints. At last they passed intoa hamlet with a church, and a big vicarage among shrubberies; this wasWindlow Malzoy, the coachman said, and that was Mr. Sandys' house. Howard saw a girl wandering about on the lawn--Jack's sister, hesupposed, but it was too far off for him to see her distinctly; fiveminutes later they drove into Windlow. It lay at the very bottom of thevalley; a clear stream ran beneath the bridge. There were but half adozen cottages, and just ahead of them, abutting on the road, appearedthe front of a beautiful simple house of some considerable size, with alarge embowered garden behind it bordering on the river; Howard wasastonished to see what a large and ancient building it was. The part onthe road was blank of windows, with the exception of a dignifiedprojecting oriel; close to which was a high Tudor archway, with big oakdoors standing open. There were some plants growing on thecoping--snapdragon and valerian--which gave it a look of age andsettled use. The carriage drove in under the arch, and a smallcourtyard appeared. There was a stable on the right, with a leadedcupola; the house itself was very plain and stately, with two greattraceried windows which seemed to belong to a hall, and a finely carvedoutstanding porch. The whole was built out of the same orange stone ofwhich the churches were built, stone-tiled, all entirely homelike andsolid. 

He got down at the door, which stood open. An old man-servant appeared, and he found himself in a flagged passage, with a plain wooden screenon his left, opening into the hall. It had a collegiate air which heliked. Then he was led out at the opposite end of the vestibule, theservant saying, "Mrs. Graves is in the garden, sir. " He stepped out onto a lawn bordered with trees; opposite him was a stone-built Jacobeangarden-house, with stone balls on the balustraded coping. Two ladieswere walking on the gravel path; the older of the two, who walked witha stick, came up to him, put her hand on his shoulder, and gave him akiss in a simple and motherly way, saying, "So here you actually are, my dear boy, and very much welcome. " She then presented the other lady, a small, snub-nosed, middle-aged woman, saying, "This is Miss Merry, who lives with me, and keeps me more or less in order; she is quiteexcited at meeting a don; she has a respect for learning and talent, which is unhappily rare nowadays. " Miss Merry shook hands as a spanielmight give its paw, and looked reverentially at Howard. His aunt puther hand through his arm, and said, "Let us walk about a little. I liveby rule, you must know--that is, by Miss Merry's rule; and we shallhave tea in a few minutes. "

She pointed out one or two of the features of the house, and said, inanswer to Howard's loudly expressed admiration, "Yes, it is a nice oldhouse. Your uncle had a great taste for such things in days when peopledid not care much about them. He bought this very cheap, I believe, andwas much attached to it; but he did not live long to enjoy it, youknow. He died nearly thirty years ago. I meant to sell it, but somehowI did not, and now I hope to end my days here. It is not nearly as bigas it looks, and a good deal of it consists of unused granaries andfarm buildings. I sometimes think it is selfish of me to go onoccupying it--it's a house that wants CHILDREN; but one isn't veryconsistent; and somehow the house is used to me, and I to it; and, after all, it is only waiting, which isn't the worst thing in theworld!"

When Howard found an opportunity of scrutinising his aunt, which he didas she poured out tea, he saw a very charming old lady, who was notexactly handsome, but was fresh-coloured and silvery-haired, and had alook of the most entire tranquillity and self-possession. She looked asif she had met and faced trouble at some bygone time; there were tracesof sorrow about the brow and eyes, but it was a face which seemed as ifself had somehow passed out of it, and was yet strong with a peculiarkind of fearless strength. She had a lazy and contented sort of laugh, and yet gave an impression of energy, and of a very real and vividlife. Her eyes had a great softness and brilliancy, and Howard liked tofeel them dwelling upon him. As they sat at tea she suddenly put herhand on his and said, "My dear boy, how you remind me of your mother! Isuppose you hardly even remember her as a young woman; but though youare half hidden in that beard of yours, you are somehow just like her, and I feel as if I were in the schoolroom again at Hunsdon in the olddays. No, I am not sentimental. I don't want it back again, and I don'thate the death that parts us. One can't go back, one must goforward--and, after all, hearts were made to love with, and not tobreak!"

They spent a quiet evening in the still house. Mrs. Graves said toHoward, "I know that men always want to go and do something mysteriousafter tea; but to-night you must just sit here and get used to me. Youneedn't be afraid of having to see too much of me. I don't appearbefore luncheon, and Jane looks after me; and you must get someexercise in the afternoons. I don't go further than the village. Iexpect you have lectures to write; and you must do exactly what youlike. " They sat there, in the low panelled room, and talked easilyabout old recollections. They dined in simple state in the big hallwith its little gallery, at a round table in the centre, lighted bycandles. The food was simple, the wine was good. 

"Marengo chicken, " said Mrs. Graves as a dish was handed round. "That'sone of Jane's historical allusions. If you don't know why it is calledMarengo, Jane will rejoice to enlighten you. " After the meal she beggedhim to smoke. "I like it, " said Mrs. Graves; "I have even smoked myselfin seclusion, but now I dare not--it would be all over the parishto-morrow. "

After dinner they went back to the drawing-room, and Miss Merry turnedout to be quite a good pianist, playing some soft old music at the endof the gently lighted room. Mrs. Graves went off early. "You had betterstop and smoke here, " she said to Howard. "There's a library where youcan work and smoke to-morrow; and now good night, and let me say how Idelight to have you here--I really can't say how much!"

Howard sat alone in the drawing-room. He had an almost painful facultyof minute observation, and the storage of new impressions was a realstrain to him. To-day it seemed that they had poured in upon him in acataract, and he felt dangerously wakeful; why had he been such a foolas to have missed this beautiful house, and this home atmosphere ofaffection? He could not say. A stupid persistence in his own plans, hesupposed. Yet this had been waiting for him, a home such as he hadnever owned. He thought with an almost terrified disgust of his roomsat Beaufort, as the logs burned whisperingly in the grate, and thesmoke of his cigarette rose on the air. Was it not this that he hadbeen needing all along? At last he rose, put out the candles, and madehis way to the big panelled bedroom which had been given him. He laylong awake, wondering, in a luxurious repose, listening to the whisperof the breeze in the shrubberies, and the faint murmur of the water inthe full-fed stream. 

IV

THE POOL

Very early in the morning Howard woke to hear the faint twittering ofthe birds begin in bush and ivy. It was at first just a fitful, drowsychirp, a call "are you there? are you there?" until, when all thesparrows were in full cry, a thrush struck boldly in, like a solomarching out above a humming accompaniment of strings. That was adelicious hour, when the mind, still unsated of sleep, played softlywith happy, homelike thoughts. He slept again, but the sweet moodlasted; his breakfast was served to him in solitude in a littlepanelled parlour off the Hall; and in the fresh April morning, with thesunlight lying on the lawn and lighting up the old worn detail of thecarved cornices, he recovered for a time the boyish sense of ecstasy ofthe first morning at home after the return from school. While he wasbreakfasting, a scribbled note from Jack was brought in. 

"Just heard you arrived last night; it's an awful bore, but I have togo away to-day--an old engagement made, I need hardly say, FOR me andnot BY me; I shall turn up to-morrow about this time. No WORK, I think. A day of calm resolution and looking forward manfully to the future! Myfather and sister are going to dine at the Manor to-night. I shall beawfully interested to hear what you think of them. He has been lookingup some things to talk about, and I can tell you, you'll have a dose. Maud is frightened to death. --Yours

"Jack. 

"P. S. --I advise you to begin COUNTING at once. "

A little later, Miss Merry turned up, to ask Howard if he would care tolook round the house. "Mrs. Graves would like, " she said, "to show ityou herself, but she is easily tired, and can't stand about much. " Theywent round together, and Howard was surprised to find that it was notnearly as large a house as it looked. Much space was agreeably wastedin corridors and passages, and there were huge attics with greattimbered supports, needed to sustain the heavy stone tiling, which hadnever been converted into living rooms. There was the hall, which tookup a considerable part of one side; out of this, towards the road, opened the little parlour where he had breakfasted, and above it was alibrary full of books, with its oriel overhanging the road, and twowindows looking into the garden. Then there was the big drawing-room. Upstairs there were but a half a dozen bedrooms. The offices and theservants' bedrooms were in the wing on the road. There was but littlefurniture in the house. Mr. Graves had had a preference for large barerooms; and such furniture as there was, was all for use and not forornament, so that there was a refreshing lack of any aesthetic poseabout it. There were but few pictures, but most of the rooms werepanelled and needed no other ornament. There was a refreshing sense ofspace everywhere, and Howard thought that he had never seen a house heliked so well. Miss Merry chirped away, retailing little bits ofhistory. Howard now for the first time learned that Mr. Graves hadretired early from business with a considerable fortune, and being fondof books and leisure, and rather delicate in health, had establishedhimself in the house, which had taken his fancy. There were somefifteen hundred acres of land attached, divided up into several smallfarms. 

Miss Merry was filled with a reverential sort of adoration of Mrs. Graves; "the most wonderful person, I assure you! I always feel she israther thrown away in this remote place. "

"But she likes it?" said Howard. 

"Yes, she likes everything, " said Miss Merry. "She makes everyone feelhappy: she says very little, but you feel somehow that all is right ifshe is there. It's a great privilege, Mr. Kennedy, to be with her; Ifeel that more and more every day. "

This artless praise pleased Howard. When he was left alone he got outhis papers; but he found himself restless in a pleasant way; hestrolled through the garden. It was a singular place, of great extent;the lawn was carefully kept, but behind the screen of shrubs the gardenextended far up the valley beside the river in a sort of wilderness;and he could see by the clumps of trees and the grassy mounds that itmust have once been a great formal pleasaunce, which had been allowedto follow its own devices; at the far end of it, beside the stream, there was a long flagged terrace, with a stone balustrade looking downupon the stream, and beyond that the woods closed in. He left thegarden and followed the stream up the valley; the downs here drew inand became steeper, till he came at last to one of the most lovelyplaces he thought he had ever set eyes upon. The stream ended suddenlyin a great clear pool, among a clump of old sycamores; the water rosebrimming out of the earth, and he could see the sand fountains risingand falling at the bottom of the basin; by the side of it was a broadstone seat, with carved back and ends. There was not a house in sight;beyond there was only the green valley-end running up into the down, which was here densely covered with thickets. It was perfectly still;and the only sound was the liquid springing of the water in the pool, and the birds singing in the bushes. Howard had a sudden sense that theplace held a significance for him. Had he been there before, in somedream or vision? He could not tell; but it was strangely familiar tohim. Even so the trees had leaned together, and the clear ripplespulsed upon the bank. Something strange and beautiful had befallen himthere. What was it? The mind could not unravel the secret. 

He sat there long in the sun, his eyes fixed upon the pool, in ablissful content that was beyond thought. Then he slowly retraced hissteps, full of an intense inner happiness. 

He found his aunt in the garden, sitting out in the sun. He bent downto kiss her, and she detained his hand for a moment. "So you are athome?" she said, "and happy?--that is what I had wished and hoped. Youhave been to the pool--yes, that is a lovely spot. It was that, Ithink, which made your uncle buy the place; he had a great love ofwater--and in my unhappy days here, when I had lost him, I used oftento go there and wish things were otherwise. But that is all over now!"

After luncheon, Miss Merry excused herself and said she was going tothe village to see a farm-labourer's wife, who had lost a child and wasin great distress. "Poor soul!" said Mrs. Graves. "Give her my love, and ask her to come and see me as soon as she can. " Presently as theysat together, Howard smoking, she asked him something about his work. "Will you tell me what you are doing?" she said. "I daresay I shouldnot understand, but I like to know what people are thinkingabout--don't use technical terms, but just explain your idea!"

Howard was just in the frame of mind, trying to revive an old train ofthought, in which it is a great help to make a statement of the rangeof a subject; he said so, and began to explain very simply what was inhis mind, the essential unity of all religion, and his attempt todisentangle the central motive from outlying schemes and dogmas. Mrs. Graves heard him attentively, every now and then asking a question, which showed that she was following the drift of his thought. 

"Ah, that's very interesting and beautiful, " she said at last. "May Isay that it is the one thing that attracts me, though I have neverfollowed it philosophically. Now, " she went on, "I am going to reduceit all to practical terms, and I don't want to beat about thebush--there's no need for that! I want to ask you a plain question. Have you any religion or faith of your own?"

"Ah, " said Howard, "who can say? I am a conformist, certainly, becauseI recognise in religion a fine sobering, civilising force at work, andif one must choose one's side, I want to be on that side and not on theother. But religion seems to me in its essence a very artistic thing, aperception of effects which are hidden from many hearts and minds. Whena man speaks of definite religious experience, I feel that I am in thepresence of a perception of something real--as real as music andpainting. But I doubt if it is a sense given to all, or indeed to many;and I don't know what it really is. And then, too, one comes acrosspeople who hold it in an ugly, or a dreary, or a combative, or a formalway; and then sometimes it seems to me almost an evil thing. "

"Yes, " said Mrs. Graves, "I understand that. May I give you aninstance, and you will see if I perceive your thought. The good Vicarhere, my cousin Frank, Jack's father--you will meet him to-night--is aman who holds a rigid belief, or thinks he holds it. He preaches whathe calls the sinew and bone of doctrine, and he is very stern in thepulpit. He likes lecturing people in rows! But in reality he is one ofthe kindest and vaguest of men. He preached a stiff sermon aboutconversion the other day--I am pretty sure he did not understand ithimself--and he disquieted one of my good maids so much that she wentto him and asked what she could do to get assurance. He seems to havehummed and hawed, and then to have said that she need not trouble herhead about it--that she was a good girl, and had better be content withdoing her duty. He is the friendliest of men, and that is his realreligion; he hasn't an idea how to apply his system, which he learnedat a theological college, but he feels it his duty to preach it. "

"Yes, " said Howard, "that is just what I mean; but there must be someexplanation for this curious outburst of forms and doctrines, socontradictory in the different sects. Something surely causes both theform of religion and the force of it?"

"Yes, " said Mrs. Graves, "just as in an engine something causes boththe steam and the piston-rod; it's an intelligence somewhere that fitsthe one to the other. But then, as you say, what is the cause of allthis extravagance and violence of expression?"

"That is the human element, " said Howard--"the cautious, conservative, business-like side that can't bear to let anything go. All religionbegins, it seems to me, by an outburst of moral force, an attempt tosimplify, to get a principle; and then the people who don't understandit begin to make it technical and defined; uncritical minds begin toattribute all sorts of vague wonders to it--things unattested, naturalexaggerations, excited statements, impossible claims; and then thesetake traditional shape and the poor steed gets hung with all sorts ofincongruous burdens. "

"Yes, " said Mrs. Graves, "but the force is there all the time; the oldhard words, like regeneration and atonement, do not mean DEFINITEthings--that is the mischief; they are the receipts made up by stupid, hard-headed people who do not understand; but they stand for large andwonderful experiences and are like the language of children tellingtheir dreams. The moral genius who sees through it all and gives thefirst impulse is trying to deal with life directly and frankly; and thedifficulty arises from people who see the attendant circumstances andmistake them for the causes. But I do not see it from that side, ofcourse! I understand what you are aiming at. You are trying todisentangle all the phenomena, are you not, and referring them to theirreal causes, instead of lumping them all together as the phenomena ofreligion?"

"Yes, " said Howard, "that is what I am doing. I suppose I am naturallysceptical; but I want to put aside all that stands on insecureevidence, and all the sham terminology that comes from a muddleddelight in the supernatural. I want to give up and clear away all thatis not certain--material things must be brought to the test of materiallaws--and to see what is left. "

"Well, " said Mrs. Graves, "now I will tell you my own very simpleexperience. I began, I think, with a very formal religion, and I triedin my youth to attach what was really instinctive to religious motives. It got me into a sad mess, because I did not dare to go direct to life. I used to fret because your uncle seemed so indifferent to thesethings. He was a wise and good man, and lived by a sort of inner beautyof character that made all mean cruel spiteful petty things impossibleto him. Then when he died, I had a terrible time to go through. I feltutterly adrift. My old system did not give me the smallest help. I wastrying to find an intellectual solution. It was then that I met MissGordon, the great evangelist. She saw I was unhappy, and she said to meone day: 'You have no business to be unhappy like this. What you wantis STRENGTH, and it is there all the time waiting for you! You arearguing your case with God, complaining of the injustice you havereceived, trying to excuse yourself, trying to find cause to blame Him. Your life has been broken to pieces, and you are trying to shelteryourself among the fragments. You must cast them all away, and thankGod for having pierced through the fortress in which you wereimprisoned. You must just go straight to Him, and open your heart, asif you were opening a window to the sun and air. ' She did not explain, or try to give me formulas or phrases, she simply showed me the lightbreaking round me. 

"It came to me quite suddenly one morning in my room upstairs. I wasvery miserable indeed, missing my dear husband at every turn, quiteunable to face life, shuddering and shrinking through the days. I threwit all aside, and spoke to God Himself. I said, 'You made me, You putme here, You sent me love, You sent me prosperity. I have cared for thewrong things, I have loved in the wrong way. Now I throw everythingelse aside, and claim strength and light. I will sorrow no more anddesire no more; I will take every day just what You send me, I will sayand do what You bid me. I will make no pretences and no complaints. Dowith me what You will. '

"I cannot tell you what happened to me, but a great tide of strengthand even joy flowed into my whole being; it was the water of life, clear as crystal; and yet it was myself all the time! I was notdifferent, but I was one with something pure and wise and loving andeternal. 

"That has never left me. You will ask why I have not done more, bestirred myself more; because that is just what one cannot do. Allthat matters nothing. The activities which one makes for oneself, theyare the delusions which hide God from us. One must not strive or rebukeor arrange; one must simply love and be. Let me tell you one thing. Iwas haunted all my early life with a fear of death. I liked life sowell, every moment of it, every incident, that I could not bear tothink it should ever cease; now, though I shrink from pain as much asever, I have no shrinking whatever from death. It is the perfectlynatural and simple change, and one is with God there as here. The souland God--those are the two imperishable things; one has not either toknow or to act--one has only to feel. "

She ceased speaking, and sat for a moment upright in her chair. Thenshe went on. "Now the moment I saw you, my dear boy, I lovedyou--indeed I have always loved you, I think, and I have always feltthat some day in His good time God would bring us together. But I seetoo that you have not found the strength of God. You are not at peace. Your life is full and active and kind; you are faithful and pure; butyour self is still unbroken, like a crystal wall all round you. I thinkyou will have to suffer; but you will believe, will you not, that youhave not seen a half of the wonder of life? You are full of happyexperience, but you have begun to feel the larger need. And I knew thatwhen you began to feel that need, you would be brought to me, not to begiven it, but to be shown it. That is all I can say to you now, but youwill know the fulness of life. It is not experience, action, curiosity, ambition, desire, as many think, that is fulness of life; those aredelusions, things through which the soul has to pass, just that it maylearn not to rest in them. The fulness of life is the stillest, quietest, inner joy, which nothing can trouble or shadow; love is apart of it, but not quite all--for there is a shadow even in love; andthis is the larger peace. "

Howard sat amazed at the fire and glow of the words that came to him. He did not fully understand all that was said, but he had a sense ofbeing brought into touch with a very tremendous and overwhelming forceindeed. But he could not for the moment revise his impressions; he onlyperceived that he had come unexpectedly upon a calm and radiatingcentre of energy, and it seemed in his mind that the pool which he hadseen that morning was an allegory of what he had now heard. The livingwater, breaking up so clearly from underground in the grassy valley, and passing downwards to gladden the earth! It would be used, betainted, be troubled, but he saw that no soil or stain, no scatteringor disruption, could ever really intrude itself into that elementalpurity. The stream would reunite itself, the impregnable atom would letthe staining substance fall unheeded. He would have to consider allthat, scrutinise his life in a new light. He felt that he had beenliving on the surface of things, relying on impression, living inimpression, missing the strong central current all the time. He rose, and taking his aunt's hand, kissed her cheek. 

"Those are my thanks!" he said smiling. "I can't express my gratitude, but you have given me so much to think about and to ponder over that Ican say no more now. I do indeed feel that I have missed what isperhaps the greatest thing in the world. But I ask myself, Can I attainto this, is it for me? Am I not condemned by temperament to live in thesurface-values?"

"No, dear child, " said Mrs. Graves, looking at him, so that for aninstant he felt like a child indeed at a mother's knee; "we all comehome thus, sooner or later; and the time has come for you. I knew itthe moment I opened your letter. He is at the gate, I said, and I mayhave the joy of being beside him when the door is opened. "

V

ON THE DOWN

Howard was very singularly impressed by this talk. It seemed to him, not certainly indeed, but possibly, that he had stumbled, almost as itwere by accident, upon a great current of force and emotion runningvehemently through the world, under the calm surface of things. Howmany apparently unaccountable events it might explain! one saw frailpeople doing fine things, sensitive people bearing burdens ofill-health or disappointment, placidly and even contentedly, men makinggallant, unexpected choices, big expansive natures doing dull work andliving cheerfully under cramped conditions. He had never troubled toexplain such phenomena, beyond thinking that for some reason such acourse of action pleased and satisfied people. Of course everyone didnot hide the struggle; there were men he knew who had a grievanceagainst the world, for ever parading a valuation of themselves withwhich no one concurred. But there were many people who had the materialfor far worse grievances, who never seemed to nourish them. Had theyfought in secret and prevailed? Had they been floated into some movingcurrent of strength by a rising tide? Were they, like the man in theGospel, conscious of a treasure hidden in a field which made all otherprizes tame by comparison? Was the Gospel in fact perhaps aiming atthat--the pearl of price? To be born again--was that what had happened?The thought cast a light upon his own serene life, and showed him thatit was essentially a pagan sort of life, temperate perhaps and refined, but still unlit by any secret fire. It was not that his life was wrong, or that an abjuration was needed; it was still to be lived, and livedmore intently, but no longer merely self-propelled. . . . 

He needed to be alone, to consider, to focus his thought; he went offfor a walk by himself among the hills, past the spring, up the valley, till he came to a place where the down ran out into the plain, thebluff crowned with a great earthwork. An enormous view lay spread outbefore him. To left and right the smooth elbows of the uplands ran downinto the plain, their skirts clothed with climbing woods and orchards, hamlets half-hidden, with the smoke going up from their chimneys;further out the cultivated plain rose and fell, field beyond field, wood beyond wood, merging at last in a belt of deep rich colour, andbeyond that, blue hills of hope and desire, and a pale gleam of seabeyond all. The westering sun filled the air with a golden haze, andenriched the land with soft rich shadows. There was life spread outbefore him, just so and not otherwise, life organised and constructedinto toil and a certain order, out of what dim concourse and strife!For whatever reason, it was there to be lived; one could not change theconditions of it, the sun and the rain, the winter and the spring; butbehind all that definite set of forces, was there perhaps a strongerand larger force still, a brimming tide of energy, that clasped lifeclose and loved it, and yet regarded something through it and beyond itthat was not yet? His heart seemed full of a great longing, not toavoid life, but to return and live it in a larger way, at once moreengaged in it, and more detached from it, each quality ministering tothe other. It seemed to him that afternoon that there was somethingawaiting him greater than anything which had yet befallen him--an opendoor, through which he might pass to see strange things. 

VI

THE HOME CIRCLE

He returned somewhat late, to find tea over and Mrs. Graves gone to herroom; but there was tea waiting for him in the library; he went there, and for a while turned over his book, which seemed to him now to beillumined with a new light. It was this that he had been looking for, this gift of power; it was that which lay behind his speculations; hehad suspected it, inferred it, but not perceived it; he saw now whitherhis thought had been conducting him, and why he had flagged in thepursuit. 

He went up to dress for dinner, and came down as soon as the bell rang. He found that Jack's father and sister had arrived. He went into thedimly lighted room. Mr. Sandys, a fine-looking robust man, clean-shaven, curly-haired, carefully and clerically dressed, wasstanding by Mrs. Graves; he came forward and shook hands. "I amdelighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Kennedy, " he said, "thoughindeed I seem to know a great deal about you from Jack. You are quite ahero of his, you know, and I want to thank you for all your kindness tohim. I am looking forward to having a good talk with you about hisfuture. By the way, here is my daughter, Maud, who is quite as anxiousto see you as I am. " A figure sitting in a corner, talking to MissMerry, rose up, came forward into the light, and held out her hand withrather a shy smile. 

Howard was amazed at what he saw. Maud had an extraordinary likeness toher brother, but with what a difference! Howard saw in an instant whatit was that had haunted him in the aspect of Jack. This was what heseemed to have discerned all the time, and what had been baffling him. He knew that she was nineteen, but she looked younger. She was not, hethought, exactly beautiful--but how much more than beautiful; she wasvery finely and delicately made, and moved with an extraordinary grace;pale and fair, but with a look of perfect health; her features werevery small, and softly rather than finely moulded; she had the air ofsome flower--a lily he thought--which was emphasised by her simplewhite dress. The under-lip was a little drawn in, which gave the leasttouch of melancholy to the face; but she had clear blue trustful eyes, the expression of which moved him in a very singular manner, becausethey seemed to offer a sweet and frank confidence. Her self-possessiongave the least little sense of effort. He took the small firm anddelicate hand in his, and was conscious of something strong andresolute in the grasp of the tiny fingers. She murmured something aboutJack being so sorry to be away; and Howard to recover himself said:"Yes, he wrote to me to explain--we are going to do some work together, I believe. "

"Yes, it's most kind of you, " said Mr. Sandys, putting his arm withinhis daughter's with a pleasant air of fatherliness. "I am afraidindustry isn't Jack's strong point? Of course I am anxious about hisfuture--you must be used to that sort of thing! but we will defer allthis until after dinner, when Mrs. Graves will allow us to have a goodtalk. "

"We will see, " said Mrs. Graves, rising; "Howard is here for a holiday, you know. Howard, will you lead the way; you don't know how myceremonial soul enjoys having a real host to preside!"

Maud took Howard's arm, and the touch gave him a quite unreasonablethrill of pleasure; but he felt too quite insupportably elderly. Whatcould he find to talk to this enchanting child about? He wished he hadlearned more about her tastes and ideas. Was this the creature of whomJack had talked so patronisingly? He felt almost angry with his absentpupil for not having prepared him for what he would meet. 

As soon as they were seated Mr. Sandys launched into the talk, like aneagle dallying with the wind. He struck Howard as an extremelygood-natured, sensible, buoyant man, with a perpetual flow of healthyinterests. Nothing that he said had the slightest distinction, and hispower of expression was quite unequal to the evident vividness of hisimpressions. He had a taste for antithesis, but no grasp of synonyms. Every idea in Mr. Sandys' mind fell into halves, but the second clausewas produced, not to express any new thought, but rather to echo theprevious clause. He began at once on University topics. He had himselfbeen a Pembroke man, and it had cost him an effort, he said, to sendJack elsewhere. "I don't take quite the orthodox view of education, " hesaid, "in fact I am decidedly heterodox about its aims and the objectthat it has. It ought not to fall behind its object, and all thisspecialisation seems to me to be dangerous, and in fact decidedlyperilous. My own education was on the old classical lines--an excellentgymnastic, I think, and distinctly fortifying. The old masterpieces, you know, Thucydides and so forth--they should be the basis--thefoundation so to speak. But we must not forget the superstructure, thehouse of thought, if I may use the expression. You must forgive myventilating these crude ideas, Mr. Kennedy. I went in myself, aftertaking my degree, for a course of general reading. Goethe and Schiller, you know. Yes, how fine that all is, though I sometimes feel it is alittle Teutonic? One needs to correct the Teutonic bias, and it is justthere that the gymnastic of the classics comes in; it gives one astandard--a criterion in fact. One must have a criterion, mustn't one, or it is all loose, and indeed, so to speak, illusive? I am all forformative education; and it is there that women--I speak frankly in thepresence of three intelligent women--it is there that they suffer. Their education is not formative enough--not formal enough, in fact!Now, I have tried with dear Maud to communicate just that touch offormality. You would be surprised, Mr. Kennedy, to know what Maud hasread under my guidance. Not learned, you know--I don't care forthat--but with a standard, or if I may revert to my former expression, a criterion. "

He paused for a moment, saw that he was belated, and finished his souphastily. 

"Yes, " said Howard, "of course that is the real problem ofeducation--to give a standard, and not to extinguish the taste forintellectual things, which is too often what we contrive to do. "

"Now we must not be too serious all at once, " said Mrs. Graves. "If weexhaust ourselves about education, we shall have nothing to fall backupon--we shall be afraid to condescend. I am deplorably ill-educatedmyself. I have no standard whatever. I have to consult dear Jane, haveI not? Jane is my intellectual touchstone, and saves me from entirecollapse. "

"Well, well, " said Mr. Sandys good-humouredly, "Mr. Kennedy and I willfight it out together sometime. He will forgive an old Pembroke man forwanting to know what is going forward; for scenting the battle afaroff, in fact. "

Mr. Sandys found no lack of subjects to descant upon; but voluble, andindeed absurd as he was, Howard could not help liking him; he was agood fellow, he could see, and managed to diffuse a geniality over thescene. "I am interested in most things, " he said, at the end of abreathless harangue, "and there is something in the presence of a reallive student, from the forefront of the intellectual battle, whichrouses all my old activities--stimulates them, in fact. This will be amemorable evening for me, Mr. Kennedy, and I have abundance of thingsto ask you. " He did indeed ask a good many things, but he was contentto answer them himself. Once indeed, in the course of an immensetirade, in which Mr. Sandys' intellectual curiosity took a series ofever-widening sweeps, Howard caught his neighbour regarding him with ahalf-amused look, and became aware that she was wondering if he wereplaying Jack's game. Their eyes met, and he knew that she knew that heknew. He smiled and shook his head. She gave him a delighted littlesmile, and Howard had that touch of absurd ecstasy, which visits men nolonger young, when they find themselves still in the friendly camp ofthe young, and not in the hostile camp of the middle-aged. 

Presently he said to her something about Jack, and how much he enjoyedseeing him at Cambridge. "He is really rather a wonderful person, " headded. "There isn't anyone at Beaufort who has such a perfectly definedrelation to everyone in the college, from the master down to thekitchen-boys. He talks to everyone without any embarrassment, and yetno one really knows what he is thinking! He is very deep, really, and Ithink he has a fine future before him. "

Maud lighted up at this, and said: "Do you really think so?" and added, "You know how much he admires you?"

"I am glad to be assured of it, " said Howard; "you would hardly guessit from some of the things he says to me. It's awful, but he can't bechecked--and yet he never oversteps the line, somehow. "

"He's a queer boy, " said Maud. "The way he talked to the Archdeacon theother day was simply fearful; but the Archdeacon only laughed, and saidto papa afterwards that he envied him his son. The Archdeacon wasgiggling half the afternoon; he felt quite youthful, he said. "

"It's the greatest gift to be able to do that, " said Howard; "it's asort of fairy wand--the pumpkin becomes a coach and four. "

"Jack's right ear must be burning, I think, " said Maud, "and yet henever seems to want to know what anyone thinks about him. "

That was all the talk that Howard had with her at dinner. After theladies had gone, Mr. Sandys became very confidential about Jack'sprospects. 

"I look upon you as a sort of relation, you see, " he said, "in fact Ishall make bold to drop the Mr. And I hope you will do the same? May weindeed take a bold step into intimacy and be 'Howard' and 'Frank'henceforth? I can't, of course, leave Jack a fortune, but when I diethe two dear children will be pretty well off--I may say that. What doyou think he had better go in for? I should like him to take holyorders, but I don't press it. It brings one into touch with humanbeings, and I like that. I find human beings very interesting--I am notafraid of responsibility. "

Howard said that he did not think Jack inclined to orders. 

"Then I put that aside, " cried the good-natured Mr. Sandys. "Nocompulsion for me--the children may do as they like, live as they like, marry whom they like. I don't believe in checking human nature. Ofcourse if Jack could get a Fellowship, I should like him to settle downat Cambridge. There's a life for you! In the forefront of theintellectual battle! It is what I should have liked myself, of allthings. To hear what is going on in the intellectual line, to ventilateideas, to write, to teach--that's a fine life--to be able to hold one'sown in talk and discussion--that's where we country people fail. I haveplenty of ideas, you know, myself, but I can't put them into shape, into form, so to speak. "

"I think Jack would rather like a commercial career, " said Howard. "It's the only thing he has ever mentioned; and I am sure he might dowell if he could get an opening; he likes real things, he says. "

"He does!" said Mr. Sandys enthusiastically--"that's what he alwayssays. Do you know, if you won't think me very vain, Howard, I believehe gets that from me. Maud is different--she takes after her dearmother--whose loss was so irreparable a calamity--my dear wife was fullof imagination; it was a beautiful mind. I will show you some of hersketches when you come to see us--I am looking forward to that--notmuch technique, perhaps, but a real instinct for beauty; to be just, alittle lacking in form, but full of feeling. Well, Jack, as I wassaying, likes reality. So do I! A firm hold on reality--that's the bestthing; I was not intellectual enough for the life of thought, and Ifell back on humanity--vastly engrossing! I assure you, though youwould hardly think it, that even these simple people down here are mostinteresting: no two of them alike. My old friends say to me sometimesthat I must find country people very dull, but I always say, 'No two ofthem alike!' Of course I try to keep my intellectual tastes alive--theyare only tastes, of course, not faculties, like yours--but we read andtalk and ventilate our ideas, Maud and I; and when we are tired ofbooks, why I fall back on the great book of humanity. We don'tstagnate--at least I hope not--I have a horror of stagnation. I said soto the Archdeacon the other day, and he said that there was nothingstagnant about Windlow. "

"No, I am quite sure there is not, " said Howard politely. 

"It's very good of you to say so, Howard, " said Mr. Sandys delightedly. "Really quite a compliment! And I assure you, you don't know what apleasure it is to have a talk like this with a man like yourself, sowell-read, so full of ideas. I envy Jack his privileges. I do indeed. Now dear old Pembroke was not like that in my days. There was no one Icould talk to, as Jack tells me he talks to you. A man like yourself isa vast improvement on the old type of don, if I may say so. I'm veryfree, you see! And so you think Jack might do well in commerce? Well, Iquite approve. All I want is that he should not be out of touch withhuman beings. I'm not a metaphysician, but it seems to me that that iswhat we are here for--touch with humanity--of course on Church ofEngland lines. I'm tolerant, I hope, and can see the good side of othercreeds; but give me something comprehensive, and that is the glory ofour English Church. Well, you have given me a lot to think of, Howard;I must just take it all away and think it over. It's well to do that, Ithink? Not to be in a hurry, try to see all round a question? That ismy line always!"

They walked into the drawing-room together; and Howard felt curiouslydrawn to the warm-hearted and voluble man. Perhaps it was for the sakeof his children, he thought. There must be something fine about a manwho had brought up two such children--but that was not all; the Vicarwas enthusiastic; he revelled in life, he adored life; and Howard feltthat there was a real fund of sense and even judgment somewhere, behindthe spray of the cataract. He was a man whom one could trust, hebelieved, and whom it was impossible not to like. 

When they reached the drawing-room, Mrs. Graves called the Vicar into acorner, and began to talk to him about someone in the village; Howardheard his talk plunge steadily into the silence. Miss Merry flittedabout, played a few pieces of music; and Howard found himself left toMaud. He went and sate down beside her. In the dim light the girl sateforward in a big arm-chair; there was nothing languorous or listlessabout her. She seemed all alert in a quiet way. She greeted him with asmile, and sate turned towards him, her chin on her hand, her eyes uponhim. Her shining hair fell over the curves of her young and pure neck. She was holding a flower, which Mrs. Graves had given her, in her otherhand, and its fragrance exhaled all about her. Once or twice shechecked him with a little gesture of her hand, when Miss Merry began toplay, and he could see that she was much affected by the music. 

"It seems to me so wrong to talk during music, " she said; "perhaps itwasn't polite of me to stop you, but I can't bear to interruptmusic--it's like treading on flowers--it can't come again just likethat!"

"Yes, " said Howard, "I know exactly what you mean; but I expect it is amistake to think of a beautiful thing being wasted, if we don't happento hear or see it. It isn't only meant for us. It is the light or thesound or the flower, I think, being beautiful because it is glad. "

"Yes, " said the girl, "perhaps it is that. That is what Mrs. Gravesthinks. Do you know, it seems to me strange that you have never beenhere before, though you are almost her only relation. She is the mostwonderful person I have ever seen. The only person I know who seemsalways right, and yet never wants anyone else to know she is right. "

"Yes, " said Howard, "I feel that I have been very foolish--but it hasbeen going on all the time, like the music and the light. It hasn'tbeen wasted. I have had a wonderful talk with her to-day--the mostwonderful talk, I think, I have ever had. I can't understand it allyet--but she has given me the sense of some fine purpose--as if I hadbeen kept away for a purpose, because I was not ready; and as if I hadcome here for a purpose now. "

The girl sate looking at him with open eyes, and with some strangesense of surprise. "Yes, " she said, "it is just like that; but that youcould have seen it so soon amazes me. I have known her all my life, andcould never have put that into words. Do you know how things seem tocome and go and shift about without any meaning? It is never so withher; she sees what it all means. I cannot explain it. "

They sate in silence for a moment, and then Howard said: "It is verycurious to be here; you know, or probably you don't know, how muchinterested I am in Jack; and somehow in talking to him I felt thatthere was something behind--something more to know. All this"--he wavedhis hand at the room--"my aunt, your father, yourself--it does not seemto me new and unfamiliar, but something which I have always known. Ican't tell you in what a dream I have seemed to be moving ever since Icame here. I have been here for twenty-four hours, and yet it seems allold and dear to me. "

"I know that feeling, " said the girl, "one dips into something that hasbeen going on for ever and ever--I feel like that to-night. It seemsodd to talk like this, but you must remember that Jack tells me mostthings, and I seem to know you quite well. I knew it would be all easysomehow. "

"Well, we are a sort of cousins, " said Howard lightly. "That's such acomfort; it needn't entail anything, but it can save one all sorts offencing and ceremony. I want to talk to you about Jack. He is a littlemysterious to me still. "

"Yes, " she said, "he is mysterious, but he really is a dear: he was themost aggravating boy that ever lived, and I sometimes used really tohate him. I am afraid we used to fight a great deal; at least I did, but I suppose he was only pretending, for he never hurt me, and I knowI used to hurt him--but then he deserved it!"

"What a picture!" said Howard, smiling; "no wonder that boys go totheir private schools expecting to have to fight for their lives. Inever had a sister; and that accounts perhaps for my peacefuldisposition. " He had a sudden sense as he spoke that he was talking asif to an undergraduate in friendly irony. To his surprise and pleasurehe saw that his thought had translated itself. 

"I suppose that is how you talk to your pupils, " said the girl, smiling; "I recognise that--and that's what makes it easy to talk toyou as Jack does--it's like an easy serve at lawn-tennis. "

"I am glad it is easy, " said Howard, "you don't know how many of myserves go into the net!"

"Lawn-tennis!" said Mr. Sandys from the other side of the room. "There's a good game, Howard! I am not much of a hand at it myself, butI enjoy playing. I don't mind making a spectacle of myself. One missesmany good things by being afraid of looking a fool. What does itmatter, I say to myself, as long as one doesn't FEEL a fool? You willcome and play at the vicarage, I hope. Indeed, I want you to go andcome just as you like. We are relations, you know, in a sort of way--atleast connections. I don't know if you go in for genealogy--it's rathera hobby of mine; it fills up little bits of time, you know. I couldreel you off quite a list of names, but Mrs. Graves doesn't care forgenealogy, I know. "

"Oh, not that!" said Mrs. Graves. "I think it is very interesting. ButI rather agree with the minister who advised his flock to pray for goodancestors. "

"Ha! ha!" said Mr. Sandys, "excellent, that; but it is really verycurious you know, that the further one goes back the more one'sancestors increase. Talk of over-population; why if one goes backthirty or forty generations, the world would be over-populated with theancestors of any one of us. I remember posing a very clevermathematician with that once; but, as a fact, it's quite the reverse, one finds. Are you interested in neolithic men, Howard? There aregraves of them all over the down--it is not certain if they wereneolithic, but they had very curious burial customs. Knees up to thechin, you know. Well, well, it's all very fascinating, and I shouldlike to drive you over to Dorchester to look at the museum there--thereare some questions I should like to ask you. But we must be off. Adelightful evening, cousin Anne; a delightful evening, Howard. I feelquite rejuvenated--such a lot to ponder over. "

Howard went to the door to see them off, and was rewarded by a partingsmile from Maud, which made him feel curiously elated. He went back tothe drawing-room with that faint feeling of flatness which comes ofparting with lively guests; and yet it somehow gave him a pleasantsense of being at home. 

"Well, " said Mrs. Graves, "so now you have seen the Sandys interior. Dear Frank, how he does chatter, to be sure! but he is all alive too inhis own way, and that is what matters. What did you think of Maud? Iwant you to like her--she is a great friend of mine, and really a finecreature. Not very happy just now, perhaps. But while dear old Franknever sees past the outside of things--what a lot of things he doessee!--she sees inside, I think. But I am tired to death. I always feelafter talking to Frank as if I had been driving in a dog-cart over aploughed field!"

VII

COUNTRY LIFE

Howard woke early, after sweet and wild dreams of great landscapes andrich adventures; as his thoughts took shape, he began to feel as if hehad passed some boundary yesterday; escaped, as a child escapes from afamiliar garden into great vague woodlands. There was his talk withMrs. Graves first--that had opened up for him a new region, indeed, ofthe mind and soul, and had revealed to him an old force, perhaps longwithin his grasp, but which he had never tried to use or wield. And thevision too of Maud crossed his mind--a perfectly beautiful thing, whichhad risen like a star. He did not think of it as love at all--that didnot cross his mind--it was just the thought of something enchantinglyand exquisitely beautiful, which disturbed him, awed him, threw hismind off its habitual track. How extraordinarily lovely, simple, sweet, the girl had seemed to him in the dim room, in the faint light; and howfearless and frank she had been! He was conscious only of somethingadorable, which raised, as beautiful things did, a sense of somethingunapproachable, some yearning which could not be satisfied. How faraway, how faded and dusty his ordinary contented Cambridge life nowseemed to him!

He breakfasted alone, read a few letters which had been forwarded tohim, and went to the library. A few minutes later Miss Merry tapped atthe door, and came in. 

"Mrs. Graves asked me to say--she was sorry she forgot to mentionit--that if you care for shooting or fishing, the keeper will come inand take your orders. She thinks you might like to ask Jack to luncheonand go out with him; she sends you her love, and wants you to do whatyou like. "

"Thank you very much!" said Howard, "I rather expect Jack will be roundhere and I will ask him. I know he would like it, and I should too--ifyou are sure Mrs. Graves approves. "

"Oh, yes, " said Miss Merry, smiling, "she always approves of peopledoing what they like. "

Miss Merry still hesitated at the door. "May I ask you anotherquestion, Mr. Kennedy--I hope I am not troublesome--I wonder if youcould suggest some books for us to read? I read a good deal to Mrs. Graves, and I am afraid we get rather into a groove. We ought to readsome of the new books; we want to know what people are saying andthinking--we don't want to get behind. "

"Why, of course, " said Howard, "I shall be delighted--but I am afraid Iam not likely to be of much use; I don't read as much as I ought; butif you will tell me the sort of things you care about, and what youhave been reading, we will try to make out a list. Won't you sit downand see what we can do?"

"Oh, I don't like to interrupt you, " said Miss Merry. "But if you wouldbe so kind. "

She sat down at the far end of the table, and Howard was dimly andamusedly conscious that this tete-a-tete was of the nature of aromantic adventure to the little lady. He was surprised, when they cameto talk, to find how much they appeared to have read of a solid kind. He asked if they had any plan. 

"No, indeed, " said Miss Merry, "we just wander on; one thing suggestsanother. Mrs. Graves likes LONG books; she says she likes to get at asubject quietly--that there ought not to be too many good things inbooks; she likes them slow and spacious. "

"I am afraid one has to go back a good way for that!" said Howard. "People can't afford now to know more than a manual of a couple ofhundred pages can tell them about a subject. I can tell you some goodhistorical books, and some books of literary criticism and biography. Ican't do much about poetry or novels; and philosophy, science, andtheology I am no use at all for. But I could get you some advice if youlike. That's the best of Cambridge, there are so many people about whoare able to tell what to read. "

While they were making out a list, Jack arrived breathlessly, and MissMerry shamefacedly withdrew. Howard said: "Perhaps that will do to goon with--we will have another talk to-morrow. I begin to see the sortof thing you want. "

Jack was in a state of high excitement. 

"What on earth were you doing, " he said, as the door closed, "with thatsedate spinster?"

"We were making out a list of books!"

"Ah, " said Jack with a profound air, "books are dangerousthings--that's the intellectual way of making love! You must be a greatexcitement here, with all your ideas!--but now, " he went on, "here Iam--I hurried back the moment breakfast was over. I have been horriblybored--a lawn-tennis party yesterday, the females much to thefore--it's no good that, it's not the game; at least it's notlawn-tennis; it's a game all right, but I much suspect it has to dowith love-making rather than exercise. "

"You seem very suspicious this morning, " said Howard; "you accuse me offlirting to begin with, and now you suspect lawn-tennis. "

Jack shook his head. "I do hate love-making!" he said, "it spoilseverything--it gets in the way, and makes fools of people; the longer Ilive, the more I see that most of the things that people do are excusesfor doing something else! But never mind that! I said I had got to getback to be coached; I said that one of our dons was staying in thevillage and had his eye on me. What I want to know is whether you havemade any arrangements about shooting or fishing? You said you would ifyou could. "

"The keeper is coming in, " said Howard, "and we will have a talk tohim; but mind, on one condition--work in the morning, exercise in theafternoon; and you are to stop to lunch. "

"Cousin Anne is bursting into hospitality, " said Jack, "because Maud iscoming in for the afternoon. I haven't had time to pump Maud yet aboutyou, but, by George, I'm going to pump you about her and father. Didyou have a very thick time last night? I could see father was ratherlicking his lips. "

"Now, no more chatter, " said Howard; "you go and get some books, and wewill set to work at once. " Jack nodded and fled. 

When he came back the keeper was waiting, a friendly old man, whoseemed delighted at the idea of some sport. Jack said, "Look here, Ihave arranged it all. Shooting to-day, and you can have father's gun;he hardly ever uses it, and I have my own. Fishing to-morrow, and so onalternately. There are heaps of rabbits up the valley--the place crawlswith them. "

Howard taught Jack for an hour, as clearly and briskly as he could, making him take notes. He found him quick and apt, and at the end, Jacksaid, "Now if I could only do this every day at Cambridge, I shouldsoon get on. My word, you do do it well! It makes me shudder to thinkof all the practice you must have had. "

Howard set Jack down to prepare some further work by himself, andattacked his own papers; and very soon it was time for lunch. 

Mrs. Graves greeted Jack with much affectionateness, and asked whatthey had arranged for the afternoon. Howard told her, and added that hehoped she did not object to shooting. 

"No, not at all, " said Mrs. Graves, "if YOU can do itconscientiously--I couldn't! As usual I am hopelessly inconsistent. Icouldn't kill things myself, but as long as I eat meat, I can't object. It's no good arguing about these things. If one begins to argue aboutdestroying life, there are such excellent reasons for not eatinganything, or wearing anything, or even crossing the lawn! I have longbelieved that plants are conscious, but we have got to exist somehow ateach other's expense. Instinct is the only guide for women; if theybegin to reason, they get run away with by reason; that is what makesfanatics. I won't go so far as to wish you good sport, but you may aswell get all the rabbits you can; I'll send them round the village, andtry to salve my conscience so. "

They talked a little about the books Howard had been recommending, butMrs. Graves was bent on making much of Jack. 

"I don't get you here often by yourself, " she said. "I daren't ask amodern young man to come and see two old frumps--one old frump, I mean!But I gather that you have views of your own, Jack, and some day Ishall try to get at them. I suppose that in a small place like this weall know a great deal more about each other than we suspect each otherof knowing. What a comfort that we have tongues that we can hold! Itwouldn't be possible to live, if we knew that all the absurdities wepride ourselves on concealing were all perfectly well known andcanvassed by all our friends. However, as long as we only enjoy eachother's faults, and don't go in for correcting them, we can get on. Ihope you don't DISAPPROVE of people, Jack! That's the hopelessattitude. "

"Well, I hate some people, " said Jack, "but I hate them so much that itis quite a pleasure to meet them and to think how infernal they are;and when it's like that, I should be sorry if they improved. "

"I won't go as far as that, " said Howard. "The most I do is to bethankful that their lack of improvement can still entertain me. One cannever be thankful enough for really grotesque people. But I confess Idon't enjoy seeing people spiteful and mean and vicious. I want toobliterate all that. "

"I want it to be obliterated, " said Mrs. Graves; "but I don't feelequal to doing it. Oh, well, we mustn't get solemn over it; that's themischief! But I mustn't keep you gentlemen from more seriouspursuits--'real things, ' I believe, Jack?"

"Mr. Kennedy has been sneaking on me, " said Jack. "I don't like to seepeople mean and spiteful. It gives me pain. I want all thatobliterated. "

"This is what happens to my pupils, " said Howard. "Come on, Jack, youshall not expose my methods like this. "

They went off with the old keeper, who carried a bag of writhingferrets, and was accompanied by a boy with a spade and a line and a bagof cartridges. As they went on, Jack catechised Howard closely. 

"Did my family behave themselves?" he said. "Did you want themobliterated? I expect you had a good pull at the Governor, but don'tforget he is a good chap. He is so dreadfully interested, but you cometo plenty of sense last of all. I admit it is last, but it's there. It's no joke facing him if there's a row! he doesn't say much then, andthat makes it awful. He has a way of looking out of the window, if Icheek him, for about five minutes, which turns me sick. Up on the tophe is a bit frothy--but there's no harm in that, and he keeps thingsgoing. "

"Yes, " said Howard, "I felt that, and I may tell you plainly I likedhim very much, and thought him a thoroughly good sort. "

"Well, what about Maud?" said Jack. 

Howard felt a tremor. He did not want to talk about Maud, and he didnot want Jack to talk about her. It seemed like laying hands onsomething sacred and secluded. So he said, "Really, I don't know asyet--I only had one talk with her. I can't tell. I thought herdelightful; like you with your impudence left out. "

"The little cat!" said Jack; "she is as impudent as they make them. I'll be bound she has taken the length of your foot. What did she talkabout? stars and flowers? That's one of her dodges. "

"I decline to answer, " said Howard; "and I won't have you spoiling myimpressions. Just leave me alone to make up my mind, will you?"

Jack looked at him, --he had spoken sharply--nodded, and said, "Allright! I won't give her away. I see you are lost; but I'll get it allout of you some time. "

They were by this time some way up the valley. There were rabbitburrows everywhere among the thickets. The ferrets were put in. Howardand Jack were posted below, and the shooting began. The rabbits boltedwell, and Howard experienced a lively satisfaction, quite out ofproportion, he felt, to the circumstances, at finding that he couldshoot a great deal better than his pupil. The old knack came back tohim, and he toppled over his rabbits cleanly and in a masterly way. 

"You are rather good at this!" said Jack. "Won't I blazon it abroad upat Beaufort. You shall have all the credit and more. I can't see howyou always manage to get them in the head. "

"It's a trick, " said Howard; "you have got to get a particular swing, and when you have got it, it's difficult to miss--it's only practice;and I shot a good deal at one time. "

Howard was unreasonably happy that afternoon. It was a still, sunnyday, and the steep down stretched away above them, an ancient Englishwoodland, with all its thorn-thickets and elder-clumps. It had beenlike this, he thought, from the beginning of history, never touched bythe hand of man. The expectant waiting, the quick aim, the sudden shot, took off the restlessness of his brain; and as they stood there, oftenwaiting for a long time in silence, a peculiar quality of peace andcontentment enveloped his spirit. It was all so old, so settled, soquiet, that all sense of retrospect and prospect passed from his mind. He was just glad to be alive and alert, glad of his friendly companion, robust and strong. A few pictures passed before his mind, but he wasglad just to let his eyes wander over the scene, the steep turframparts, the close-set dingles, the spring sunshine falling softlyover all, as the sun passed over and the shadows lengthened. At last aferret got hung up, and had to be dug out. Howard looked at his watch, and said they must go back to tea. Jack protested in vain that therewas plenty of light left. Howard said they were expected back. Theyleft the keeper to recover the ferret, and went back quickly down thevalley. Jack was in supreme delight. 

"Well, that's an honest way of spending time!" he said. "My word, how Idangle about here; it isn't good for my health. But, by George, I wishI could shoot like you, Mr. Kennedy, Sir. "

"Why this sudden obsequiousness?" said Howard. 

"Oh, because I never know what to call you, " said Jack. "I can't callyou by your Christian name, and Mr. Kennedy seems absurd. What do youlike?"

"Whatever comes naturally, " said Howard. 

"Well, I'll call you Howard when we are together, " said Jack. "Butmind, not at Beaufort! If I call you anything, it will have to be Mr. Kennedy. I hate men fraternising with the Dons. The Dons ratherencourage it, because it makes them feel youthful and bucks them up. The men are just as bad about Christian names. Gratters on getting yourChristian name, you know! It's like a girls' school. I wonder whyCambridge is more like a girls' school than a public school is? Isuppose they are more sentimental. I do loathe that. "

When they got back they found Maud at tea; she had been there all theafternoon; she greeted Howard very pleasantly, but there was a touch ofembarrassment created by the presence of Jack, who regarded herseverely and called her "Miss. "

"He's got some grudge against me, " said Maud to Howard. "He always haswhen he calls me Miss. "

"What else should I call you?" said Jack; "Mr. Kennedy has been tellingme that one should call people by whatever name seems natural. You area Miss to-day, and no mistake. You are at some game or other!"

"Now, Jack, be quiet!" said Mrs. Graves; "that is how the Britishpaterfamilias gets made. You must not begin to make your womankinduncomfortable in public. You must not think aloud. You must keep up themysteries of chivalry!"

"I don't care for mysteries, " said Jack, "but I'll behave. My fathersays one mustn't seethe the kid in its mother's milk. I will leave Missto her conscience. "

"Did you enjoy yourself?" said Mrs. Graves to Howard. 

"Yes, I'm afraid I did, " said Howard, "very much indeed. "

"Some book I read the other day, " said Mrs. Graves, "stated that menought to do primeval things, eat under-done beef, sleep in theirclothes, drink too much, kill things. It sounds disgusting; but Isuppose you felt primeval?"

"I don't know what it was, " said Howard. "I felt very well content. "

"My word, he can shoot!" said Jack to Mrs. Graves; "I'm a perfectduffer beside him; he shot four-fifths of the bag, and there's aperfect mountain of rabbits to come in. "

"Horrible, horrible!" said Mrs. Graves, "but are there enough to goround the village?"

"Two apiece, " said Jack, "to every man a damsel or two! Now, Maud, comeon--ten o'clock, to-morrow, Sir--and perhaps a little fishing later?"

"You had better stay to lunch, whenever you come and work in themorning, Jack, " said Mrs. Graves; "and I'll turn you inside out beforevery long. "

Howard went off to his work with a pleasant sense of the open air. Theydined together quietly; after dinner he went and sate down by Mrs. Graves. 

"Jack's a nice boy, " she said, "very nice--don't make him pert!"

"I am afraid I shan't MAKE him anything, " said Howard. "He will go hisown way, sure enough; but he isn't pert--he comes to heel, and heremembers. He is like the true gentleman--he is never unintentionallyoffensive. "

Mrs. Graves laughed, and said, "Yes, that is so. "

Howard went on, "I have been thinking a great deal about our talkyesterday, and it's a new light to me. I do not think I fullyunderstand, but I feel that there is something very big behind it all, which I want to understand. This great force you speak of--is it anAIM?"

"That's a good question, " said Mrs. Graves. "No, it's not an aim atall. It's too big for that; an aim is quite on a lower level. There'sno aim in the big things. A man doesn't fall ill with an aim--hedoesn't fall in love with an aim. It just comes upon him. "

"But then, " said Howard, "is it more than a sort of artistic gift whichsome have and many have not? I have known a few real artists, and theyjust did not care for anything else in the world. All the rest of lifewas just a passing of time, a framework to their work. There was anartist I knew, who was dying. The doctor asked him if he wantedanything. 'Just a full day's work, ' he said. "

"Yes, " said Mrs. Graves, "it is like that in a way; it is the one thingworth doing and being. But it isn't a conscious using of minutes andopportunities--it isn't a plan; it is just a fulness of life, rejoicingto live, to see, to interpret, to understand. It doesn't matter whatlife you live--it is how you live it. Life is only the cup for theliquor which must else be spilled. I can only use an old phrase--it isbeing 'in the spirit': when you ask whether it is a special gift, ofcourse some people have it more strongly and consciously than others. But it is the thing to which we are all tending sooner or later; andthe mysterious thing about it is that so many people do not seem toknow they have it. Yet it is always just the becoming aware of what isthere. "

"How do you account for that?" said Howard. 

"Why, " said Mrs. Graves, "to a great extent because religion is in suchan odd state. It is as if the people who knew or suspected the secret, did all they could to conceal it--just as parents try to keep theirchildren ignorant of the ideas of sex. Religion has got so horriblymixed up with other things, with respectability, social order, conventions, doctrines, metaphysics, ceremony, music--it has become sospecialised in the hands of priests who have a great institution tosupport, that dust is thrown in people's eyes--and just as they beginto think they perceive the secret, they are surrounded by tiresomedogmatists saying, 'It is this and that--it is this doctrine, thattradition. ' Well, that sort of religion IS a very specialaccomplishment--ecclesiastical religion. I don't deny that it hasartistic qualities, but it is a poor narrow product; and then thetechnically religious make such a fuss if they see the shoal of fishescaping the net, and beat the water so vehemently that the fish thinkit safer to stay where they are, and so you get sardines in tins!" saidMrs. Graves with a smile--"by which I mean the churches. "

"Yes, " said Howard, "that is perfectly true! Christianity was at firstthe most new, radical, original, anarchical force in the world--it wasthe purest individualism; it was meant to over-ride all humancombinations by simply disregarding them; it was not a social reform, and still less a political reform; it was a new spirit, and it wasmeant to create a new kind of fellowship, the mere existence of whichwould do away with the need for organisation; it broke meekly, likewater, through all human partitions, and I suppose it has been tamed. "

"Yes, " said Mrs. Graves, "it is not now the world against religion. Itis organised religion against real religion, because religion is aboveand apart from all institutions. Christ said, 'When they persecute youin one city, flee into another'; and the result of that is the Monroedoctrine!"

"But are you not a Christian?" said Howard. 

"I believe myself to be one, " said Mrs. Graves; "and no doubt you willsay, 'Why do you live in wealth and comfort?' That's a difficulty, because Christ meant us to be poor. But if one hands over one's moneyto Christian institutions now, one is subsidising the forces of theworld--at least so I think. It's very difficult. Christ said that weshould bestow our goods upon the poor; but if I were to divide my goodsto-morrow among my neighbours, they would be only injured by it--itwould not be Christian of them to take them--they have enough. If theyhave not, I give it them. It does less harm to me than to them. Butthis I know is very irrational; and the point is not to be affected bythat. I could live in a cottage tomorrow, if there was need. "

"Yes, I believe you could, " said Howard. 

"As long as one is not dependent upon money, " said Mrs. Graves, "itdoesn't very much matter. The real point is to take the world as itcomes, and to be sure that one is on the side of what is true andsimple and sincere; but I do not pretend to have solved everything, andI am hoping to learn more. I do learn more every day. One can'tinterfere with the lives of people; poverty is not the worst evil. Itis nice to be clean, but I sometimes think that the only good I getfrom money is cleanliness--and that is only a question of habit! Thereal point is to be in life, to watch life, to love it, to live it; tobe in direct relations with everyone, not to be superior, not to beKIND--that implies superiority. I just plod along, believing, fearing, hoping, loving, glad to live while I may, not afraid to die when Imust. The only detachment worth having is the detachment from the ideaof making things one's own. I can't appropriate the sunset and thespring, the loves and cares of others; it is all divided up, morefairly than we think. I have had many sorrows and sufferings; but I ammore interested than ever in life, glad to help and be helped, ready tochange, desiring to change. It isn't a great way of living; but onemust not want that--and believe me, dear Howard, it is the only way. "

VIII

THE INHERITANCE

The first day or two of Howard's stay at Windlow seemed like a week, the succeeding week seemed like a day, as soon as he had settled downto a certain routine of life. He became aware of a continuedsympathetic and quite unobtrusive scrutiny of him, his ways, histastes, his thoughts, on the part of his aunt--her questions weresubtle, penetrating, provocative enough for him to wish to express anopinion. He did not dislike it, and used no diplomacy himself; he foundhis aunt's mind shrewd, fresh, unaffected, and at the same timeinspiring. She habitually spoke with a touch of irony--not bitterirony, but the irony that is at once a compliment and a sign ofaffection, such as Socrates used to the handsome boys that came abouthim. She was not in the smallest degree cynical, but she was verydecidedly humorous. Howard thought that she did people even more thanjustice, while she was frankly delighted if they also provided her withamusement. She held nothing inconveniently sacred, and Howard admiredthe fine balance of interest and detachment which she showed, herdelight in life, her high faith in something large, eternal, andadvancing. Her health was evidently very frail, but she made light ofit--it was almost the only thing she did not seem to find interesting. How could this clever, vivacious woman, Howard asked himself, retainthis wonderful freshness and sweetness of mind in such solitude anddulness of life? He could imagine her the centre of a salon--she hadall the gifts of a saloniste, the power of keeping a talk in hand, ofgiving her entire thought to her neighbour, and yet holding the wholegroup in view. Solitary, frail, secluded as she was, she was like anunrusted sword, and lavished her wit and her affection on all alike, callers, villagers, servants; and yet he never saw her tired ordepressed. She took life as she found it, and was delighted with itssimplest combinations. He found her company entirely absorbing andinspiring. He told her, in answer to her frank interest--she seemed tobe interested on her own account, and not to please him--more about hisown life than he had ever told a human being. She always wanted facts, impressions, details: "Enlarge that--describe that--tell me some moreparticulars, " were phrases often on her lips. And he was delighted, too, by the belief that her explorations into his mind and life pleasedand satisfied her. It dawned on him gradually that she was a woman ofrich experience, and that her tranquillity was an aftergrowth, adevelopment--"That was in my discontented days, " she said once. "It isimpossible to think of you as discontented, " he had said. "Ah, " shesaid lightly, "I had my dreams, like everyone else; but I saw at lastthat one must TAKE life--one can't MAKE it--and accept its limitationswith enjoyment. "

One morning, when he was called, the butler gave him a letter--he hadbeen there about a fortnight--from his aunt. He opened it, expectingthat it was to say that she was ill. He found that it ran as follows:

"MY DEAR BOY, --I always think that business is best done by letter andnot by conversation. I am getting an old woman and my life isuncertain. I want to make a statement of intentions. I may tell youthat I am a comparatively wealthy woman; my dear husband left meeverything he had; including what he spent on this place, it came toabout sixty thousand pounds. Now I intend to leave that back to hisfamily; there are several sisters of his alive, and they are notwealthy people; but I have saved money too; and it is my wish to leaveyou this house and the residue of my fortune, after arranging for somesmall legacies. The estate is not worth very much--a great deal of itis wild downland. But you would have the place, when I died, and abouttwelve hundred a year. It would be understood that you should live herea certain amount--I don't believe in non-resident landlords. But I donot mean to tie you down to live here altogether. It is only my wishthat you should do something for your tenants and neighbours. If youstayed on at Cambridge you could come here in vacations. But my hopewould be that you might marry. It is a house for a family. If you donot care to live here, I would rather it were sold. While I live, Ihope you will be content to spend some time here, and make acquaintancewith our neighbours, by which I mean the village people. I shall tellCousin Frank my intentions, and that will probably suffice to make itknown. I have a very great love for the place, and as far as I can see, you will be likely to have the same. 

"You need not feel overburdened with gratitude. You are my only nearrelation; and indeed I may say that if I were to die before I havesigned my will, you would inherit all my fortune as next-of-kin. So youwill see that instead of enriching you, I am to a great extentdisinheriting you! Just tell me simply if you acquiesce. I want nopledges, nor do I want to bind you in any way. I will not say more, except that it has been a very deep delight to me to find a son in myold age. I had always hoped it would turn out so; and in my experience, God is very careful to give us our desires, just or unjust, great orsmall. --Your loving Aunt, "ANNE GRAVES. "

Howard was stupefied for a moment by this communication, but he wasmore affected by the love and confidence it showed than by the prospectof wealth--wealth was not a thing he had ever expected, or indeedthought much about; but it was a home that he had found. The great lackof his life had been a local attachment, a place where he had reason tolive. Cambridge with all its joys had never been quite that. A curioussense of emotion at the thought that the sweet place, the beautiful oldhouse, was to be his own, came over him; and another far-off dreamdarted into his mind as well, which he did not dare to shape. He got upand wrote a short note. 

"MY DEAR AUNT, --Your letter fills me with astonishment. I can only saythat I accept in love and gratitude what you offer me. The feeling thatI have found a home and a mother, so suddenly and so unexpectedly, fills me with joy and happiness. I think with sadness of all the goodyears I have missed, by a sort of stupid perversity; but I won't regardthat now. I will only thank you once more with all my heart for theproof of affection which your letter gives me. --Your grateful andaffectionate nephew, "HOWARD KENNEDY. "

The old house had a welcoming air as he passed through it that morning;it seemed to hold him in its patient embrace, to ask for love. He spentthe morning with Jack, but in a curiously distracted mood. 

"What has happened to you?" said Jack at the end of the morning. "Youhave not been thinking about what you are doing. You seem like a manwho has been stroking a winning crew. Has the Master been made a Dean, and have you been elected Master? They say you have a chance. "

Howard laughed and said, "You are very sharp, Jack! I have NOT beenattending. Something very unexpected has happened. I mustn't tell younow, but you will soon know. I have drawn a prize. Now don't pump me!"

"Here's another prize!" said Jack. "You are to lunch with us to-morrow, and to discuss my future career. There's glory for you! I am not to bepresent, and father is scheming to get me invited to luncheon here. Ifhe fails, I am to take out some sandwiches and to eat them in thekitchen garden. Maud is to be present, and 'CONFER, ' he says, 'thoughwithout a vote'!"

Howard met Mrs. Graves in the drawing-room; she kissed him, and holdinghis hand for a moment said, "Thank you for your note, my dear boy. That's all settled, then! Well, it's a great joy to me, and I get morethan I give by the bargain. It's a shameless bribe, to secure thecompany of a charming nephew for a sociable old woman. Some time Ishall want to tell you more about the people here--but I won't boreyou; and let us just get quietly used to it all. One must not bepompous about money; it is doing it too much honour; and the best of itis that I have found a son. " Howard smiled, kissed the hand which heldhis, and said no more. 

The Vicar turned up in the afternoon, and apologised to Mrs. Graves forasking Howard to luncheon on the following day. "The fact is, " he said, "that I am anxious to have the benefit of his advice about Jack'sfuture. I think we ought to look at things from all sorts of angles, and Howard will be able, with his professional knowledge of young men, to correct the tendency to parental bias which is so hard to eliminate. I am a fond father--fond, but I hope not foolish--and I trust we shallbe able to arrive at some conclusion. "

"Then Jack and Maud can come and lunch with me, " said Mrs. Graves; "youwon't want them, I am sure. "

"You are a sorceress, " said Mr. Sandys, "in the literary sense ofcourse--you divine my thought!"--but it was evident that he had muchlooked forward to using a little diplomacy, and was somewhatdisappointed. He went on, "It will be very kind of you to have Jack, but I think I shall want Maud's assistance. I have a great belief inthe penetration--in the observation of the feminine mind; more than Ihave, if you will excuse my frankness, in their power of dealing with apractical situation. Woman to interpret events, men to foreseecontingencies. Woman to indicate, man to predicate--perhaps I meanpredict! No matter; the thought, I think, is clear. Well, then, that issettled! I claim Howard for luncheon--a very simple affair--and for awalk; and by five o'clock we shall have settled this important matter, I don't doubt. "

"Very well, " said Mrs. Graves; "but before you go, I must claim YOU fora short stroll. I have something to tell you; and as Howard and Jackare dying to get away to deprive some innocent creatures of theprivilege of life, they had better go and leave us. "

That evening Howard had a long, quiet talk to his aunt. She said, "I amnot going to talk business. Our lawyer is coming over on Saturday, andyou had better get all the details from him. You must just go round theplace with him, and see if there is anything you would like to seealtered. It will be an immense comfort to put all that in your hands. Mind, dear boy, " she said, "I want you to begin at once. I shall beready to do whatever is necessary. " Then she went on in a differentstrain. "But there is one other thing I want to say now, and that isthat I should above all things like to see you married--don't, by theway, fall in love with dear Jane, who worships the ground you tread on!I have been observing you, and I feel little doubt that marriage iswhat you most need. I don't expect it has been in your mind at all!Perhaps you have not had enough to marry on, but I am not sorry forthat, for a special reason; and I think, too, that men who have thecare of boys and young men have their paternal instinct to a largeextent satisfied; but that is only a small part of marriage! It isn'tonly that I want this house to be a home--that's merely a sentimentalfeeling--but you need to love and be loved, and to have the anxiouscare of someone close to you. There is nothing like marriage. Itprobably is not quite as transcendental an affair as you think. That'sthe mistake which intellectual people so often make--it's a verynatural and obvious thing--and of course it means far more to a womanthan to a man. But life is not complete without it. It is the biggestfact which happens to us. I only want you just to keep it in your mindas a possibility. Don't be afraid of it! My husband was your age whenhe married me, and though I was very unreasonable in those days, I amsure it was a happy thing for him, though he thought he was too old. There, I don't want to press you, in this or in anything. I do notthink you will be happy living here without a wife, even if you go onwith Cambridge. But one can't mould things to one's wishes. My fault isto want to organise everything for everybody, and I have made all myworst blunders so. I hope I have given up all that. But if I live tosee it, the day when you come and tell me that you have won a wife willbe the next happiest day to the day when I found a son of my heart. There, dear boy, I won't sentimentalise; but that's the truth; I shallwake up to-morrow and for many days, feeling that some good fortune hasbefallen me; but we should have found each other some time, even if Ihad been a poor and miserable old woman. You have given me all that Idesired; give me a daughter too, if you can!"

"Well, " said Howard, smiling, "I have no theory on the subject. I neverregarded marriage as either impossible or possible. It seemed to methat one was either caught away in a fiery chariot, or else was leftunder one's juniper tree; and I have been very comfortable there. Ithought I had all I wanted; and I feel a little dizzy now at the way inwhich my cup of life has suddenly been seized and filled with wine tothe brim. One doesn't find a home and a mother and a wife in afortnight!"

"I don't know!" said Mrs. Graves, smiling at him. "Some of the bestmarriages I know have been made in haste. I remember talking to a girlthe other day who was engaged to a man within ten days of the time theyhad met. I said, 'Well, you have not wasted time. ' 'Oh, ' she said, apparently rather hurt, 'I kept Henry waiting a long time. I had tothink it all over. I wasn't by any means sure I wanted to marry him. ' Iquoted a saying of an old friend of mine who when he was asked why hehad proposed to a girl he had only known three days, said, 'I don'tknow! I liked her, and thought I should like to see more of her!'"

"I think I must make out a list of possible candidates, " said Howard, smiling. "I dare say your Jane would help me. I could mark them forvarious qualities; we believe in marks at Cambridge. But I must havetime to get used to all my new gifts. "

"Oh, one doesn't take long to get used to happiness, " said Mrs. Graves. "It always seems the most natural thing in the world. Tennyson was allwrong about sorrow. Sorrow is always the casual mistress, and not thewife. One recovers from everything but happiness; that is one's nativeair. "

IX

THE VICAR

The Vicarage was a pleasant house, with an air of comfort and moderatewealth about it. It was part of Frank Sandys' sense, thought Howard, that he was content to live so simple and retired a life. He did notoften absent himself, even for a holiday. Howard was shown into thestudy which Mr. Sandys had improved and enlarged. It was a big room, with an immense, perfectly plain deal table in the middle, stained adark brown; and the Vicar showed Howard with high glee how each of thefour sides of the table was consecrated to a different avocation. "Myaccounts end!" he said, "my sermon side! my correspondence end! mygenealogical side!" There were a number of small dodges, desks forholding books, flaps which could be let up and down, slits in the tablethrough which papers could be dropped into drawers, a cord by which thebell could be rung without rising from his place, a cord by which thedoor could be bolted. "Not very satisfactory, that last, " said theVicar, "but I am on the track of an improvement. The worst of it is, "said the good man, "that I have so little time. I make extracts fromthe books I read for my sermons, I cut out telling anecdotes from thepapers. I like to raise questions every now and then in the Guardian, and that lets me in for a lot of correspondence. I even, I mustconfess, sometimes address questions to important people about theirpublic utterances, and I have an interesting volume of replies, mostlyfrom secretaries. Then I am always at work on my Somersetshiregenealogies, and that means a mass of letters. The veriest trifles, ofcourse, they will seem to a man like yourself; but I fail in mentalgrasp--I keep hammering away at details; that is my line; and after allit keeps one alert and alive. You know my favourite thesis--it is touchwith human nature that I value, and I am brought into contact with manyminds. I don't exaggerate the importance of my work, but I enjoy it;and after all, that is the point! I daresay it would be more dignifiedif I pretended to be a disappointed man, " said the Vicar, with a smilewhich won Howard's heart, "but I am not--I am a very happy man, as busyas the fabled bee! I shouldn't relish a change. There was somequestion, I may tell you, at one time, of my becoming Archdeacon, butit was a relief to me when it was settled and when Bedington wasappointed. I woke up in the morning, I remember, the day after hisappointment was announced, and I said to myself--'Why, it's a reliefafter all!' I don't mean that I shouldn't have enjoyed it, but it wouldhave meant giving up some part of my work. I really have the life Ilike, and if my dear wife had been spared to me, I should be thehappiest of men; but that was not to be--and by the way, I mustrecollect to show you some of her drawings. But I must not inflict allthis upon you--and by the way, " said the Vicar, "Mrs. Graves did me thehonour of telling me yesterday her intentions with regard to yourself, and I told her I was heartily glad to hear it. It is an immense thingfor the place to have some one who will look into things a little, andbring a masculine mind to bear on our simple problems. For myself, itwill be an untold gain to be brought in touch with a more intellectualatmosphere. I foresee a long perspective of stimulating discussions. Iwill venture to say that you will be warmly welcomed here, and indeedyou seem quite one of us already. But now we must go and get ourluncheon--we have much to discuss; and you will not mind Maud beingpresent, I know; the children are devoted to each other, and though Ihave studied their tastes and temperaments very closely, yet 'crabbedage and youth' you know, and all that--she will be able, I think, tocast some light on our little problem. "

They went together into the drawing-room, a pleasant old-fashionedroom--"a temple of domestic peace, " said the Vicar, "a pretty phrase ofCarlyle's that! Maud has her own little sitting-room--the oldschoolroom in fact--which she will like to show you. I think it verynecessary that each member of a family should if possible have asanctum, a private uninvaded domain--but in this room the separatestrains unite. "

Maud was sitting near the window when the two came in. She got up andcame quickly forward, with a smile, and shook hands with Howard. Shehad just the same look of virginal freshness and sweetness in themorning light--a little less mysterious, perhaps; but there came uponHoward a strange feeling, partly of intense admiration, partly a sortof half-jealousy that he should know so little of the girl's past, anda half-terror of all other influences and relations in the unknownbackground of her life. He wanted to know whom and what she caredabout, what her hopes were, what her thoughts rested upon and concernedthemselves with. He had never felt any such emotion before, and it wasnot wholly agreeable to him. He felt thrown off his balance, interferedwith, diverted from his normal course. He wanted to do and saysomething which could claim her attention and confidence; and the frankand almost sisterly regard she gave him was not wholly to his mind. This was mingled, too, with a certain fear of he knew not what; hefeared her criticism, her disapproval; he felt his own dulness andinelasticity. He seemed to himself empty, heavy, awkward, disconcertedby her quiet and expectant gaze. This came and went like a flash, andgave him an almost physical uneasiness. 

"Well, here we are, " said the Vicar. "I must say this is verycomfortable--a sort of family council, with matters of importance todiscuss. " Maud led the way to the dining-room. "I said we would haveeverything put on the table, " said the Vicar, "and wait on ourselves;that will leave us quite free to talk. It's not a lack of any respect, Howard--quite the contrary; but these honest people down here pick upall sorts of gossip--in a quiet life, you know, a little gossip goes along way; and even my good maids are human--I should be so in theirplace! Howard, a bit of this chicken--our own chickens, our ownvegetables, our country cider--everything home-grown; and now tobusiness, and we will settle Master Jack in a turn. My own belief is, in choosing a profession, to think of all possibilities and eliminatethem one by one. "

"Yes, " said Howard, "but we are met by this initial difficulty; thatone might settle a dozen professions for Jack, and there is not thesmallest guarantee that he would choose any of them. I think he willtake his own line. I never knew anyone who knew so definitely what heintended to do, and what he did not intend to do!"

"You have hit it, " said the Vicar, "and I do not think you could havesaid anything which could please me more. He is independent; it is myown temperament over again! You will forgive a touch of vanity, Howard, but that is me all over. And that simplifies our plan of action veryconsiderably, you know!"

"Yes, " said Howard, "it undoubtedly does. I have no doubt from whatJack told me that he intends to make money. It isn't, in him, just thevague desire to have the command of money, which most young men have. Ihave to talk over their careers with a good many young men, and itgenerally ends in their saying they would like a secretaryship, whichwould give them interesting work and long holidays and the command ofmuch of their time, and lead on to something better, with a prospect ofearly retirement on a pension. "

The Vicar laughed loudly at this. "Excellent!" he said, "a very humanview; that's a real bit of human nature. "

"But Jack, " said Howard, "isn't like that. He enjoys his life and getswhat fun out of it he can; but he thinks Cambridge a waste of time. Idon't know any young man who is so perfectly clear that he wants realwork. He is not idle as many young men are idle, prolonging the easydays as long as they can. He is an extraordinary mixture; he enjoyshimself like a schoolboy, and yet he wants to get to work. "

"Well, I think that a very encouraging picture!" said the Vicar; "thereis something very sensible about that. I confess I have mostly seen theschoolboy side of Jack, and it delights one to know that there is aserious side! Let us hear what Maud thinks; this kind of talk is reallyvery enjoyable. "

"Yes, " said Maud, looking up. "I am sure that Mr. Kennedy is quiteright. I believe that Jack would like to go into an office to-morrow. "

"There, " said the Vicar, "you see she agrees with you. It is really apleasure to find oneself mistaken. I confess I had not discerned thisquality in Jack; he had seemed to me much set on amusement. "

"Oh yes, " said Howard, "he likes his fun, and he is active enough; butit is all passing the time. "

"Well, this is really most satisfactory, " said the Vicar. "So youreally think he is cut out for business; something commercial? Well, Iconfess I had rather hankered after something more definitely academicand scholastic--something more intellectual! But I bow to your superiorknowledge, Howard, and we must think of possible openings. Well, Ishall enjoy that. My own money, what there is of it, was made by mygrandfather in trade--the manufacture of cloth, I believe. Would clothnow, the manufacture of cloth, appear to provide the requisite opening?I have some cousins still in the firm. "

"I think it would do as well as anything else, " said Howard, "and ifyou have any interest in a particular business, it would be worth whileto make inquiries. "

"Before I go to bed to-night, " said the Vicar, "I will send a statementof the case to my cousin; that will set the ball rolling. "

"Won't you have a talk with Jack first?" said Howard. "You may dependupon it he will have some views. "

"The very thing, " said the Vicar. "I will put aside all my other work, and talk to Jack after tea; if any difficulty should arise, I may lookto you for further counsel. This is really most satisfactory. Thismatter has been in my mind in a nebulous way for a long time; and youenter the scene with your intellectual grip, and your psychologicalpenetration--if that is not too intricate a word--and the situation isclear at once. Well, I am most grateful to you. "

The talk then became general, or rather passed into the Vicar's hands. "I have ventured, " he said, "to indicate to Maud what Cousin Anne wasgood enough to tell me last night--she laid no embargo on the news--anda few particulars about your inheritance will not be lacking ininterest--and on our walk this afternoon, to which I am greatly lookingforward, we will explore your domains. "

This simple compliment produced a curious effect on Howard. He realisedas he had not done before the singular change in his position that hisaunt's announcement had produced: a country squire, a proprietor--hecould not think of himself in that light--it was like a curious dream. 

After luncheon, Mr. Sandys excused himself for a few minutes; he had tostep over and speak to the sexton. Maud would take Howard round thegarden, show him her room, "just our simple background--we want you torealise that!"

As soon as they were alone together, Howard said to Maud, "We seem tohave settled Jack's affairs very summarily. I hope you do agree withme?"

"Yes, " said Maud, "I do indeed. It is wonderful to me that you shouldknow so much about him, with all your other pupils to know. He isn't aboy who talks much about himself, though he seems to; and I don't thinkmy father understood what he was feeling. Jack doesn't like beinginterfered with, and he was getting to resent programmes being drawnup. Papa is so tremendously keen about anything he takes up that hecarries one away; and then you come and smooth out all thedifficulties. It isn't always easy--" she broke off suddenly, andadded, "That is what Jack wants, what he calls something REAL. He isbored with the life here, and yet he is always good about it. "

"Do you like the life here?" said Howard. "I can't tell you what aneffect it all produces on me; it all seems so simple and beautiful. ButI know that one mustn't trust first impressions. People in picturesquesurroundings don't always feel picturesque. It is very pleasant to makea drama out of one's life and to feel romantic--but one can't keep itup--at least I can't. That must come of itself. "

Howard felt that the girl was watching him with a look of almoststartled interest. She said in a moment, "Yes, that's quite true, andit IS a difficulty. I should like to be able to talk to you about thosethings--I hear so much about you, you know, from Jack, that you are notlike a stranger at all. Now papa has got the gift of romance; every bitof his life is interesting and exciting to him--it's perfectlysplendid--but Jack has not got that at all. I seem to understand themboth, and yet I can't explain them to each other. I don't mean theydon't get on, but neither can quite see what the other is aiming at. And I have felt that I ought to be able to do something. I can'tunderstand how you have cleared it up; but I am very glad and gratefulabout it: it has been a trouble to me. Cousin Anne is wonderful aboutit, but she seems able to let things alone in a way I can't dare to. "

"Oh, one learns that as one gets older, " said Howard. "One can't arguethings straight. One can only go on hoping and wishing, and if possibleunderstanding. I used to make a great mess of it with my pupils at onetime, by thinking one could talk them round; but one can't persuadepeople of things, one can only just suggest, and let it be; and afterall no one ever resents finding himself interesting to some one else;only it has got to be interest, and not a sense of duty. "

"That is what Cousin Anne says, " said Maud, "and when I am with her, Ithink so too; and then something tiresome happens and I meddle, Imeddle! Jack says I like ruling lines, but that it is no good, becausepeople won't write on them. "

X

WITH MAUD ALONE

They were suddenly interrupted by the inrush of the Vicar. "Maud, " hesaid with immense zest, "I find old Mrs. Darby very ill--she had a kindof faint while I was there. I have sent off Bob post haste for Dr. Grierson. " The Vicar was evidently in the highest spirits, like ageneral on the eve of a great battle. "There isn't a moment to belost, " he continued, his eye blazing with energy. "Howard, my dearfellow, I fear our walk must be put off. I must go back at once. Thereshe lies, flat on her back, just where I laid her! I believe, " said theVicar, "it's a touch of syncope. She is blue, decidedly blue! I chargedthem to do nothing, but if I don't get back, there's no knowing whatthey won't pour down her throat--decoction of pennyroyal, I dare say;and if the woman coughs, she is lost. This is the sort of thing Ienjoy--of course it is very sad--but it is a tussle with death. I knowa good deal about medicine, and Grierson has more than oncecomplimented me on my diagnosis--he said it was masterly--forgive atouch of vanity! But you mustn't lose your walk. Maud, dear, you takeHoward out--I am sure he won't mind for once. You could walk round thevillage, or you could go and find Jack. Now then, back to my post! Youmust forgive me, Howard, but my flock are paramount. "

"But won't you want me, papa?" said Maud. "Couldn't I be of use?"

"Certainly not, " said the Vicar; "there's nothing whatever to be donetill Grierson arrives--just to ward off the ministrations of therelatives. There she must lie--I feel no doubt it is syncope; everysymptom points to syncope--poor soul! A very interesting case. "

He fled from the room like a whirlwind, and they heard him run down thegarden. The two looked at each other and smiled. "Poor Mrs. Darby!"said Maud, "she is such a nice old woman; but papa will do everythingthat can be done for her; he really knows all about it, and he issplendid in illness--he never loses his head, and he is very gentle; hehas saved several lives in the village by knowing what to do. Would youreally like to go out with me? I'll be ready in a minute. "

"Let us go up on the downs, " said Howard, "I should like that verymuch. I daresay we shall hear Jack shooting somewhere. "

Maud was back in a moment; in a rough cloak and cap she lookedenchanting to Howard's eyes. She walked lightly and quickly beside him. "You must take your own pace, " said Howard, "I'll try to keep up--onegets very lazy at Cambridge about exercise--won't you go on with whatyou were saying? I know your father has told you about my aunt's plan. I can't realise it yet; but I want to feel at home here now--indeed Ido feel that already--and I like to know how things stand. We are allrelations together, and I must try to make up for lost time. I seem toknow my aunt so well already. She has a great gift for letting one seeinto her mind and heart--and I know your father too, and Jack, and Iwant to know you; we must be a family party, and talk quite simply andfreely about all our concerns. "

"Oh, yes, indeed I will, " said Maud--"and I find myself wondering howeasy it is to talk to you. You do seem like a relation; as if you hadalways been here, indeed; but I must not talk too much about myself--Ido chatter very freely to Cousin Anne; but I don't think it is good forone to talk about oneself, do you? It makes one feel so important!"

"It depends who one talks to, " said Howard, "but I don't believe inholding one's tongue too much, if one trusts people. It seems to me thesimplest thing to do; I only found it out a few years ago--how much onegained by talking freely and directly. It seems to me an uncivilised, almost a savage thing to be afraid of giving oneself away. I don't mindwho knows about my own concerns, if he is sufficiently interested. Iwill tell you anything you like about myself, because I should like youto realise how I live. In fact, I shall want you all to come and see meat Cambridge; and then you will be able to understand how we livethere, while I shall know what is going on here. And I am really a verysafe person to talk to. One gets to know a lot of young men, year byyear--and I'm a mine of small secrets. Don't you know the title socommon in the old Methodist tracts--'The life and death and Christiansufferings of the Rev. Mr. Pennefather. ' That's what I want to knowabout people--Christian sufferings and all. "

Maud smiled at him and said, "I am afraid there are not many Christiansufferings in my life; but I shall be glad to talk about many thingshere. You know my mother died more than ten years ago--when I was quitea little girl--and I don't remember her very well; I have always saidjust what I thought to Jack, and he to me--till quite lately; and thatis what troubles me a little. Jack seems to be rather drifting awayfrom me. He gets to know so many new people, and he doesn't likeexplaining; and then his mind seems full of new ideas. I suppose it isbound to happen; and of course I have very little to do here; papalikes doing everything, and doing it in his own way. He can't bear tolet anything out of his hands; so I just go about and talk to thepeople. But I am not a very contented person. I want something, Ithink, and I don't know what it is. It is difficult to take up anythingserious, when one is all alone. I should like to go to Newnham, but Ican't leave father by himself; books don't seem much use, though I reada great deal. I want something real to do, like Jack! Papa is soenergetic; he manages the house and pays all the bills; and theredoesn't seem any use for me--though if I were of use, I should findplenty of things to do, I believe. "

"Yes, " said Howard, "I quite understand, and I am glad you have toldme. You know I am a sort of doctor in these matters, and I have oftenheard undergraduates say the same sort of thing. They are restless, they want to go out into life, they want to work; and when they beginto work all that disquiet disappears. It's a great mercy to have thingsto do, whether one likes it or not. Work is an odd thing! There ishardly a morning at Cambridge when, if someone came to me and offeredme the choice of doing my ordinary work or doing nothing for a day, Ishouldn't choose to do nothing. And yet I enjoy my work, and wouldn'tgive it up for anything. It is odd that it takes one so long to learnto like work, and longer still to learn that one doesn't like idleness. And yet it is to win the power of being idle that makes most peoplework. Idleness seems so much grander and more dignified. "

"It IS curious, " said Maud, "but I seem to have inherited papa's tastefor occupation, without his energy. I wish you would advise me what todo. Can't one find something?"

"What does my aunt say?" said Howard. 

"Oh, she smiles in that mysterious way she has, " said Maud, "and sayswe have to learn to take things as they come. She knows somehow how todo without things, how to wait; but I can't do that without gettingdreary. "

"Do you ever try to write?" said Howard. 

"Yes, " said Maud, laughing, "I have tried to write a story--how did youguess that? I showed it to Cousin Anne, and she said it was very nice;and when I showed it to Jack, and told him what she had said, he read alittle, and said that that was exactly what it was. "

"Yes, " said Howard, smiling, "I admit that it was not very encouraging!But I wish you would try something more simple. You say you know thepeople here and talk to them. Can't you write down the sort of thingsthey say, the talks you have with them, the way they look at things? Iread a book once like that, called Country Conversations, and Iwondered that so few people ever tried it. Why should one try to writeimprobable stories, even NICE stories, when the thing itself is sointeresting? One doesn't understand these country people. They have anidea of life as definite as a dog or a cat, and it is not in the leastlike ours. Why not take a family here; describe their house andpossessions, what they look like, what they do, what their history hasbeen, and then describe some talks with them? I can't imagine anythingmore interesting. Perhaps you could not publish them at present; butthey wouldn't be quite wasted, because you might show them to me, and Iwant to know all about the people here. You mustn't pass over thingsbecause they seem homely and familiar--those are just the interestingthings--what they eat and drink and wear, and all that. How does thatstrike you?"

"I like the idea very much indeed, " said Maud. "I will try--I willbegin at once. And even if nothing comes of it, it will be nice tothink it may be of use to you, to know about the people. "

"Very well, " said Howard, "that is a bargain. It is exactly what Iwant. Do begin at once, and let me have the first instalment of theChronicles of Windlow. "

They had arrived by this time at a point high on the downs. The roughwhite road, full of flints, had taken them up by deep-hedged cuttings, through coverts where the spring flowers were just beginning to show inthe undergrowth, and out on to the smooth turf of the downs. They werenear the top now, and they could see right down into Windlow Malzoy, lying like a map beneath them; the top of the Church tower, its leadenroof, the roofs of the Vicarage, the little straggling street among itsorchards and gardens; farther off, up the valley, they could see theManor in its gardens; beyond the opposite ridge, a far-off view ofgreat richness spread itself in a belt of dark-blue colour. It was astill day; on the left hand there was a great smooth valley-head, witha wood of beeches, and ploughed fields in the bottom. They directedtheir steps to an old turfed barrow, with a few gnarled thorn trees, wind-swept and stunted round it. 

"I love this place, " said Maud; "it has a nice name, the 'Isle ofThorns. ' I suppose it is a burial-place--some old chief, papa says--andhe is always threatening to have him dug up; but I don't want todisturb him! He must have had a reason for being buried here, and Isuppose there were people who missed him, and were sorry to lay himhere, and wondered where he had gone. I am sure there is a sad oldstory about it; and yet it makes one happy in a curious way to thinkabout it all. "

"Yes, " said Howard, "'the old, unhappy, far-off things, ' that turnthemselves into songs and stories! That is another puzzle; one's ownsorrows and tragedies, would one like to think of them as being madeinto songs for other people to enjoy? I suppose we ought to be glad ofit; but there does not seem anything poetical about them at the time;and yet they end by being sweeter than the old happy things. The 'Isleof Thorns'! Yes, that IS a beautiful name. "

Suddenly there came a faint musical sound on the air, as sweet ashoney. Howard held up his hand. "What on earth or in heaven is that?"he said. 

"Those are the chimes of Sherborne!" said Maud. "One hears them likethat when the wind is in this quarter. I like to hear them--they havealways been to me a sort of omen of something pleasant about to happen. Perhaps it is in your honour to-day, to welcome you!"

"Well, " said Howard, "they are beautiful enough by themselves; and ifthey will bring me greater happiness than I have, I shall not object tothat!"

They smiled at each other, and stood in silence for a little, and thenMaud pointed out some neighbouring villages. "All this, " she said, "isCousin Anne's--and yours. I think the Isle of Thorns is yours. "

"Then the old chief shall not be disturbed, " said Howard. 

"How curious it is, " said Maud, "to see a place of which one knowsevery inch laid out like a map beneath one. It seems quite a differentplace! As if something beautiful and strange must be happening there, if only one could see it!"

"Yes, " said Howard, "it is odd how we lose the feeling that a place isromantic when we come to know it. When I first went up to Cambridge, there were many places there that seemed to me to be so interesting:walls which seemed to hide gardens full of thickets, strange doorwaysby which no one ever passed out or in, barred windows giving upon darkcourts, out of which no one ever seemed to look. But now that I knowthem all from the inside, they seem commonplace enough. The hiddengarden is a place where Dons smoke and play bowls; the barred window isan undergraduate's gyp-room; there's no mystery left about them now. This place as I see it to-day--well, it seems the most romantic placein the world, full of unutterable secrets of life and death; but Isuppose it may all come to wear a perfectly natural air to me some day. "

"That is what I like so much about Cousin Anne, " said Maud; "nothingseems to be commonplace to her, and she puts back the mystery andwonder into it all. One must learn to do that for oneself somehow. "

"Yes, she's a great woman!" said Howard; "but what shall we do now?"

"Oh, I am sorry, " said Maud, "I have been keeping you all thistime--wouldn't you like to go and look for Jack? I think I heard a shotjust now up the valley. "

"No, " said Howard, looking at her and smiling, "we won't go and lookfor Jack to-day; he has quite enough of my company. I want your companyto-day, and only yours. I want to get used to my new-found cousin. "

"And to get rid of the sense of romance about her?" said Maud with asmile; "you will soon come to the end of me. "

"I will take my chance of that, " said Howard. "At present I feel on theother side of the wall. "

"But I don't, " said Maud, laughing; "I can't think how you slip in andfit in as you do, and disentangle all our little puzzles as you havedone. I thought I should be terrified of you--and now I feel as if Ihad known you ever so long. You are like Cousin Anne, you know. "

"Perhaps I am, a little, " said Howard, "but you are not very much likeJack! Show me Mrs. Darby's house, by the way. I wonder how things aregoing. "

"There it is, " said Maud, pointing to a house not far from theVicarage, "and there is Dr. Grierson's dogcart. I am afraid I had notbeen thinking about her; but I do hope it's all right. I think she willget over this. Don't you always have an idea, when people are ill, whether they will get well or not?"

"Yes, " said Howard, "I do; but it doesn't always come right!"

They lingered long on the hill, and at last Maud said that she mustreturn for tea. "Papa will be sure to bring Dr. Grierson in. "

They went down the hill, talking lightly and easily; and to Howard itwas more delightful than anything he had known to have a peep into thegirl's frank and ingenuous mind. She was full of talk--spontaneous, inconsequent talk--like Jack; and yet with a vast difference. Hers wasnot a wholly happy temperament, Howard thought; she seemed oppressed bya sense of duty, and he could not help feeling that she needed somesort of outlet. Neither the Vicar nor Jack were people who stood inneed of sympathy or affection. He felt that they did not quiteunderstand the drift of the girl's mind, which seemed clear enough tohim. And yet there fell on him, for all his happiness, a certaindissatisfaction. He would have liked to feel less elderly, lesspaternal; and the girl's frank confidence in him, treating him as shemight have treated an uncle or an elder brother, was at once delightfuland disconcerting. The day began to decline as they walked, and thelight faded to a sombre bleakness. Howard went back to the Vicaragewith her, and, at her urgent request, went in to tea. They found theVicar and Dr. Grierson already established. Mrs. Darby was quitecomfortable, and no danger was apprehended. The Vicar's diagnosis hadbeen right, and his precautions perfect. "I could not have done bettermyself!" said Dr. Grierson, a kindly, bluff Scotchman. Howard becameaware that the Vicar must have told the Doctor the news about hisinheritance, and was subtly flattered at being treated by him with theempressement reserved for squires. Jack came in--he had been shootingall afternoon--and told Howard he was improving. "I shall catch youup, " he said. He seemed frankly amused at the idea of Howard havingspent the afternoon with Maud. "You have got the whole family on yourback, it seems, " he said. Maud was silent, but in her heightened colourand sparkling eye Howard discerned a touch of happiness, and he enjoyedthe quiet attention she gave to his needs. The Vicar seemed sorry thatthey had not made a closer inspection of the village. "But you wereright to begin with a general coup d'oeil, " he said; "the whole beforethe parts! First the conspectus, then the details, " he addeddelightedly. "So you have been to the Isle of Thorns?" he went on. "Iwant to rake out the old fellow up there some day--but Cousin Annewon't allow it--you must persuade her; and we will have a splendidfield-day there, unearthing all the old boy's arrangements; I am surehe has never been disturbed. "

"I am afraid I agree with my aunt, " said Howard, shaking his head. 

"Ah, Maud has been getting at you, I perceive, " said the Vicar. "A veryfeminine view! Now in the interests of ethnology we ought to goforward--dear me, how full the world is of interesting things!"

They parted in great good-humour. The whole party were to dine at theManor next day; and Howard, as he said good-bye to Maud, contrived toadd, "Now you must tell me to-morrow that you have made a beginning. "She gave him a little nod, and a clasp of the hand that made him feelthat he had a new friend. 

That evening he talked to his aunt about Maud. He told her all abouttheir walk and talk. "I am very glad you gave her something to do, " shesaid--"that is so like a man! That is just where I fail. She is a veryinteresting and delightful girl, Howard; and she is not quite happy athome. Living with Cousin Frank is like living under a waterfall; andJack is beginning to have his own plans, and doesn't want anyone toshare them. Well, you amaze me! I suppose you get a good deal ofpractice in these things, and become a kind of amateurfather-confessor. I think of you at Cambridge as setting the lives ofyoung men spinning like little tops--small human teetotums. It's veryuseful, but it is a little dangerous! I don't think you have sufferedas yet. That's what I like in you, Howard, the mixture of practical andunpractical. You seem to me to be very busy, and yet to know where tostop. Of course we can't make other people a present of experience;they have to spin their own webs; but I think one can do a certainamount in seeing that they have experience. It would not suit me; mystrength is to sit still, as the Bible says. But in a place like thiswith Frank whipping his tops--he whips them, while you just twirlthem--someone is wanted who will listen to people, and see that theyare left alone. To leave people alone at the right minute is a verygreat necessity. Don't you know those gardens that look as if they werealways being fussed and slashed and cut about? There's no sense of lifein them. One has to slash sometimes, and then leave it. I believe ingrowth even more than in organisation. Still, I don't doubt that youhave helped Maud, and I am very glad of it. I wanted you to makefriends with her. I think the lack in your life is that you have knownso few women; men and women can never understand each other, of course;but they have got to live together and work together; and one ought tolive with people whom one does not understand. You and yourundergraduates don't yield any mysteries. You, no doubt, know exactlywhat they are thinking, and they know what you are thinking. It's allvery pleasant and wholesome, but one can't get on very far that way. You mustn't think Maud is a sort of undergraduate. Probably you thinkyou know a great deal about her already--but she isn't the least whatyou imagine, any more than I am. Nor are you what I imagine; but I amquite content with my mistaken idea of you. "

XI

JACK

The next day's dinner was a disappointment. The Vicar expatiated, Jackcounted, and became so intent on his counting that he hardly said aword; indeed Howard was not sure that he was wholly pleased with theturn affairs had taken; he was rather touched by this than otherwise, because it seemed to him that Jack was really, if unconsciously, alittle jealous. His whole visit had been rather too much of a success:Jack had expected to act as showman of his menagerie, and to play theprincipal part; and Howard felt that Jack suspected him of having takenthe situation too much into his own hands. He felt that Jack was notpleased with his puppets; his father had needed no apologies orexplanations, Maud had been forward, he himself had been donnish. 

The result was that Howard hardly got a word with Maud; she did indeedsay to him that she had made a beginning, and he was aware of apleasant sense of trustfulness about her; but the party had beeninvolved in vague and general talk, with a disturbing elementsomewhere. Howard found himself talking aimlessly and flatly, and thenet result was a feeling of dissatisfaction. 

When they were gone, Mrs. Graves said to Howard, "Jack is rather amasterful young man, I think. He has no sense of respect in hiscomposition. Were you aware of the fact that he had us all under histhumb this evening?"

"Yes, " said Howard, "it was just what I was thinking!"

"He wants work, " said Mrs. Graves; "he ought not to dangle about athome and at Cambridge; he wants tougher material to deal with; it's nouse snubbing him, because he is on the right tack; but he must not beallowed to interfere too much. He wants a touch of misfortune to bringhim to himself; he has a real influence over people--the influence thatall definite, good-humoured, outspoken people have; it is easier forothers to do what he likes than to resist him; he is not irritable, andhe is pertinacious. He is the sort of man who may get very much spoiltif he doesn't marry the right woman, because he is the sort of personwomen will tell lies to rather than risk displeasing him. If he doesnot take care he will be a man of the world, because he will not seethe world as it is; it will behave to him as he wishes it to behave. "

"I think, " said Howard, "that he has got good stuff in him; he wouldnever do anything mean or spiteful; but he would do anything that hethought consistent with honour to get his way. "

"Well, we shall see, " said Mrs. Graves; "but he is rather a badinfluence for Maud just now. Maud doesn't suspect his strength, and Ican't have her broken in. Mind, Howard, I look to you to help Maudalong. You have a gift for keeping things reasonable; and you must useit. "

"I thought you believed in letting people alone!" said Howard. 

"In theory, yes, " said Mrs. Graves, smiling; "I certainly don't believein influencing people; but I believe very much in loving them: it'swhat I call imaginative sympathy that we want. Some people haveimagination enough to see what other people are feeling, but it endsthere: and some people have unintelligent sympathy, and that is onlyspoiling. But one must see what people are capable of, and what theirline is, and help them to find out what suits them, not try to conformthem to what suits oneself; and that isn't as easy as it sounds. "

XII

DIPLOMACY

A few days later Howard was summoned back to Cambridge. One of hiscolleagues was ill, and arrangements had to be made to provide for hiswork. It astonished him to find how reluctant he was to return; heseemed to have found the sort of life he needed in this quiet place. Hehad walked with the Vicar, and had been deluged with interestingparticulars about the parish. Much of it was very trivial, but Howardsaw that the Vicar had a real insight into the people and their ways. He had not seen Maud again to speak to, and it vexed him to find howdifficult it was to create occasions for meeting. His mind andimagination had been taken captive by the girl; he thought of herconstantly, and recalled her in a hundred charming vignettes; the hopeof meeting her was constantly in his mind; he had taught Jack a gooddeal, but he became more and more aware that for some reason or otherhis pupil was not pleased with him. 

He and Jack were returning one day from fishing, and they had comenearer than Howard had liked to having a squabble. Howard had saidsomething about an undergraduate, a friend of Jack's. Jack had seemedto resent the criticism, and said, "I am not quite sure whether youknow so much about him as you think. Do you always analyse people likethat? I sometimes feel with you as if I were in a room full ofspecimens which you were showing off, and that you knew more about themdead than alive. "

"That's rather severe!" said Howard; "I simply try to understandpeople--I suppose we all do that. "

"No, I don't, " said Jack; "I think it's rather stuffy, if you want toknow. I have a feeling that you have been turning everyone inside outhere. I think one ought to let people alone. "

"Well, " said Howard, "it all depends upon what one wants to do withpeople. I think that, as a matter of fact, you are really more inclinedto deal with people, to use them for your own purposes, than I am. Youknow what you want, and other people have got to follow. Of course, upat Beaufort, it's my business to try to do that to a certain extent;but that is professional, and a matter of business. "

"But the worst of doing it professionally, " said Jack, "is that youcan't get out of the way of doing it unprofessionally. You seem to meto have rather purchased this place. I know you are to be squire, andall that; but you want to make yourself felt. I am not sure that youaren't rather a Jesuit. "

"Come, " said Howard, "that's going too far--we can't afford to quarrel. I don't mind your saying what you think; but if you have the right totake your own line, you must allow the same right to others. "

"That depends!" said Jack, and was silent for a moment. Then he turnedto Howard and said, "Yes, you are quite right! I am sorry I said allthat. You have done no end for me, and I am an ungrateful little beast. It is rather fine of you not to remind me of all the trouble you havetaken; there isn't anyone who would have done so much; and you havereally laid yourself out to do what I liked here. I am sorry, I amtruly sorry. I suppose I felt myself rather cock of the walk here, andam vexed that you have got the whole thing into your hands!"

"All right, " said Howard, "I entirely understand; and look here, I amglad you said what you did. You are not wholly wrong. I have interferedperhaps more than I ought; but you must believe me when I saythis--that it isn't with a managing motive. I like people to like me; Idon't want to direct them; only one can overdo trying to make peoplelike one, and I feel I have overdone it. I ought to have gone to workin a different way. "

"Well, I have put my foot in it again, " said Jack; "it's awful to thinkthat I have been lecturing one of the Dons about his duty. I shall betrying to brighten up their lives next. The mischief is that I don'tthink I do want people to like me. I am not affectionate. I only wantthings to go smoothly. "

They drew near to the Manor, and Jack said, "I promised Cousin Anne Iwould go in to tea. She has designs on me, that woman! She doesn'tapprove of me; she says the sharpest things in her quiet way; onehardly knows she has done it, and then when one thinks of itafterwards, one finds she has drawn blood. I am cross, I think! Thereseems to be rather a set at me just now; she makes me feel as if I werein bed, being nursed and slapped. "

"Well, " said Howard, "I shall leave you to her mercies. I shall go onto the Vicarage, and say good-bye. I shan't see them again this time. You don't mind, I hope? I will try not to use my influence. "

"You can't help it!" said Jack with a grimace. "No, do go. You willtouch them up a bit. I am not appreciated there just now. "

Howard walked on up to the Vicarage. He was rather disturbed by Jack'sremarks; it put him, he thought, in an odious light. Was he really sopriggish and Jesuitical? That was the one danger of the life of the Donwhich he hoped he had successfully avoided. He was all for liberty, heimagined. Was he really, after all, a mild schemer with an ethicaloutlook? Was he bent on managing and uplifting people? The ideasickened him, and he felt humiliated. 

When he arrived at the Vicarage, he found the Vicar out. Maud wasalone. This was, he confessed to himself with a strange delight, exactly what he most desired. He would not be paternal or formative. Hewould just make friends with his pretty cousin as he might with asensible undergraduate. With this stern resolve he entered the room. 

Maud got up hastily from her chair--she was writing in a littlenote-book on her knee. "I thought I would just come in and saygood-bye, " he said. "I have to go back to Cambridge earlier than Ithought, and I hoped I might just catch you and your father. "

"He will be so sorry, " said Maud; "he does enjoy meeting you. He saysit gives him so much to think about. "

"Oh, well, " said Howard, "I hope to be here again next vacation--inJune, that is. I have got to learn my duties here as soon as I can. Isee you are hard at work. Is that the book? How do you get on? You havepromised to send it me, you know, as soon as you have enough in hand. "

"Yes, " said Maud, "I will send it you. It has done me good already, doing this. It is very good of you to have suggested it--and I like tothink it may be of some use. "

"I have been with Jack all the afternoon, " said Howard, "and I amafraid he is rather vexed with me. I can't have that. He drew a ratherunpleasant picture of me; he seemed to think I have taken this placerather in hand from the Don's point of view. He thinks I should die ifI were unable to improve the occasion. "

Maud looked up at him with a troubled and rather indignant air. "Jackis perfectly horrid just now, " she said; "I can't think what has comeover him; and considering that you have been coaching him every day, and getting him shooting and fishing, it seems to me quite detestable!I oughtn't to say that; but you mustn't be angry with him, Mr. Kennedy. I think he is feeling very independent just now, and he said to me thatit made him feel that he was back at school to have to go up with hisbooks to the Manor every morning. But he is all right really. I am surehe is grateful; it would be too shameful if he were not. Please don'tbe vexed with him. "

Howard laughed. "Oh, I am not vexed! Indeed, I am rather glad he spokeout--at my age one doesn't often get the chance of being sincerelyscolded by a perfectly frank young man. One does get donnish andsuperior, no doubt, and it is useful to find it out, though it isn'tpleasant at the time. We have made it up, and he was quite repentant; Ithink it is altogether natural. It often happens with young men to getirritated with one, no doubt, but as a rule they don't speak out; andthis time he has got me between the joints of my armour. "

"Oh, dear me!" said Maud, "I think the world is rather a difficultplace! It seems ridiculous for me to say that in a place like this, when I think what might be happening if I were poor and had to earn myliving. It is silly to mind things so; but Jack accuses me of the samesort of thing. He says that women can't let people alone; he says thatwomen don't really want to DO anything, but only to SEEM to have theirway. "

"Well, then, it appears we are both in the same box, " said Howard, "andwe must console each other and grieve over being so much misunderstood. "

He felt that he had spoken rather cynically, and that he had somehowhurt and checked the girl. He did not like the thought; but he feltthat he had spoken sensibly in not allowing the situation to becomesentimental. There was a little silence; and then Maud said, rathertimidly: "Do you like going back?"

"No, " said Howard, "I don't. I have become curiously interested in thisplace, and I am lazy. Just now the life of the Don seems to me ratherintolerable. I don't want to teach Greek prose, I don't want to go tomeetings; I don't want to gossip about appointments, and littleintrigues, and bonfires, and College rows. I want to live here, andwalk on the Downs and write my book. I don't want to be stuffy, as Jacksaid. But it will be all right, when I have taken the plunge; and afterI have been back a week, this will all fade into a sort of impossiblypleasant dream. "

He was again conscious that he had somehow hurt the girl. She looked athim with a troubled face, and then said, "Yes, that is the advantagewhich men have. I sometimes wonder if it would not be better for me tohave some work away from here. But there is nothing I could do; and Ican't leave papa. "

"Oh, it will all come right!" said Howard feebly; "there are fiftythings that might happen. And now I must be off! Mind, you must let mehave the book some time; that will serve to remind me of Windlow in theintervals of Greek prose. "

He got up and shook hands. He felt he was behaving stupidly andunkindly. He had meant to tell Maud how much he liked the feeling ofhaving made friends, and to have talked to her frankly and simply abouteverything. He had an intense desire to say that and more; to make herunderstand that she was and would be in his thoughts; to ascertain howshe felt towards him; to assure himself of their friendship. But hewould be wise and prudent; he would not be sentimental or priggish orJesuitical. He would just leave the impression that he was mildlyinterested in Windlow, but that his heart was in his work. He feltsustained by his delicate consideration, and by his judiciouschilliness. And so he turned and left her, though an unreasonableimpulse seized him to take the child in his arms, and tell her howsweet and delicious she was. She had held the little book in her handas they sate, as if she had hoped he would ask to look at it; and as heclosed the door, he saw her put it down on the table with a half-sigh. 

XIII

GIVING AWAY

He was to go off the next day; that night he had his last talk to hisaunt. She said that she would say good-bye to him then, and that shehoped he would be back in June. She did not seem quite as serene asusual, but she spoke very affectionately and gently of the delight hisvisit had been. Then she said, "But I somehow feel--I can't give myreasons--as if we had got into a mess here. You are rather a disturbingclement, dear Howard! I may speak plainly to you now, mayn't I? I thinkyou have more effect on people than you know. You have upset us! I amnot criticising you, because you have exceeded all my hopes. But youare too diffident, and you don't realise your power of sympathy. Youare very observant, very quick to catch the drift of people's moods, and you are not at all formidable. You are so much interested in peoplethat you lead them to reveal themselves and to betray themselves; andthey don't find quite what they expect. You are afraid, I think, ofcaring for people; you want to be in close relation with everyone, andyet to preserve your own tranquillity. You are afraid of emotion; butone can't care for people like that! It doesn't cost you enough! Youare like a rich man who can afford to pay for things, and I think yourather pauperise people. Here you have been for three weeks; and nobodyhere will be able to forget you; and yet I think you may forget us. Onecan't care without suffering, and I think that you don't suffer. It isall a pleasure and delight to you. You win hearts, and don't give yourown. Don't think I am ungrateful. You have made a great differencealready to my life; but you have made me suffer too. I know that likeTelemachus in Tennyson's poem you will be 'decent not to fail inoffices of tenderness'--I know I can depend on you to do everythingthat is kind and considerate and just. You won't disappoint me. Youwill do out of a natural kindliness and courtesy what many people canonly do by loving. You don't claim things, you don't lay hands onthings; and it looks so like unselfishness that it seems detestable ofme to say anything. But you will have to give yourself away, and Idon't think you have ever done that. I can say all this, my dear, because I love you, as a mother might; you are my son indeed; but thereis something in you that will have to be broken; we have all of us tobe broken. It isn't that you have anything to repent of. You would takeendless trouble to help anyone who wanted help, you would be endlesslypatient and tender and strong; but you do not really know what lovemeans, because it does not hurt or wound you. You are like Achilles, was it not, who had been dipped in the river of death, and you areinvulnerable. You won't, I know, resent my saying this? I know youwon't--and the fact that you will not makes it harder for me to sayit--but I almost wish it WOULD wound you, instead of making you thinkhow you can amend it. You can't amend it, but God and love can; onlyyou must dare to let yourself go. You must not be wise and forbearing. There, dear, I won't say more!"

Howard took her hand and kissed it. "Thank you, " he said, "thank you ahundred times for speaking so. It is perfectly true, every word of it. It is curious that to-day I have seen myself three times mirrored inother minds. I don't like what I see--I am not complacent--I am notflattered. But I don't know what to do! I feel like a patient with ahopeless disease, who has been listening to a perfectly kind and wisephysician. But what can I do? It is just the vital impulse which islacking. I will be frank too; it is quite true that I live in thesurface of things. I am so much interested in books, ideas, thoughts, Iam fascinated by the study of human temperament; people delight me, excite me, amuse me; but nothing ever comes inside. I don't excusemyself, but I say: 'It is He that hath made us and not we ourselves. ' Iam just so, as you have described, and I feel what a hollow-heartedsort of person I am. Yet I go on amusing myself with friendships andinterests. I have never suffered, and I have never loved. Well, I wouldlike to change all that, but can I?"

"Ah, dear Howard, " said his aunt, "that is the everlasting question. Itis like you to take this all so sweetly and to speak so openly. Butfurther than this no one can help you. You are like the young man whomJesus loved who had great possessions. You do not know how much! I willnot tell you to follow Him; and your possessions are not those whichcan be given away. But you must follow love. I had a hope, I have ahope--oh, it is more than that, because we all find our way sooner orlater--and now that you know the truth, as I see you know it, the lightwill not be long in coming. God bless you, dearest child; there is painahead of you; but I don't fear that--pain is not the worst thing or thelast thing!"

XIV

BACK TO CAMBRIDGE

"I HAD a hope . . . I have a hope, " these words of his aunt's echoedoften through Howard's brain, in the wakeful night which followed. Nothing was plain to himself except the fact that things were tangled;the anxious exaltation which came to him from his talk with his auntcleared off like the dying away of the flush of some beaded liquor. "Imust see into this--I must understand what is happening--I mustdisentangle it, " he said again and again to himself. He was painfullyconscious, as he thought and thought, of his own deep lack both ofmoral courage and affection. He liked nothing that was not easy--easytriumph, easy relations. Somehow the threads of life had knottedthemselves up; he had slipped so lightly into his place here, he hadtaken up responsibilities as he might have taken up a flower; he hadmeant to be what he called frank and affectionate all round, and now hefelt that he was going to disappoint everyone. Not till the daylightbegan to outline the curtain-rifts did he fall asleep; and he woke withthat excited fatigue which comes of sleeplessness. 

He came down, he breakfasted alone in the early morning freshness. Thehouse was all illumined by the sun, but it spread its beauties in vainbefore him. The trap came to the door, and when he came out he found tohis surprise that Jack was standing on the steps talking to thecoachman. "I thought I would like to come to the station with you, "said Jack. Howard was pleased at this. They got in together, and one byone the scenes so strangely familiar fled past them. Howard looked longat the Vicarage as he passed, wondering whether Maud was perhapslooking out. That had been a clumsy, stupid business--his talk withher! Presently Jack said, "Look here, I am going to say again that Iwas perfectly hateful yesterday. I don't know what came over me--I wasthinking aloud. "

"Oh, it doesn't matter a bit!" said Howard; "it was my fault really. Ihave mismanaged things, I think; and it is good for me to find thatout. "

"No, but you haven't, " said Jack. "I see it all now. You came downhere, and you made friends with everyone. That was all right; the factsimply is that I have been jealous and mean. I expected to have you allto myself--to run you, in fact; and I was vexed at finding you take aninterest in all the others. There, it's better out. I am entirely inthe wrong. You have been awfully good all round, and we shall beprecious dull now that you are going. The truth is that we have beensquabbling over you. "

"Well, Jack, " said Howard, smiling, "it's very good of you to say this. I can't quite accept it, but I am very grateful. There WAS some truthin what you said--but it wasn't quite the whole truth; and anyhow youand I won't squabble--I shouldn't like that!"

Jack nodded and smiled, and they went on to talk of other things; butHoward was pleased to see that the boy hung about him, determined tomake up for his temper, looked after his luggage, saw him into thetrain, and waved him a very ingenuous farewell, with a pretence oftears. 

The journey passed in a listless dream for Howard, but everything fadedbefore the thought of Maud. What could he do to make up for hisbrutality? He could not see his way clear. He had a sense that it wasunfair to claim her affection, to sentimentalise; and he thought thathe had been doubly wrong--wrong in engaging her interest so quickly, wrong in playing on her unhappiness just for his own enjoyment, anddoubly wrong in trying to disengage their relation so roughly. It was amean business; and yet though he did not want to hold her, he could notbear to let her go. 

As he came near Cambridge and in sight of the familiar landscape, thewide fields, the low lines of far-off wolds, he was surprised to findthat instead of being depressed, a sense of comfort stole over him, anda feeling of repose. He had crammed too many impressions and emotionsinto his visit; and now he was going back to well-known and peacefulactivities. The sight of his rooms pleased him, and the foregatheringwith the three or four of his colleagues was a great relief. Mr. Redmayne was incisive and dogmatic, but evidently pleased to see himback. He had not been away, and professed that holidays and change ofscene were distracting and exhausting. "It takes me six weeks torecover from a holiday, " he said. He had had an old friend to stay withhim, a country parson, and he had apparently spent his time inelaborate manoeuvres to see as little of his guest as possible. "Aworthy man, but tedious, " he said, "wonderfully well preserved--inbody, that is; his mind has entirely gone to pieces; he has got somedismal notions in his head about the condition of the agriculturalpoor; he thinks they want uplifting! Now I am all for the duesubordination of classes. The poor are there, if I may speak plainly, to breed--that is their first duty; and their only other duty that Ican discover, is to provide for the needs of men of virtue andintelligence!"

Later on, Howard was left alone with him, and thought that it wouldplease the old man to tell him of the change in his own position. 

"I am delighted to hear it, " said Mr. Redmayne: "a landed proprietor, that's a very comfortable thing! Now how will that affect your positionhere? Ah yes, I see--only the heir-apparent at present. Well, you willprobably find that the estate has all been run on very sentimentallines by your worthy aunt. You take my advice, and put it all on abusiness-like footing. Let it be clear from the first that you won'tstand any nonsense. Ideas!" said Mr. Redmayne in high disdain, "that'sthe curse of the country. Ideas everywhere, about the empire, aboutcivic rights and duties, about religion, about art"--he made a longface as though he had swallowed medicine. "Let us all keep our distanceand do our work. Let us have no nonsense about the brotherhood of man. I hope with all my heart, Howard, that you won't permit anything ofthat kind. I don't feel as sure of you as I should like; but this willbe a very good thing for you, if it shows you that all this stuff willnot do in practice. I'm an honest Whig. Let everyone have a vote, andlet them give their votes for the right people, and then we shall geton very well. "

XV

JACK'S ESCAPADE

The college slowly filled; the term began; Howard went back to hiswork, and the perplexities of Windlow rather faded into the background. He would behave very differently when he went there next. It should allbe cool, friendly, unemotional. But in spite of everything, his aunt'swords came sometimes into his mind, troubling it with a sudden thrill. "Power, spirit, the development of life, "--were these real things, hadone somehow to put oneself into touch with them? Was the life of sereneand tranquil work but marking time, wasting opportunity? Had onesomehow to be stirred into action and reality? Was there something inthe background, which did not insist or drive or interfere with one'sinclinations, because it knew that it would be obeyed and yielded tosome time? Was it just biding its time, waiting, impelling but notforcing one to change? It gave him an impulse to look closer at his ownviews and aims, to consider what his motives really were, how far hecould choose, how much he could prevail, to what extent he could reallydo as he hoped and desired. He was often haunted by a sense of livingin a mechanical unreality, of moving simply on lines of easy habit. That was a tame, a flat business, perhaps; but it was what seemed tohappen. 

And yet all the time he was more and more haunted by the thought ofMaud. He could not get her out of his head. Over and over again helived through the scenes of their meetings. Against the background ofthe dusk, that slender figure outlined itself, the lines of her form, her looks, her smiles; he went again and again through his talks withher--the walk on the down, the sight of her in the dimly-lighted room;he could hear the very tones of her low voice, and see the childlikeappeal of her eyes. Worst of all the scene at the Vicarage, the bookheld in her slender fingers, her look of bewilderment anddistress--what a pompous ass he had been, how stupid and coarse! Hethought of writing to her; he did write--but the dignified patronage ofhis elder-brotherly style sickened him, and he tore up his unfinishedletter. Why could he not simply say that he cared for her, and wasmiserable at having hurt her? That was just, he thought, what he mustnot do; and yet the idea that she might be making other friends andacquaintances was a jealous horror to him. He thought of writing to hisaunt about it--he did write regularly to her, but he could not explainwhat he had done. Strangest of all, he hardly recognised it as love. Hedid not face the idea of a possible life with Maud. It was to be anamiable and brotherly relation, with a frank confidence and anoutspoken affection. He lost his old tranquil spirits in thesereveries. It was painful to him to find how difficult it was becomingto talk to the undergraduates; his mild and jocose ironies seemed tohave deserted him. He saw little of Jack; they were elaboratelyunaffected with each other, but each felt that there had been a sort ofexposure, and it seemed impossible to regain the old relation. 

One morning he had an unpleasant surprise. The Dean of the College, Mr. Gretton, a tall, rather grimly handsome man, who was immenselyconscientious and laborious, and did his work as well as a virtuous mancould, who was not interested in education, and frankly bored by theirresponsibility of undergraduates, walked into his rooms one morningand said, "I hope I don't interrupt you? I want to have a word with youabout Sandys, as he is your cousin. There was a dinner in College lastnight--a club, I think--Guthrie and that lot--and Sandys got undeniablydrunk. They were making a horrible row about two o'clock, and I wentdown and dispersed them. There were some outside men there whose namesI took; but Sandys was quite out of control, and spoke veryimpertinently to me. He must come and apologise, or I shall ask that hemay be sent down. He is a respectable man on the whole, so I shall notpush it to extremes. But he will be gated, of course, and I shall writeto his father. I thought you had better see him, and try if you can doanything. It is a great nuisance, and the less said about it thebetter; but of course we can't stand this kind of thing, and it hadbetter be stopped at once. "

"Yes, I will see him at once, " said Howard. "I am very sorry. I did notthink he would play the fool like that. "

"One never knows!" said the Dean; "to speak plainly, I don't think heis doing much good here. Rather too much a man of the world for mytaste. But there is nothing particular against him, and I don't want tobe hard on him. "

Howard sent for Jack at once. He came in, in an obviously rebelliousframe of mind. 

"I know, " he said. "Yes, of course I was a fool; but it isn't worthmaking a row about. I don't go in for soaking, like some of the men whodon't get caught, and I have no intention of going to the bad, if thatis what you mean. "

"You are an ass!" said Howard, "a real ass! Now don't say a word yet, till I have told you what I think. You may have your say afterwards. Idon't care twopence about your getting drunk once in a way. It's astupid thing to do, to my mind, and I don't see the point of it. Idon't consider you a reprobate, nor am I going to take a high lineabout drunkenness; I know perfectly well that you are no more likely totake to drink than the Master is. But it isn't good enough. You putyourself on the wrong side, you give people a wrong idea of yourself. You get disapproved of by all the stupid and ordinary people who don'tknow you. Your father will be in an awful state of mind. It's anexperiment, I suppose? I imagine you thought you would like to see howit felt to be drunk? Well, living at close quarters like this, thatsort of thing can't be done. And then you were rude to Gretton. What'sthe point of that? He is a very good fellow, minds his own business, doesn't interfere, and keeps things very straight here. That part of itseems to me simply ungentlemanly. And in any case, you have no businessto hurt the people who care for you, even if you think they ought notto be distressed. I don't say it is immoral, but I say it is a lowbusiness from beginning to end. "

Jack, who bore signs of his overnight experience, gave Howard a smile. "That's all right!" he said. "I don't object to that! You have rathertaken the wind out of my sails. If you had said I was a sensual brute, I should have just laughed. It is such NONSENSE the way these men goon! Why I was lunching with Gretton the other day, and Corry told astory about Wordsworth as an undergraduate getting drunk in Milton'srooms at Christ's, and how proud the old man was of it to the end ofhis life. Gretton laughed, and thought it a joke; and then when onegets roaring drunk, they turn up their eyes and say it is unmanly andso on. Why can't they stick to one line? If you go to bump-suppers anddinners, and just manage to carry your liquor, they think you a goodsort of fellow, with no sort of nonsense about you--'a little naturalboyish excitement'--you know the sort of rot. One glass more, and youare among the sinners. "

"I know, " said Howard, "and I perceive that I have had the benefit ofyour thought-out oration after all!"

Jack smiled rather sheepishly, and then said, "Well, what's to be done?Am I to be sent down?"

"Not if you do the right thing, " said Howard. "You must just go toGretton and say you are very sorry you got drunk, and still more sorryyou were impertinent. If you can contrive to show him that you thinkhim a good fellow, and are really vexed to have been such a bounder, somuch the better. That I leave to your natural eloquence. But you willbe gated, and he will write to your father. "

Jack whistled. "I say, can't you stop that?" he said. "Father will befearfully upset. "

"No, I can't, " said Howard, "and I wouldn't if I could. This is themusic, and you have got to face it. "

"Very well, " said Jack rather glumly, "I suppose I must pay the score. I'll go and grovel to Gretton. I was simply beastly to him. My franknature expanded in his presence. "

Howard laughed. "Well, be off with you!" he said. "And I will tell youwhat. I will write to your father, and tell him what I think. "

"Then it will be all right, " said Jack, greatly relieved. "Anything tostop the domestic howl. I'll write too. After all, it is ratherconvenient to have a cousin among the Dons; and, anyhow, you have hadyour innings now. I was a fool, I admit. It won't happen again. "

Howard wrote at once to the Vicar, and was rewarded by a long andgrateful letter. "It is a disreputable affair, " he wrote, "and it hasupset me very much, and Maud even more. But you have put it in theright light, and I am very grateful to you for your good offices. Icouldn't have believed it of Jack, but I look back to dear oldPembroke, and I remember there was one occasion--but I need not reviveancient memories, and I am sufficiently versed in human nature not towaste indignation over a boyish escapade. I have ventured to addressletters to Mr. Gretton and the Master on the subject, apologising forJack's misdemeanour, and saying how much I appreciate the excellence ofthe tone that prevails in the College. "

What, however, pleased Howard still more was that Gretton spoke to himafter Hall and said, "I am much obliged to you, Kennedy, for yourprompt action. Sandys came and apologised to me in a very propermanner, and entirely removed the disagreeable impression from my mind. I owe this to your kindly intervention; and I must honestly say that Ithought well of Sandys. He did not attempt to excuse himself, or toextenuate his fault. He showed very good feeling, and I believe thathenceforth his influence will be on the side of order. I was reallypleased with him. "

Howard spoke to Jack again the following day, and said he was glad hehad done the thing thoroughly. 

"Thoroughly?" said Jack; "I should think I did. I fairly licked the oldman's boots. We had quite an affecting scene. I rather think he gave mehis blessing, and I went away feeling that I had been almostrecommended to repeat my performance. Gretton's a sensible man. This isa good College. The thing would have been mismanaged anywhere else; butnow I have not only an unblemished character, but I am like gold triedin the furnace. "

"One more thing, " said Howard; "why not get your people to come up fortwo or three days? It will clear off the whole affair. I think theywould like to be asked, and I should be very glad to help to look afterthem. "

"It will be a bore, " said Jack, making a grimace; "it wrecks my healthto take people round to King's and Trinity. It simply knocks me up; butI expect you are right, and I will ask them. You won't fail me? When Igo off duty, you will go on? If that is clearly understood, they shallcome. I know Maud would like to realise my background, as she says; andmy father will rush to the 'Varsity Library, and break the spirit ofthe Pemmer Dons. He'll have the time of his life; but he deserves atreat--he really wrote me a very decent letter. By George, though, these emotional experiences are not in my line, though they reveal theworth of suffering, as the Chaplain said in his Hospital Sermon lastSunday. "

Howard wrote a further note, saying that he hoped that Mr. Sandys andMaud would be able to come; and it was soon arranged that they shouldspend the inside of a week at Cambridge, before the May week, as theVicar said he had little taste for social pleasures, and had somematters of considerable importance to turn up in the Library, to saynothing of the intellectual stimulus he anticipated. 

XVI

THE VISIT

THE visit began on the usual lines of such visits, the home team, so tospeak--Howard and Jack--having to fit a round of festivities into alife which under normal circumstances was already, if anything, toofull, with the result that, at all events, Howard's geniality wastense, and tended to be forced. Only in youth can one abandon oneselfto high spirits; as one grows older one desires more to contemplateone's own mirth, and assure oneself that it is genuine. 

Jack met them at the station, and they had tea in his rooms, Howardrefusing firmly to come. 

"You must just give them a chance of a private word or two!" he said. 

"Why, that's exactly what I want to avoid!" said Jack. "Besides, myfamily is never private--we haven't any company manners. But I expectyou are right. Father will want one innings, and I think it's fair heshould have it!"

They were, however, to dine with Howard, who, contrary to his wont, lavished some care on flowers and decorations, to make the placeunobtrusively pretty and home-like, and he determined that he would beas quiet and straightforward as he could, but promised himself at leastone afternoon with Maud strolling round the place. But this was all tohappen as if by chance, and with no scheming or diplomacy. 

They came; and Howard saw at once that Maud was timid and somewhat outof spirits; she looked tired, and this, so far from diminishing hercharm, seemed to Howard to make it almost intolerably appealing to him. He would have desired to take her in his arms, like a child, to pet andcaress her into happiness. Jack was evidently feeling the weight of hisresponsibilities, and was frankly bored; but never had Howard been moregrateful for Mr. Sandys' flow of spirits than he was that evening. Mr. Sandys was thirsting for experience and research, and he was also in astate of jubilant sentimentality about Cambridge and his oldrecollections. He told stories of the most unemphatic kind in the mostemphatic way, and Howard was amused at the radiant hues with which thelapse of time had touched the very simplest incidents of his career. Mr. Sandys had been, it seemed, a terrible customer atCambridge--disobedient, daring, incisive, the hero of hiscontemporaries, the dread of the authorities; but all this onhigh-minded lines. Moreover, he had brought with him a note-book ofqueries, to be settled in the Library; while he had looked up in thelist of residents everyone with whom he had been in the remotest degreeacquainted, and a long vista of calls opened out before him. It was avery delightful evening to Howard, in spite of everything, simplybecause Maud was there; and he found himself extraordinarily consciousof her presence, observant of all she said and did, glad that her eyesshould rest upon his familiar setting; and when they sat afterwards inhis study and smoked, he saw that her eyes travelled with a curiousintentness over everything--his books, his papers, his furniture. Hehad no private talk with her; but he was glad just to meet her glanceand hear her low replies--glad too to find that, as the evening woreon, she seemed less distraite and tired. 

They went off early, Mr. Sandys pleading fatigue for Maud, and thenecessity for himself of a good night's rest, that he might ride forthon the following day conquering and to conquer. 

The next day they lunched with Jack. When Howard came into the room hewas not surprised to find that two undergraduates had beenasked--Jack's chief allies. One was a big, good-humoured young man, whowas very shy and silent; the other was one Fred Guthrie, who was one ofthe nicest men in the College; he was a Winchester boy, son of abaronet, a Member of Parliament, wealthy and distinguished. Guthrie hada large allowance, belonged to all the best clubs, played cricket withthe chance of a blue ahead of him, and had, moreover, a real socialgift. He had a quite unembarrassed manner and, what is rare in a youngman, a strong sense of humour. He was a prominent member of the A. D. C. , and had a really artistic gift of mimicry; but there was no touchof forwardness or conceit about him. He had been in for someexamination or other; and when Howard came in he was describing hisexperiences. "What sort of questions?" he was saying. "Oh, you know thekind--an awful quotation, followed by the question, 'Who said this, andunder what circumstances, and why did they let him?'" He made himselfentirely at home, he talked to Mr. Sandys as if he were welcoming anold family friend, and he was evidently much attracted by Maud, whofound it remarkably easy to talk to this pleasant and straightforwardboy. He described with much liveliness an interview between Jack andthe Master on the subject of reading the lessons in chapel, andimitated the suave tones of that courteous old gentleman to the life. "Far be it from me to deny it was dramatic, Mr. Sandys, but I shouldprefer a slightly more devotional tone. " He related with greatgood-humour how a heavy, well-meaning, and rather censoriousundergraduate had waited behind in his room on an evening when he hadbeen entertaining the company with some imitations, and had said, "Youare fond of imitating people, Guthrie, and you do it a great deal; butyou ought to say who it is you are imitating, because one can't bequite sure!"

Mr. Sandys was immensely amused by the young man, and had related someof his own experiences in elocution--how his clerk on the firstoccasion of reading the lesson at Windlow was reported to have said, "Why, you might think he had been THERE, in a manner of speaking. "

Guthrie was not in the least concerned to keep the conversation in hisown hands, and received Mr. Sandys' stories with exactly the rightamount of respectful interest and amusement. But the result of all thisupon Howard was to make him feel extraordinarily heavy and elderly. Hefelt that he and Mr. Sandys were the make-weights of the party, and hewas conscious that his own contributions were wanting in liveliness. 

Maud was extraordinarily amused by the bits of mimicry that came in, because it was so well done that it inspired everyone with the feelingthat mimicry was the one art worth practising; and Mr. Sandys himselflaunched into dialect stories, in which Somersetshire rustics began bysaying, "Hoots, mon!" and ended by saying, "The ould divil hissilf. "

After luncheon it became clear that Jack had given up the afternoon asa bad job, and suggested that they should all go down to the river. Therowing man excused himself, and Howard followed his example, pleadingoccupation of a vague kind. Mr. Sandys was enchanted at the prospect, and they went off in the charge of Guthrie, who was free, promising toreturn and have tea in his rooms. Guthrie, who was a friend ofHoward's, included him in the invitation, but Howard said that he couldnot promise, but would look in if he could. 

As a matter of fact, he went out for a lonely walk, ashamed of himselffor his stupidity. He could not put himself in the position, hedismally thought, of competing for Maud's attention. 

He walked off round by Madingley, hardly aware of what road he wastaking. By the little chalk-pit just outside the village a rustic pair, a boy and girl, stood sheepishly clasped in a dull and silent embrace. Howard, to whom public exhibitions of emotion were distasteful, walkedswiftly by with averted eyes, when suddenly a poignant thought came onhim, causing him to redden up to the roots of his hair, and walk fasterthan ever. It was this, then, that was the matter with him--he was inlove, he was jealous, he was the victim of the oldest, simplest, commonest, strongest emotion of humanity. His eyes were opened. How hadhe not seen it before? His broodings over the thought of Maud, thestrange disturbance that came on him in her presence, that absurddesire to do or say something impressive, coupled with that wretcheddiffidence that kept him silent and helpless--it was love! He becamehalf dizzy with the thought of what it all meant; and at the sameinstant, Maud seemed to recede from him as something impossibly pure, sweet, and unapproachable. All that notion of a paternal closefriendship--how idiotic it was! He wanted her, at every moment, toshare every thought with her, to claim every thought of hers, to seeher, to clasp her close; and then at the same moment came the terribledisillusionment; how was he, a sober, elderly, stiff-mindedprofessional person, to recommend himself? What was there in him thatany girl could find even remotely attractive--his middle-aged habits, his decorous and conventional mind, his clumsy dress, his grizzledhair? He felt of himself that he was ravaged with age and decrepitude, and yet in his folly he had suggested this visit, and he had thrown thegirl he loved out of her lonely life, craving for sympathy andinterest, into a set of young men all apt for passion and emotion. Thethought of Guthrie with his charm, his wealth, his aplomb, fell cold onhis heart. Howard's swift imagination pictured the mutual attraction ofthe two, the enchanting discoveries, the laughing sympathy. Guthriewould, no doubt, come down to Windlow. It was exactly the kind of matchthat Mr. Sandys would like for Maud; and this was to be the end of thistragic affair. How was he to endure the rest of the days of the visit?This was Tuesday, and they were not to go till Saturday; and he wouldhave to watch the budding of a romance which would end in his choosingMaud a wedding-present, and attending at Windlow Church in thecharacter of the middle-aged squire, beaming through his glasses on theyoung people. 

In such abject reflections the walk passed away. He crept into Collegeby the side-entrance, settled down to his evening work with grimtenacity, and lost himself in desperate imaginings of all the pleasantthings that might be happening to the party. They were to dine at arestaurant, he believed, and probably Guthrie would be free to jointhem. 

Late that night Jack looked in. "Is anything the matter?" he said. "Whydidn't you come to Guthrie's? Look here, you are going to play fair, aren't you? I can't do all the entertaining business myself. I reallymust have a day off to-morrow, and get some exercise. "

"All right, " said Howard, "I'll take them on. Suppose you bring them toluncheon here. And I will tell you what I will do. I will beresponsible for to-morrow afternoon. Then on Thursday you shall comeand dine here again; and on Friday I will try to get the Master tolunch--that will smooth things over a bit. "

"Thanks very much, " said Jack; "that's splendid! I wish we hadn't letourselves in for quite so much. I'm not fit to lead a double life likethis. I'm sure I don't grudge them their outing, but, by George, Ishall be glad to see the last of them, and I daresay you will be too. It's the hardest work I've had for a long time. "

The two came and lunched with Howard. After luncheon he said, "Now, Iam absolutely free to-day--Jack has got a lawn-tennis match on--whatshall we do?"

"Well, " said Mr. Sandys genially, "I will be entirely selfish for once. I have come on the track of some very important matters in the Library, and I see they are going to take up my time. And then I am going in tohave a cup of tea at Pembroke with the Dean, an old friend of mine. There, I make no excuses! I did suggest to Herries that I had adaughter with me; but he rather pointedly didn't ask her. Women are notin his line, and he will like a quiet talk with me. Now, what do yousay to that, Howard?"

"Well, if Miss Maud will put up with me, " said Howard, "we will strollabout, and we might go to King's Chapel together. I should like to showher that, and we will go to see Monica Graves, and get some tea there. "

"Give Monica my love, " said Mr. Sandys, "and make what excuses you can. Better tell her the truth for once! I will try to look in upon herbefore I go. "

Maud assented very eagerly and gratefully. They walked together to theLibrary, and Mr. Sandys bolted in like a rabbit into its hole. Howardwas alone with her. 

She was very different, he thought, from what she had seemed that firstnight. She was alert, smiling, delighted with everything and everybodyabout the place. "I think it is all simply enchanting!" she said; "onlyit makes me long to go to Newnham. I think men do have a better timethan women; and, what is more, no one here seems to have anythingwhatever to do!"

"That's only our unselfishness, " said Howard. "We get no credit! Thinkof all the piles of papers that are accumulating on my table. The otherday I entertained with all the virtue and self-sacrifice at my commanda party of working-men from the East end of London at luncheon in myrooms, and took them round afterwards. They knew far more than I didabout the place, and I cut a very poor figure. At the end theSecretary, meaning to be very kind to me, said that he was glad to haveseen a glimpse of the cultured life. 'It is very beautiful anddistinguished, ' he added, 'but we of the democracy shall not allow itto continue. It is always said that the Dons have nothing to do but toread and sip their wine, and I am glad to see it all for myself. Tothink of all these endowments being used like this! Not but what we arevery grateful to you for your kindness!'"

They strolled about. Cambridge is not a place that puts itscharacteristic beauties in the forefront. Some of the most charmingthings lurk unsuspected beyond dark entries and behind sombre walls. They penetrated little mouldering courts; they looked into dim andstately halls and chapels; they stood long on the bridge of Clare, gazing at that incomparable front, with all the bowery gardens andwillow-shaded walks, like Camelot, beside the slow, terraced stream. 

It was a tortured kind of delight for Howard to feel the girl besidehim; but she showed no wish to talk intimately or emotionally. Sheasked many questions, and he could see that she drank in eagerly thebeauty of the place, understanding its charm in a moment. They went into see Monica, who was in a mood of dry equanimity, and rallied Howardon the success of his visit to Windlow. "I hear you entered on thescene like a fairy prince, " she said, "and charmed an estate out ofCousin Anne in the course of a few hours. Isn't he magnificent, Maud?You mustn't think he is a typical Don: he is quite one of our brightestflowers. "

"When am I to come again to Windlow?" she added; "I suppose I must askHoward's leave now? He told me, you know, " she said to Maud, "that hewanted a change--he was bored with his work; so I abandoned Aunt Anneto him; and he set up his flag in a moment. There are no diplomatistslike these cultured and unworldly men, Maud! It was noble of me to doas I did. If I had exercised my persuasion on Aunt Anne, and keptHoward away, I believe she would have turned over Windlow to me, and Iwould have tried a social experiment there. It's just the place for aninebriate home; no public-houses, and plenty of fine spring water. "

Maud was immensely amused by Monica. Howard contented himself by sayingthat he was much misinterpreted; and presently they went off to King'stogether. 

Maud was not prepared for King's Chapel, and indeed the tame, ratherclumsy exterior gives very little hint of the wonders within. 

When they passed the swing-door, and saw the fine soaring lines leadingto the exquisite intricacies of the roof, the whole air full of richcolour; the dark carved screen, with the gleaming golden trumpets ofthe angels on the organ, Howard could see her catch her breath, andgrow pale for an instant at the crowded splendour of the place. 

They sat in the nave; and when the thin bell died down, and thefootsteps passed softly by, and the organ uttered its melodious voiceas the white-robed procession moved slowly in, Howard could see thatthe girl was almost overcome by the scene. She looked at him once witha strange smile, a smile which he could not interpret; and as theservice slowly proceeded--to Howard little more than a draught of sweetsensation--he could see that Maud was praying earnestly, deeply, forsome consecration of hope and strength which he could not divine orguess at. 

As they came away, she hardly spoke--she seemed tired and almost raptout of herself. She just said, "Ah, I am glad I came here with you. Ishall never forget this as long as I live--it is quite beyond words. "

He took her back to the lodgings where they were staying. She shookhands with him, smiled faintly, almost tearfully, and went in without aword. Howard went back in a very agitated frame of mind. He did notunderstand what was in the girl's mind at all. She was different, utterly different. Some new current of thought had passed through hermind. He fancied that the girl, after her secluded life, with so manyrichly perceptive faculties half starved, had awakened almost suddenlyto a sense of the crowded energies and joys of life, that youth anddelight had quickened in her; that she foresaw new relations, andguessed at wonderful secrets. But it troubled him to think that she hadnot seemed to wish to revive their former little intimacy; she hadseemed half unconscious of his presence, and all alive with newpleasures and curiosities. The marvellous veil of sex appeared to havefallen between them. He had made friends with her, as he would havemade friends with some ingenuous boy; and now something wholly new, mysterious, and aloof had intervened. 

The rest of the visit was uneventful enough. Maud was different--thatwas plain--not less delightful, indeed even more so, in her bafflingfreshness; but Howard felt removed from her, shut out from her mind, kept at arm's length, even superseded. 

The luncheon with the Master as guest was a success. He was an oldbachelor clergyman, white-haired, dainty, courteous, with thecomplexion of a child. He was very gracious to Mr. Sandys, who regardedhim much as he might have regarded the ghost of Isaiah, as a spirit whovisited the earth from some paradisiacal retreat, and brought with hima fragrance of heaven. The thought of a Doctor of Divinity, the Head ofa College, full of academical learning, and yet perfectly courteous andaccessible, filled Mr. Sandys' cup of romance to the brim. He seemed tobe storing his memory with the Master's words. The Master was delightedwith Maud, and treated her with a charming and indulgent gaiety, whichHoward envied. He asked her opinion, he deferred to her, he made hercome and sit next to him, he praised Jack and Howard, and at the end ofthe luncheon he filled Mr. Sandys with an almost insupportable delightby saying that the next time he could visit Cambridge he hoped he wouldstay at the Lodge--"but not unless you will promise to bring MissSandys as well--Miss Sandys is indispensable. " Howard felt indeedgrateful to the gallant and civil old man, who had so clear an eye forwhat was tender and beautiful. Even Jack, when the Master departed, wasforced to say that he did not know that the old man had so much bloodin him!

That night Mr. Sandys finished up his princely progress by dining inHall with the Fellows, and going to the Combination Room afterwards. Hewas not voluble, as Howard had expected. He was overcome withdeference, and seized with a desire to bow in all directions at thesmallest civility. He sat next to the Vice-Master, and Mr. Redmaynetreated him to an exhibition of the driest fireworks on record. Mr. Sandys assented to everything, and the number of times that heexclaimed "True, true! admirably said!" exceeded belief. He said toHoward afterwards that the unmixed wine of intellect had proved apotent beverage. "One must drink it down, " he said, "and trust toassimilating it later. It has been a glorious week for me, my dearHoward, thanks to you! Quite rejuvenating indeed! I carry away with mea precious treasure of thought--just a few notes of suggestive trainsof inquiry have been scribbled down, to be dealt with at leisure. Butit is the atmosphere, the rarefied atmosphere of high thought, whichhas braced and invigorated me. It has entirely obliterated from my mindthat odious escapade of Jack's--so judiciously handled! The kindness ofthese eminent men, these intellectual giants, is profoundly touchingand inspiring. I must not indeed hope to trespass on it unduly. YourMaster--what a model of self-effacing courtesy--your Vice-Master--whata fine, rugged, uncompromising nature; and the rest of yourcolleagues"--with a wave of his hand--"what an impression of reservedand restrained force it all gives one! It will often sustain me, " saidthe good Vicar in a burst of confidence, "in my simple labours, tothink of all this tide of unaffected intellectual life ebbing andflowing so tranquilly and so systematically in old alma mater! The wayin which you have laid yourself out to entertain me is indeedgratifying. If there is a thing I reverence it is intellect, especiallywhen it is framed in modesty and courtesy. "

Howard went with him to his lodgings, and just went in to say good-byeto Maud. Jack had been dining with her, but he was gone. He and Guthriewere going to the station to give them a send-off. "A charming youngfellow, Guthrie!" said Mr. Sandys. "He has been constantly with us, andit is very pleasant to find that Jack has such an excellent friend. Hisfather is, I believe, a man of wealth and influence? You would hardlyhave guessed it! That a young man of that sort should have given up somuch time to entertaining a country parson and his daughter is reallyvery gratifying--a sign of the growing humanity of the youth ofEngland. I fear we should not have been so tolerant at dear oldPembroke. I like your young men, Howard. They are unduly careless, Ithink, about dress; but in courtesy and kindness, irreproachable!"

Howard only had a few words with Maud, of a very commonplace kind. Shehad enjoyed herself very much, and it was good of him to have given upso much time to them. She seemed to him reserved and preoccupied, andhe could not do anything to restore the old sense of friendship. He wastired himself; it had been a week of great strain. Far from getting anynearer to Maud, he felt that he had drifted away from her, and thatsome intangible partition kept them apart. The visit, he felt, had beena mistake from beginning to end. 

XVII

SELF-SUPPRESSION

As soon as the term was over, Howard went down to Windlow. He was in avery unhappy frame of mind. He could not capitulate; but the more thathe thought, the more that he tried to analyse his feelings, the morecomplex they became. It really seemed to him at times as if twoperfectly distinct people were arguing within him. He was afraid oflove; his aim had always been to simplify his life as far as possible, and to live in a serene and cheerful spirit, for the day and in theday. His work, his relations with colleagues and pupils, had all amusedand interested him; he had cared for people, he had many friends; butit was all a cool, temperate, unimpassioned kind of caring. People haddrifted in and out of his life; with his frank and easy manner, hisexcellent memory for the characteristics and the circumstances ofothers, it had been easy for him to pick up a relationship where he hadlaid it down; but it was all a very untroubled business, and no one hadever really entered into his life; he did not like dropping people, andtook some trouble by means of letters to keep up communication with hisold pupils; but his friendships had never reached the point at whichthe loss of a friend would have been a severe blow. He felt that he wasalways given credit for more affection than he possessed, and this hadmade him careful not to fail in any duty of friendship. He was alwaysready to take trouble, to advise, to help his old pupils in theircareers; but it had been done more from a sense of courtesy than fromany deeper motive. 

Now, however, it was very different; he felt himself wholly preoccupiedby the thought of Maud; and he found himself looking into the secret oflove, as a man might gaze from a hill-top into a chasm where the rockyridges plunged into mist, doubting of his way, and mistrusting his ownstrength to pursue the journey. He did not know what the quality of hislove was; he recognised an intense kind of passion, but when he lookedbeyond that, and imagined himself wedded to Maud, what was the emotionthat would survive the accomplishment of his desires? Would he findhimself longing for the old, comfortable, isolated life again? did hewish his life to be inextricably intertwined with the life of another?He was not sure. He had a dread of having to concede an absoluteintimacy, he wished to give only as much as he chose; and then, too, hetold himself that he was too old to marry so young a girl, and that shewould be happier if she could find a more equal partner for her life. Yet even so the thought of yielding her to another sickened him. Hebelieved that she had been attracted by Guthrie, and that he had but tohold his hand and keep his distance, and the relation might broadeninto marriage. He wondered if love could begin so, so easily andsimply. He would like to have believed it could not, yet it was just sothat love did begin! And then, too, he did not know what was the natureof Maud's feelings to himself. He thought that she had been attractedto him, but in a sisterly sort of way; that he had come across her whenshe was feeling cramped and dissatisfied, and that a friendship withhim had seemed to offer her a chance of expansion and interest. 

He often thought of telling the whole story to his aunt; but like manypeople who seem extraordinarily frank about their feelings and fancies, and speak easily even of their emotions, he found himself condemned tosilence about any emotion or experience that had any serious or tragicquality. Most people would have thought him communicative, and evenlacking in reticence. But he knew in himself that it was not so; hecould speak of his intimate ideas very readily upon slightacquaintance, because they were not to him matters of deep feeling; butthe moment that they really moved him, he felt absolutely dumb andtongue-tied. 

He established himself at Windlow, and became at once aware that hisaunt perceived that there was something amiss. She gave himopportunities of speaking to her, but he could not take them. He shrankwith a painful dumbness from displaying his secret wound. It seemed tohim undignified and humiliating to confess his weakness. He hopedvaguely that the situation would solve itself, and spare him thenecessity of a confession. 

He tried to occupy himself in his book, but in vain. Now that he wasconfronted with a real and urgent dilemma, the origins of religionseemed to him to have no meaning or interest. He did not feel that theyhad any bearing whatever upon life; and his pain seemed to infect allhis perceptions. The quality of beauty in common things, thehill-shapes, the colour of field and wood, the lights of dawn and eve, the sailing cloud, the tints of weathered stone, the old house in itsembowered garden, with the pure green lines of the down above, had nocharm or significance for him any more. Again and again he said tohimself, "How beautiful that would be, if I could but feel it to beso!" He saw, as clearly and critically as ever, the pleasant forms andhues and groupings of things, but it was dull and savourless, while allthe attractive ideas that sprang up like flowers in his mind, the happytrains of thought, in which some single fancy ramified and extendeditself into unsuspected combinations and connections, these all seemedhardly worth recognising or pursuing. He found himself listless anddistracted, just able by an effort to talk, to listen, to exchangethoughts, but utterly without any zest or energy. 

Jack had gone off for a short visit, and Howard was thus left mostlyalone. He went once or twice to the Vicarage, but found Mr. Sandys anunmixed trial; there seemed something wholly puerile about his absurdenergies and activities. The only boon of his society was that heexpected no reply to his soliloquies. Maud was there too, a distantgraceful figure; but she, too, seemed to have withdrawn into her ownthoughts, and their talk was mostly formal. Yet he was painfully andacutely conscious of her presence. She, too, seemed to be clouded andsad. He found himself unable to talk to her unconstrainedly. He couldonly dumbly watch her; she appeared to avert her eyes from him; and yethe drew from these meetings an infinite series of pictures, which wereas if engraved upon his brain. She became for him in these days like alily drooping in a shadowed place and in a thunderous air; somethingfading away mutely and sorrowfully, like the old figure of Mariana inthe Grange, looking wearily through listless hours for something whichhad once beckoned to her with a radiant gesture, but which did notreturn. There were brighter hours, when in the hot July days a littlepeace fell on him, a little sense of the fragrance and beauty of theworld. He took to long and solitary walks on the down in search ofbodily fatigue. There was one day in particular which he longremembered, when he had gone up to the camp, and sate in the shade ofthe thicket on the crisp turf, looking out over the valley, unutterablyquiet and peaceful in the hot air. The trees were breathlessly still;the hamlet roofs peeped out above the orchards, the hot air quivered onthe down. There were little figures far below moving about the fields. It all looked lost in a sweetness of serene repose; and the thoughtsthat had troubled him rose with a bitter poignancy, that was almost aphysical pain. The contrast between the high summer, the rich life ofherb and tree, and his own weary and arid thoughts, fell on him like aflash. Would it not be better to die, to close one's eyes upon it all, to sink into silence, than thus to register the awful conflict of willand passion with the tranquil life that could not surrender its dreamsof peace? What did he need and desire? He could not tell; he feltalmost a hatred of the slender, quiet girl, with her sweet look, herdelicate hands, her noiseless movements. She had made no claim, she didnot come in radiant triumph, with impressive gestures and strongcommanding influences into his life; she had not even cried outpassionately, demanded love, displayed an urgent need; there had beennothing either tragic or imperious, nothing that called for instantsolution; she was just a girl, sweet, wayward, anxious-minded, living atrivial, simple, sheltered life. What had given her this awful powerover him, which seemed to have rent and shattered all his tranquilcontentment, and yet had offered no splendid opportunity, claimed noall-absorbing devotion, no magnificent sacrifice? It was a sort ofmonstrous spell, a magical enchantment, which had thus made havoc ofall his plans and gentle schemes. Life, he felt, could never be thesame for him again; he was in the grip of a power that made light ofhuman arrangements. The old books were full of it; they had spoken ofsome hectic mystery, that seized upon warriors and sages alike, wastedtheir strength, broke their energies, led them into crime and sorrow. He had always rather despised the pale and hollow-eyed lovers of theold songs, and thought of them as he might think of men indulging in abaneful drug which filched away all manful prowess and vigour. It waslike La Belle Dame sans merci after all, the slender faring child, whose kiss in the dim grotto had left the warrior 'alone and palelyloitering, ' burdened with sad thoughts in the wintry land. And yet hecould not withstand it. He could see the reasonable and sensiblecourse, a placid friendship, a long life full of small duties and quietlabours;--and then the thought of Maud would come across him, with hershining hair, her clear eyes, holding a book, as he had seen her lastin the Vicarage, in her delicate hands, and looking out into the gardenwith that troubled inscrutable look; and all the prudent considerationsfell and tumbled together like a house of cards, and he felt as thoughhe must go straight to her and fall before her, and ask her to give hima gift the very nature of which he did not know, her girlish self, herlightly-ranging mind, her tiny cares and anxieties, her virginalheart--for what purpose? he did not know; just to be with her, to claspher close, to hear her voice, to look into her eyes, to discourse withher some hidden secret of love. A faint sense of some infinite beautyand nearness came over him which, if he could win it, would put thewhole of life into a different plane. Not a friendly combination, butan absolute openness and nakedness of soul, nothing hidden, nothingkept back, everything confessed and admitted, a passing of two streamsof life into one. 

XVIII

THE PICNIC

Jack arrived at Windlow in due course, and brought with him Guthrie tostay. Howard thought, and was ashamed of thinking, that Jack had somescheme on foot; and the arrival of Guthrie was embarrassing to him, aslikely to complicate an already too complicated situation. 

A plan was made for a luncheon picnic on the hill. There was a tower onthe highest eminence of the down, some five miles away, a folly builtby some wealthy squire among woodlands, and commanding wide views; itwas possible to drive to a village at the foot, and to put up vehiclesat a country inn; and it was proposed that they should take luncheon upto the tower, and eat it there. The Sandys party were to drive there, and Howard was to drive over with Miss Merry and meet them. Howard didnot at all relish the prospect. He had a torturing desire for thepresence of Maud, and yet he seemed unable to establish anycommunication with her; and he felt that the liveliness of the youngmen would reduce him to a condition of amiable ineffectiveness whichwould make him, as Marie Bashkirtseff naively said, hardly worthseeing. However, there was no way out, and on a delicious July morning, with soft sunlight everywhere, and great white clouds floating in a skyof turquoise blue, Howard and Miss Merry started from Windlow. Thelittle lady was full of decorous glee, and her mirth, like a workingcauldron, threw all her high-minded tastes to the surface. She askedHoward's opinion about quite a number of literary masterpieces, and sheingenuously gave utterance to her meek and joyful views of life, theprivileges she enjoyed, and the inspiration which she derived from theethical views of Robert Browning. Howard found himself wondering why itwas all so dreadfully uninteresting and devoid of charm; he askedhimself whether, if the little spinster had been personally moreattractive, her optimistic chirpings would have seemed to have moresignificance. Miss Merry had a perfectly definite view of life, and shemade life into a distinct success; she was a happy woman, sustained byan abundance of meek enthusiasm. She accepted everything that happenedto her, whether good or evil, with the same eager interest. Suffering, according to Miss Merry, had an educative quality, and life was hauntedfor her by echoes of excellent literature, accurately remembered. ButHoward had a feeling that one must not swallow life quite souncritically, that there ought somehow to be more discrimination; andMiss Merry's eager adoration of everything and everybody reduced him toa flatness which he found it difficult to conceal. He could not thinkwhat was the matter with her views. She revelled in what she calledproblems, and the more incomplete that anything appeared, the morecertain was Miss Merry of ultimate perfection. There did not seem anyroom for humanity, with its varying moods, in her outlook; and yetHoward had the grace to be ashamed of his own sullen dreariness, whichcertainly did not appear to lend any dignity to life. But he had notthe heart to spoil the little lady's pleasure, and engaged in smalltalk upon moderately abstract topics with courteous industry. "Ofcourse, " said his companion confidingly, "all that I do is on a verysmall scale, but I think that the quality of it is what matters--thequality of one's ideal, I mean. " Howard murmuringly assented. "I havesometimes even wished, " she went on, "that I had some real trouble ofmy own--that seems foolish to you, no doubt, because my life is such aneasy one--but I do feel that my happiness rather cuts me off from otherpeople--and I don't want to be cut off from other people; I desire toknow how and why they suffer. "

"Ah, " said Howard, "while you feel that, it is all right; but the worstof real suffering is, I believe, that it is apt to be entirelydreary--it is not at all romantic, as it seems from the outside; indeedit is the loss of all that sense of excitement which makes sufferingwhat it is. But really I have no right to speak either, for I have hada very happy life too. "

Miss Merry heard him moist-eyed and intent. "Yes, I am sure that istrue!" she said. "I suppose we all have just as much as we canuse--just as much as it is good for us to have. "

They found that the others had arrived, and were unpacking theluncheon. Maud greeted Howard with a shy expectancy; but the sight ofher, slender and fresh in her rough walking-dress, renewed his strangepangs. What did he want of her, he asked himself; what was thismysterious and unmanning sense, that made him conscious of everymovement and every word of the girl? Why could he not meet her in acheerful, friendly, simple way, and make the most of her enchantingcompany?

Mr. Sandys was in great spirits, revelling in arrangements anddirections. But the wind was taken out of his sails by the two youngmen, who were engaged in enacting a bewildering kind of drama, a saga, of which the venerable Mr. Redmayne appeared to be the hero. Guthrie, who was in almost overpowering spirits, took the part of Mr. Redmayne, whom he imitated with amazing fidelity. He had become, it seemed, a manof low and degrading tastes--'Erb Redmayne, he was called, or old 'Erb, whose role was to lead the other authorities of the college into allkinds of disreputable haunts, to prompt them to absurd misdeeds, totake advantage of their ingenuousness, to make scapegoats of them, andto adroitly evade justice himself. 

On this occasion 'Erb Redmayne seemed to have inveigled the Master, whose part was taken by Jack, to a race-meeting, to be introducing himto the Most unsatisfactory company, to force him to put money oncertain horses, to evade the payment of debts incurred, to be detectedin the act of absconding, and to leave the unfortunate Master to bearthe brunt of public indignation. Guthrie seemed at first a little shyof enacting this drama before Howard, but Jack said reassuringly, "Oh, he won't give us away--it will amuse him!" This extravaganza continuedwith immense gusto and emphasis all the way to luncheon, 'Erb Redmaynetreating the Master with undisguised contempt, and the Masterperforming meekly his bidding. Mr. Sandys was in fits of laughter. "Excellent, excellent!" he cried among his paroxysms. "You irreverentyoung rascals--but it was just the sort of thing we used to do, I amafraid!"

There was no doubt that it was amusing; in another mood Howard wouldhave been enchanted by the performance, and even flattered at beingallowed to overhear it. Mr. Redmayne was admirably rendered, and Jack'sperformance of the anxious and courteous Master, treading the primrosepath reluctantly and yet subserviently, was very nearly as good. ButHoward simply could not be amused, and it made it almost worse for himto see that Maud was delighted, while even Miss Merry was obviouslythough timidly enjoying the enlargement of her experience, and exultingin her freedom from any priggish disapproval. 

They made their way to the top and found the tower, a shell of masonry, which could be ascended by a winding staircase in a turret. The view, from the platform at the summit, was certainly enchanting. The towerstood in an open heathery space, with woods enclosing it on every side;from the parapet they looked down over the steeply falling tree-tops toan immense plain, where a river widened to the sea. Howard, side byside with Maud, gazed in silence. Mr. Sandys identified landmarks witha map. "How nice it is to see a bit of the world!" said Maud, "and howhappy and contented it all looks. It seems odd to think of men andwomen down there, creeping about their work, going to and fro as usual, and not aware that they are being looked down upon like this. It allseems a very simple business. "

"Yes, " said Howard, "that is the strange thing. It does seem so simpleand tranquil! and yet one knows that down there people have theirtroubles and anxieties--people are ill, are dying--are wondering whatit all means, why they are set just there, and why they have so short atime to stay!"

"I suppose it all fits into itself, " said Maud, "somehow or other. Idon't think that life really contradicts itself!"

"I don't know, " said Howard, with a sudden access of dreariness; "thatis exactly what it DOES seem to do--that's the misery of it!"

The girl looked at him but did not speak; he gave her an uneasy smile, and she presently turned away and looked over her father's map. 

They went down and lunched on a green bank among the fern, under someold oaks. The sunlight fell among the glades; a flock of tits, chirruping and hunting, rushed past them and plunged downward into thewood. They could hear a dove in the high trees near them, crooning asong of peace and infinite content. Mr. Sandys, stung by emulation, related a long story, interspersed with imitations, of hisundergraduate days; and Howard was content to sit and seem to listen, and to watch the light pierce downwards into the silent woodland. Anold woodman, grey and bent and walking painfully, in great leathergloves and gaiters, carrying a chopper, passed slowly along the rideand touched his hat. Jack insisted on giving him some of the luncheon, and made up a package for him which the old man put away in a pocket, making some remarks about the weather, and adding with a senile pridethat he was over seventy, and had worked in the woodland for sixtyyears and more. He was an almost mediaeval figure, Howard thought--awoodman five centuries ago would have looked and spoken much the same;he knew nothing of the world, or the thoughts and hopes of it; he wasalmost as much of the soil as the very woods themselves, in his dimmechanical life; was man made for that after all? How did that squarewith Miss Merry's eager optimism? What was the meaning of sounconscious a figure, so obviously without an ethical programme, andyet so curiously devised by God, patiently nurtured and preserved?

In the infinite peace, while the flies hummed on the shining bracken, and the breeze nestled in the firs like a falling sea, Howard had aspasm of incredulous misery. Could any heart be so heavy, so unquiet ashis own?--life suddenly struck so aimless, with but one overmasteringdesire, which he could not fulfil. He was shocked at his feebleness. Ayear ago he could have devised no sweeter or more delicious day thanthis, with such a party, in the high sunlit wood. . . . 

The imitations began again. 

"I don't believe there's anyone you could not imitate!" said Mr. Sandysrapturously. 

"Oh, it's only a knack, " said Guthrie, "but some people are easier thanothers. "

Howard bestirred himself to express some interest. 

"Why, he can imitate YOU to the life, " said Jack. 

"Oh, come, nonsense!" said Guthrie, reddening; "that is really low, Jack. "

"I confess to a great curiosity about it, " said Mr. Sandys. 

"Oh, don't mind me, " said Howard; "it would amuse me aboveeverything--like catching a glance at oneself in an unexpected mirror!"

Guthrie, after a little more pressing, yielded. He said a fewsentences, supposed to be Howard teaching, in a rather soft voice, withwhat seemed to Howard a horribly affected and priggish emphasis. Butthe matter displeased him still more. It was facetious, almost jocose;and there was a jerky attempt at academic humour in it, which seemed tohim particularly nauseous, as of a well-informed and quite superiorperson condescending to the mildest of witticisms, to put himself on alevel with juvenile minds. Howard had thought himself both unaffectedand elastic in his communications with undergraduates, and this was theeffect he produced upon them! However, he mastered his irritation; theothers laughed a little tentatively; it was felt for a moment that theaffair had just passed the limits of conventional civility. Howardcontrived to utter a species of laugh, and said, "Well, that's quite arevelation to me. It never occurred to me that there could be anythingto imitate in my utterance; but then it is always impossible to believethat anyone can find anything to discuss in one behind one'sback--though I suppose no one can escape. I must get a stock of newwitticisms, I think; the typical ones seem a little threadbare. "

"Oh no, indeed, " said Miss Merry, gallantly; "I was just thinking howmuch I should like to be taught like that!"

The little incident seemed rather to damp the spirits of the party. Guthrie himself seemed deeply annoyed at having consented: and it was arelief to all when Mr. Sandys suddenly pulled out his watch and said, "Well, all pleasant things come to an end--though to be sure there isgenerally another pleasant thing waiting round the corner. I have toget back, but I am not going to spoil the party. I shall enjoy a bit ofa walk. "

"Well, " said Howard, "I think I will set you on your way. I want a talkabout one or two things; but I will come back to chaperon Miss Merry--Isuppose I shall find you somewhere about?"

"Yes, " said Miss Merry, "I am going to try a sketch--but I must nothave anyone looking over my shoulder. I am no good at sketching--but Ilike to be made to look close at a pretty thing. I am going to try thechalk-pit and thicket near the tower--chalk-pits suit my style, becauseone can leave so much of the paper white!"

"Very well, " said Howard, "I will be back here in an hour. "

Howard and Mr. Sandys started off through the wood. Mr. Sandys was fullof communications. He began to talk about Guthrie. "Such a good friendfor Jack!" he said; "I hope he bears a good character in the college?Jack seems to be very much taken up with him, and says there is nononsense about him--almost the highest commendation he has in his powerto bestow--indeed I have heard him use the same phrase about yourself!Young Guthrie seems such a natural and unaffected fellow--indeed, if Imay say so, Howard, it seemed to me a high compliment to yourself, andto speak volumes for your easy relation with young men, that he shouldhave ventured to take you off to your face just now, and that youshould have been so sincerely amused. It isn't as if he were a cheekysort of boy--if I may be allowed such an expression. He treats me withthe pleasantest deference and respect--and when I think of his father'swealth and political influence, that seems to me a charming trait!There is nothing uppish about him. "

"No, indeed, " said Howard; "he is a thoroughly nice fellow!"

"I am delighted to hear you say so, " said Mr. Sandys, "and yourkindness emboldens me to say something which is quite confidential; butthen we are practically relations, are we not? Perhaps it is only afather's partiality; but have you noticed, may I say, anything in hismanner to my dear Maud? It may be only a passing fancy, of course. 'Inthe spring, ' you remember, 'a young man's fancy lightly turns tothoughts of love'--a beautiful line that, though of course it is notstrictly applicable to the end of July. I need hardly say that such aconnection would gladden my heart. I am all for marriage, Howard, forearly marriage, the simplest and best of human experiences; of courseit has more sides than one to it. I should not like it to be supposedthat a country parson like myself had in the smallest degree inveigleda young man of the highest prospects into a match--there is nothing ofthe matchmaker about me; but Maud is in a degree well-connected; and, as you know, she will be what the country people here call'well-left'--a terse phrase, but expressive! I do not see that shewould be in any way unworthy of the position--and I feel that her lifehere is a little secluded--I should like her to have a little richermaterial, so to speak, to work in. Well, well, we mustn't be toodiplomatic about these things. 'Man proposes'--no humorous suggestionintended--'and God disposes'--but if it should so turn out, without anyscheming or management--things which I cordially detest--if it shouldopen out naturally, why, I should be lacking in candour if I pretendedit would not please me. I believe in early engagements, and romance, and all that--I fear I am terribly sentimental--and it is just thething to keep a young man straight. Sir Henry Guthrie might be disposedto view it in that light--what do you think?"

This ingenuous statement had a very distressing effect on Howard. It isone thing to dally with a thought, however seriously, in one's ownmind, and something quite different to have it presented in black andwhite through the frank conjecture of another. He put a severeconstraint upon himself and said, "Do you know, Frank, the same thoughthad occurred to me--I had believed that I saw something of the kind;and I can honestly say that I think Guthrie a very sound fellow indeedin every way--quite apart from his worldly prospects. He is straight, sensible, good-humoured, capable, and, I think, a really unselfishfellow. If I had a daughter of my own I could not imagine a betterhusband. "

"You delight me inexpressibly, " said Mr. Sandys. "So you had noticedit? Well, well, I trust your perception far more than my own; and ofcourse I am biassed--you might almost incline to say dazzled--by theprospect: heir to a baronetcy (I could wish it had been of an earliercreation), rich, and, as you say, entirely reliable and straight. Ofcourse I don't in any way wish to force matters on. I could not bear tobe thought to have unduly encouraged such an alliance--and Maud maymarry any nice fellow she has a fancy to marry; but I think that she israther drawn to young Guthrie--what do you think? He amuses her, andshe is at her best with him--don't you think so?"

"Yes, " said Howard, "I had thought so. I think she likes him very much. "

"Well, we will leave it at that, " said Mr. Sandys in high gusto. "Youdon't mind my confiding in you thus, Howard? Somehow, if I may say it, I find it very easy to speak confidentially to you. You are soperceptive, so sympathetic! We all feel that it is the secret of yourgreat influence. "

They talked of other matters after this as they walked along the crestof the downs; and where the white road began to descend into thevalley, with the roofs of Windlow glimmering in the trees a little tothe north, Howard left the Vicar and retraced his steps. 

He was acutely miserable; the thing had come upon him with a shock, andbrought the truth home to him in a desperate way. But he experienced atthe same time a certain sensation, for a moment, of grim relief. Hisfancy, his hope--how absurd and idiotic they had been!--were shattered. How could he ever have dreamed that the girl should come to care forhim in that way--an elderly Don of settled habits, who had evenmistaken a pompous condescension to the young men of his College for anatural and sympathetic relation--that was what he was. The melancholytruth stared him in the face. He was sharply disillusioned. He hadlingered on, clinging pathetically to youth, and with a serenecomplacency he had overlooked the flight of time. He was a dull, middle-aged man, fond of sentimental relations and trivial confidences, who had done nothing, effected nothing; had even egregiously failed inthe one thing he had set himself to do, the retaining his hold onyouth. Well, he must face it! He must be content to settle down as asmall squire; he must disentangle himself from his Cambridge workgradually--it sickened him to think of it--and he must try to lead aquiet life, and perhaps put together a stupid book or two. That was tobe his programme. He must just try to be grateful for a clear line ofaction. If he had had nothing but Cambridge to depend upon, it wouldhave been still worse. Now he must settle down to county business if hecould, and clear his mind of all foolish regrets. Love and marriage--hewas ten years too late! He had dawdled on, taking the line of leastresistance, and he was now revealed to himself in a true and unsparinglight. He paced swiftly on, and presently entered the wood. His feetfell soft on the grassy road among the coverts. 

Suddenly, as he turned a corner, he saw a little open glade to theright. A short way up the glade stood two figures--Guthrie andMaud--engaged in conversation. They were standing facing each other. She seemed to be expostulating with him in a laughing way; he stoodbareheaded, holding his hat in his hand, eagerly defending himself. Thepose of the two seemed to show an easy sort of comradeship. Maud washolding a stick in both hands behind her, and half resting upon it. They seemed entirely absorbed in what they were saying. Howard couldnot bear to intrude upon the scene. He fell back among the trees, retraced his steps, and then sat down on a grassy bank, a little offthe path, and waited. It was the last confirmation of his fears. It wasnot quite a lover-like scene, but they evidently understood each other, and were wholly at their ease together, while Guthrie's admiring andpassionate look did not escape him. He rested his head in his hands, and bore the truth as he might have borne a physical pain. The summerwoods, the green thickets, the sunlight on the turf, the white clouds, the rich plain just visible through the falling tree-trunks, all seemedto him like a vision seen by a spirit in torment, something horriblyunreal and torturing. The two streams of beauty and misery appeared torun side by side, so distinct, so unblending; but the horrible fact wasthat though sorrow was able not only to assert its own fiery power, like the sting of some malignant insect, it could also obliterate andefface joy; it could even press joy into its service, to accentuate itstorment; while the joy and beauty of life seemed wholly unable tosoothe or help him, but were brushed aside, just as a stern soldier, armed and mailed, could brush aside the onslaught of some delicate andfrenzied boy. Was pain the stronger power, was it the ultimate power?In that dark moment, Howard felt that it was. Joy seemed to him like alittle pool of crystalline water, charming enough if tended andsheltered, but a thing that could be soiled and scattered in a momentby the onrush of some foul and violent beast. 

He came at last to the rendezvous. Miss Merry sat at her posttransferring to a little block of paper a smeared and streaky pictureof the chalk-pit, which seemed equally unintelligible at whatever angleit might be held. Jack was couched at a little distance in the heather, smoking a pipe. Howard went and sat down moodily beside him. "An oddthing, a picnic, " said Jack musingly; "I am not sure it is not aninvention of the devil. Is anything the matter, Howard? You look as ifthings had gone wrong. You don't mind that nonsense of Guthrie's, doyou? I was an ass to get him to do it; I hate doing a stupid thing, andhe is simply wild with me. It's no good saying it is not like, becauseit is in a way, but of course it's only a rag. It isn't absurd when youdo it, only when someone else does. "

"Oh no, I don't mind about that, " said Howard; "do make that plain toGuthrie. I am out of sorts, I think; one gets bothered, you know--whatis called the blues. "

"Oh, I know, " said Jack sympathetically; "I don't suffer from themmyself as a rule, but I have got a touch of them to-day. I can'tunderstand what everyone is up to. Fred Guthrie has got the jumps. Itlooks to me, " he went on sagely, "as if he was what is commonly calledin love: but when the other person is one's sister, it seems strange. Maud isn't a bad girl, as they go, but she isn't an angel, and stillless a saint; but Fred has no eyes for anyone else; I can't screw asensible word out of him. These young people!" said Jack with a sourgrimace; "you and I know better. One ought to leave the women alone;there's something queer about them; you never know where you are withthem. "

Howard regarded him in silence for a moment: it did not seem worthwhile to argue; nothing seemed worth while. "Where are they?" he saiddrearily. 

"Oh, goodness knows!" said Jack; "when I last saw them he was beatingdown the ferns with a stick for Maud to go through. He's absolutelydemented, and she is at one of her games. I think I shall sheer off, and go to visit some sick people, like the governor; that's about all Ifeel up to. "

At this moment, however, the truants appeared, walking silently out ofa glade. Howard had an obscure feeling that something serious hadhappened--he did not know what. Guthrie looked dejected, and Maud wasevidently preoccupied. "Oh, damn the whole show!" said Jack, gettingup. "Let's get out of this!"

"We lost our way, " said Maud, rather hurriedly, "and couldn't find ourway back. "

Maud went up to Miss Merry, asked to see her sketch, and indulged insome very intemperate praise. Guthrie came up to Howard, and stammeredthrough an apology for his rudeness. 

"Oh, don't say anything more, " said Howard. "Of course I didn't mind!It really doesn't matter at all. "

The day was beginning to decline; and in an awkward silence, onlybroken by inconsequent remarks, the party descended the hill, regainedthe carriages, and drove off in mournful silence. As the Vicarage partydrove away, Jack glanced at Howard, raised his eyes in mock despair, and gave a solemn shake of his head. 

Howard followed with Miss Merry, and talked wildly about the future ofEnglish poetry, till they drove in under the archway of the Manor andhis penance was at an end. 

XIX

DESPONDENCY

Howard spent some very unhappy days after that, mostly alone. They werevery active at the Vicarage making expeditions, fishing, playinglawn-tennis, and once or twice pressed him to join them. But he excusedhimself on the ground that he must work at his book; he could not bearto carry his despondency and his dolorous air into so blithe a company;and he was, moreover, consumed by a jealousy which humiliated him. IfGuthrie was destined to win Maud's love he should have a fair field;and yet Howard's imagination played him many fevered tricks in thosedays, and the thought of what might be happening used to sting him intodesperation. His own mood alternated between misery and languor. Heused to sit staring at his book, unable to write a word, and becamegradually aware that he had never been unhappy in his life before. That, then, was what unhappiness meant, not a mood of refined andromantic melancholy, but a raging fire of depression that seemed toburn his life away, both physically and mentally, with intervals ofdrowsy listlessness. 

He would have liked to talk to his aunt, but could not bring himself todo so. She, on the other hand, seemed to notice nothing, and it was agreat relief to him that she never commented upon his melancholy andobvious fatigue, but went on in her accustomed serene way, which evokedhis courtesy and sense of decorum, and made him behave decently inspite of himself. Miss Merry seemed much more inclined to sympathise, and Howard used to intercept her gaze bent upon him in deep concern. 

One afternoon, returning from a lonely walk, he met Maud going out ofthe Manor gate. She looked happy, he thought. He stopped and made a fewcommonplace remarks. She looked at him rather strangely, he felt, andseemed to be searching his face for some sign of the old goodwill; buthe hardened his heart, though he would have given worlds to tell herwhat was in his mind; but he felt that any reconstruction of friendshipmust be left till a later date, when he might again be able toconciliate her sisterly regard. She seemed to him to have passedthrough an awakening of some kind, and to have bloomed both in mind andbody, with her feet on the threshold of vital experience, and thethought that it was Guthrie who could evoke this upspringing of lifewithin her was very bitter to him. 

He trod the valley of humiliation hour by hour, in these lonely days, and found it a very dreary place. It was wretched to him to feel thathe had suddenly discovered his limitations. Not only could he not havehis will, could not taste the fruit of love which had seemed to hangalmost within his reach, but the old contented life seemed to havefaded and collapsed about him. 

That night his aunt asked him about his book, and he said he was notgetting on well with it. She asked why, and he said that he had beenfeeling that it was altogether too intellectual a conception; that hehad approached it from the side of REASON, as if people arguedthemselves into faith, and had treated religion as a thesis which couldbe successfully defended; whereas the vital part of it all, he nowthought, was an instinct, perhaps refined by inherited thought, but inits practical manifestations a kind of choice, determined by a naturalliking for what was attractive, and a dislike of what was morally ugly. 

"Yes, " said Mrs. Graves, "that is true, I am sure. But it can beanalysed for all that, though I agree with you that no amount ofanalysis will make one act rightly. But I believe, " she went on, "thatclearness of view helps one, though not perhaps at the time. It is agreat thing to see what motives are merely conventional and convenient, and to find out what one really regards as principles. To look aconventional motive in the face deprives it of its power; and one cangradually disencumber oneself of all sorts of complicated impulses, which have their roots in no emotion. It is only the motives which arerooted in emotion that are vital. "

Then, after a pause, she said, "Of course I have seen of late that youhave been dissatisfied with something. I have not liked to ask youabout it; but if it would help you to talk about it, I hope you will. It is wonderful how talking about things makes one's mind clear. Itisn't anything that others say or advise that helps one, yet one gainsin clearness. But you must do as you like about this, Howard. I don'twant to press you in any way. "

"Thank you very much, " said Howard. "I know that you would hear me withpatience, and might perhaps advise me if anyone could; but it isn'tthat. I have got myself into a strange difficulty; and what I need isnot clearness, but simply courage to face what I know and perceive. Mygreat lack hitherto is that I have gone through things without feelingthem, like a swallow dipping in a lake; now I have got to sink anddrown. No, " he added, smiling, "not to drown, I hope, but to find a newlife in the ruins of the old. I have been on the wrong tack; I havealways had what I liked, and done what I liked; and now when I amconfronted with things which I do not like at all, I have just got toendure them, and be glad that I have still got the power of sufferingleft. "

Mrs. Graves looked at him very tenderly. "Yes, " she said, "sufferinghas a great power, and one doesn't want those whom one loves not tosuffer. It is the condition of loving; but it must be real suffering, not morbid, self-invented torture. It's a great mistake to suffer morethan one need; one wastes life fast so. I would not intervene to saveyou from real suffering, even if I could; but I don't want you tosuffer in an unreal way. I think you are diffident, too easilydiscouraged, too courteous, if that is possible--because diffidence, and discouragement, and even courtesy, are not always unselfish things. If one renounces anything one has set one's heart upon one must do sofor its own sake, and not only because the disapproval anddisappointment of others makes life uncomfortable. I think that yourlife has tended to make you value an atmosphere of diffusedtranquillity too much. If one is sensitive to the censure or thedispleasure of others, it may not be unselfish to give up things ratherthan provoke it--it may only be another form of selfishness. Some ofthe most unworldly people I know have not overcome the world at all;they have merely made terms with it, and have found that abnegation isonly more comfortable than conquest. I do not know that you are doingthis, or have done it, but I think it likely. And in any case I thinkyou trust reason too much, and instinct too little. If one desires athing very much, it is often a proof that one needs it. One may notindeed be able to get it, but to resign it is sometimes to fail incourage. I can see that you are in some way discontented with yourlife. Don't try to mend it by a polite withdrawal. I am going to payyou a compliment. You have a wonderful charm, of which you areunconscious. It has made life very easy for you--but it hasresponsibilities too. You must not create a situation, and then abandonit. You must not disappoint people. I know, of course, only too well, that charm in itself largely depends on a tranquil mind; and it isdifficult to exercise it when one is sad and unhappy; but let me saythat unhappiness does not deprive YOU of this power. Does it seemimpossible to you to believe that I have loved you far better, and in away which I could not have thought possible, in these last weeks, whenI have seen you were unhappy? You do not abandon yourself todepression; you make an effort; you recognise other people's rights tobe happy, not to be clouded by your own unhappiness; and you have donemore to attach us all to you in these days than before, when you wereperhaps more conscious of being liked. Liking is not loving, Howard. There is no pain about liking; there is infinite pain about loving;that is because it is life, and not mere existence. "

"Ah, " said Howard, "I am indeed grateful to you for speaking to methus--you have lifted my spirit a little out of the mire. But I can'tbe rescued so easily. I shall have a burden to bear for some timeyet--I see no end to it at present: and it is indeed my own foolishtrifling with life that has brought it on me. But, dearest aunt, youcan't help me just now. Let me be silent a little longer. I shall soon, I think, be able to speak, and then I will tell you all; and meanwhileit will be a comfort to me to think that you feel for me and about meas you do. I don't want to indulge in self-pity--I have not done that. There is nothing unjust in what has happened to me, nothingintolerable, no specific ill-will. I have just stumbled upon one of thebig troubles of life, suddenly and unexpectedly, and I am not preparedfor it by any practice or discipline. But I shall get through, don't beafraid--and presently I will tell you everything. " He took his aunt'shand in his own, and kissed her on the cheek. 

"God bless you, dear boy!" she said; "I won't press you to speak; andyou will know that I have you in mind now and always, with infinitehope and love. "

XX

HIGHMINDEDNESS

Howard on thinking over this conversation was somewhat bewildered as towhat exactly was in his aunt's mind. He did not think that sheunderstood his feeling for Maud, and he was sure that she did notrealise what Maud's feelings about Freddy Guthrie were. He came to theconclusion eventually that Maud had told her about the beginnings oftheir friendship; that his aunt supposed that he had tried to winMaud's confidence, as he would have made friends with one of his youngmen; and that she imagined that he had found that Maud's feeling forhim had developed in rather too confidential a line, as for afather-confessor. He thought that Mrs. Graves had seen that Maud hadbeen disposed to adopt him as a kind of ethical director, and hadthought that he had been bored at finding a girl's friendship so muchmore exacting than the friendship of a young man; and that she had beenexhorting him to be more brotherly and simple in his relations withMaud, and to help her to the best of his ability. He imagined that Maudhad told Mrs. Graves that he had been advising her, and that she hadperhaps since told her of his chilly reception of her laterconfidences. That was the situation he had created; and he felt withwhat utter clumsiness he had handled it. His aunt, no doubt, thoughtthat he had been disturbed at finding how much more emotional a girl'sdependence upon an older man was than he had expected. But he felt thatwhen he could tell her the whole story, she would see that he could nothave acted otherwise. He had been so thrown off his balance by findinghow deeply he cared for Maud, that he had been simply unable to respondto her advances. He ought to have had more control of himself. Mrs. Graves had not suspected that he could have grown to care for a girl, almost young enough to be his daughter, in so passionate a way. Hewished he could have explained the whole to her, but he was too deeplywounded in mind to confess to his aunt how impulsive he had been. Hehad now no doubt that there was an understanding between Maud andGuthrie. Everyone else seemed to think so; and when once the affair washappily launched, he would enjoy a mournful triumph, he thought, byexplaining to Mrs. Graves how considerately he had behaved, and howpainful a dilemma Maud would have been placed in if he had declared hispassion. Maud would have blamed herself; she might easily, with heranxious sense of responsibility, have persuaded herself into acceptinghim as a lover; and then a life-long penance might have begun for her. He had, at what a cost, saved Maud from the chance of such a mistake. It was a sad tangle; but when Maud was happily married, he wouldperhaps be able to explain to her why he had behaved as he had done;and she would be grateful to him then. His restless and feveredimagination traced emotional and dramatic scenes, in which his delicacywould at last be revealed. He felt ashamed of himself for thisabandonment to sentiment, but he seemed to have lost control over theemotional part of his mind, which continued to luxuriate in theconsciousness of his own self-effacement. He had indeed, he felt, fallen low. But he continued to trace in his mind how each of theactors in the little drama--Mr. Sandys, Jack, Guthrie himself, Maud, Mrs. Graves--would each have reason to thank him for having heldhimself aloof, and for sacrificing his own desires. There was comfortin that thought; and for the first time in these miserable weeks hefelt a little glow of self-approval at the consciousness of his ownprudence and justice. The best thing, he now reflected, would be toremove himself from the scene altogether for a time, and to return inradiant benevolence, when the affair had settled itself: but Maud--andthen there came over him the thought of the girl, her sweetness, hereager delight, her adorable frankness, her innocence, her desire to bein affectionate relations with all who came within reach of her; andthe sense of his own foresight and benevolence was instantly andentirely overwhelmed at the thought of what he had missed, and of whathe might have aspired to, if it had not been for just the wretchedobstacle of age and circumstance. A few years younger--if he had beenthat, he could have followed the leading of his heart, and--he daredthink no more of what might have been possible. 

But what brought matters to a head was a scene that he saw on thefollowing day. He was in the library in the morning; he tried to work, but he could not command his attention. At last he rose and went to thelittle oriel, which commanded a view of the village green. Just as hedid so, he caught sight of two figures--Maud and Guthrie--walkingtogether on the road which led from the Vicarage. They were talking inthe plainest intimacy. Guthrie seemed to be arguing some point withlaughing insistence, and Maud to be listening in amused delight. Presently they came to a stop, and he could see Maud hold up a finger. Guthrie at once desisted. At this moment a kitten scampered across thegreen to them sideways, its tail up. Guthrie caught it up, and as heheld it in his arms. Howard saw Maud bend over it and caress it. Thescene brought an instant conviction to his mind; but presently Maudsaid a word to her companion, and then came across the green to theManor, passing in at the gate just underneath him. Howard stood backthat he might not be observed. He saw Maud come in under the gateway, half smiling to herself as at something that had happened. As she didso, she waved her hand to Guthrie, who stood holding the kitten in hisarms and looking after her. When she disappeared, he put the kittendown, and then walked back towards the Vicarage. 

XXI

THE AWAKENING

Howard spent the rest of the morning in very bitter cogitation; afterluncheon, during which he could hardly force himself to speak, heexcused himself on the plea of wanting exercise. 

It was in a real agony of mind and spirit that he left the house. Hewas certain now; and he was not only haunted by his loss, but he washorrified at his entire lack of self-control and restraint. Histhoughts came in, like great waves striking on a rocky reef, andrending themselves in sheets of scattered foam. He seemed to himself tohave been slowly inveigled into his fate by a worse than maliciouspower; something had planned his doom. He remembered his oldtranquillities; his little touch of boredom; and then how easy thedescent had been! He had been drawn by a slender thread of circumstanceinto paying his visit to Windlow; his friendship with Jack had justtoppled over the balance; he had gone; then there had come his talkwith his aunt, which had wrought him up into a mood of vagueexcitement. Just at that moment Maud had come in his way; thenfriendship had followed; and then he had been seized with thisdevouring passion which had devastated his heart. He had known all thetime that he was too late; and even so he had gone to work the wrongway: it was his infernal diplomacy, his trick of playing with otherlives, of yielding to emotional intimacies--that fatal desire to have adefinite relation, to mean something to everyone in his circle. Thenthis wretched, attractive, pleasant youth, with his superficial charm, had intervened. If he had been wise he would never have suggested thatvisit to Cambridge. Maud had hitherto been just like Miranda on theisland; she had never been brought into close contact with a youngcavalier; and the subtle instinct of youth had done the rest, theinstinct for the equal mate, so far stronger and more subtle than anyreasonable or intellectual friendship. And then he, devoured as he hadbeen by his love, had been unable to use his faculties; he could donothing but glare and wink, while his treasure was stolen from him; hehad made mistakes at every turn. What would he not give now to berestored to his old, balanced, easy life, with its little friendshipsand duties. How fantastic and unreal his aunt's theories seemed to him, reveries contrived just to gild the gaps of a broken life, adramatisation of emptiness and self-importance. At every moment theface and figure of Maud came before him in a hundred sweet, spontaneousmovements--the look of her eyes, the slow thrill of her voice. Heneeded her with all his soul--every fibre of his being cried out forher. And then the thought of being thus pitifully overcome, humiliatedand degraded him. If she had not been beautiful, he would perhaps neverhave thought of her except with a mild and courteous interest. This wasthe draught of life which he had put so curiously to his lips, sweetand heady to taste, but with what infinite bitterness and disgust inthe cup. It had robbed him of everything--of his work, of his temperateecstasies in sight and sound, of his intellectual enthusiasm. His lifewas all broken to pieces about him; he had lost at once all interestand all sense of dignity. He was simply a man betrayed by a passion, which had fevered him just because his life had been so orderly andpure. He was not strong enough even to cut himself adrift from it all. He must just welter on, a figure visibly touched by depression andill-fortune, and hammering out the old grammar-grind. Had any writer, any poet, ever agonised thus? The people who discoursed glibly aboutlove, and wove their sorrows into elegies, what sort of prurient curswere they? It was all too bad to think of, to speak of--a merestaggering among the mudflats of life. 

In this raging self-contempt and misery, he drew near to the still poolin the valley; he would sit there and bleed awhile, like the oldwarrior, but with no hope of revisiting the fight: he would justabandon himself to listless despair for an hour or two, while thepleasant drama of life went on behind him. Why had he not at leastspoken to Maud, while he had time, and secured her loyalty? It was hisidiotic deliberation, his love of dallying gently with his emotions, getting the best he could out of them. 

Suddenly he saw that there was some one on the stone seat by thespring, and in a moment he saw that it was Maud--and that she hadobserved him. She looked troubled and melancholy. Had she stolen awayhere, had she even appointed a place of meeting with the wretched boy?was she vexed at his intrusion? Well, it would have to be faced now. Hewould go on, he would say a few words, he would at least not betrayhimself. After all, she had done no wrong, poor child--she had onlyfound her mate; and she at least should not be troubled. 

She rose up at his approach; and Howard, affecting a feeble heartiness, said, "Well, so you have stolen away like me! This is a sweet place, isn't it; like an old fairy-tale, and haunted by a Neckan? I won'tdisturb you--I am going on to the hill--I want a breath of air. "

Maud looked at him rather pitifully, and said nothing for a moment. Then she said, "Won't you stay a little and talk to me?--I don't seemto have seen you--there has been so much going on. I want to tell youabout my book, you know--I am going on with that--I shall soon havesome more chapters to show you. "

She sate down at one end of the bench, and Howard seated himselfwearily at the other. Maud glanced at him for a moment, but he saidnothing. The sight of her was a sort of torture to him. He longed withan insupportable longing to fling himself down beside her and claimher, despairingly and helplessly. He simply could not frame a sentence. 

"You look tired, " said Maud. "I don't know what it is, but it seems asif everything had gone wrong since we came to Cambridge. Do tell mewhat it all is--you can trust me. I have been afraid I have vexed yousomehow, and I had hoped we were going to be friends. " She leaned herhead on her hand, and looked at him. She looked so troubled and sofrail, that Howard's heart smote him--he must make an effort; he mustnot cloud the child's mind; he must just take what she could give him, and not hamper her in any way. The one thing left him was a miserablecourtesy, on which he must somehow depend. He forced a sort of smile, and began to talk--his own voice audible to him, strained and ugly, like the voice of some querulous ghost. 

"Ah, " he said, "as one gets older, one can't always command one'smoods. Vexed? Of course, I am not vexed--what put that into your head?It's this--I can tell you so much! It seems to me that I have beendrawn aside out of my old, easy, serene life, into a new sort of lifehere--and I am not equal to it. I had got so used, I suppose, topicking up other lives, that I thought I could do the same here--and Iseem to have taken on more than I could manage. I forgot, I think, thatI was getting older, that I had left youth behind. I made the mistakeof thinking I could play a new role--and I cannot. I am tired--yes, Iam deadly tired; and I feel now as if I wanted to get out of it all, and just leave things to work themselves out. I have meddled, and I ambeing punished for meddling. I have been playing with fire, and I havebeen burnt. I had thought of a new sort of life. Don't you remember, "he added with a smile, "the monkey in Buckland's book, who got into thekettle on the hob, and whenever he tried to leave it, found it so coldoutside, that he dared not venture out--and he was nearly boiled alive!"

"No, I DON'T understand, " said Maud, with so sudden an air of sorrowand unhappiness that Howard could hardly refrain from taking her intohis arms like a tired child and comforting her. "I don't understand atall. You came here, and you fitted in at once, seemed to understandeveryone and everything, and gave us all a lift. It is miserable--thatyou should have brought so much happiness to us, and then have tired ofit all. I don't understand it in the least. Something must havehappened to distress you--it can't all go to pieces like this!"

"Oh, " said Howard, "I interfered. It is my accursed trick of playingwith people, wanting to be liked, wanting to make a difference. How canI explain? . . . Well, I must tell you. You must forgive me somehow! Itried--don't look at me while I say it--I have tried to interfere withYOU. I tried to make a friend of you; and then when you came toCambridge, I saw I had claimed too much; that your place was not withsuch as myself--the old, stupid, battered generation, fit for nothingbut worrying along. I saw you were young, and needed youth about you. God forgive me for my selfish plans. I wanted to keep your friendshipfor myself, and when I saw you were attracted elsewhere, I wasjealous--horribly, vilely jealous. But I have the grace to despisemyself for it, and I won't hamper you in any way. You must just give mewhat you can, and I will be thankful. "

As he spoke he saw a curious light pass into the girl's face--a lightof understanding and resolution. He thought that she would tell himthat he was right; and he was unutterably thankful to think that he hadhad the courage to speak--he could bear anything now. 

Suddenly she made a swift gesture, bending down to him. She caught hishand in her own, and pressed her lips to it. "Don't you SEE?" she said. "Attracted by someone . . . By whom? . . . By that wretched little boy?. . . Why he amuses me, of course, . . . And you would stand aside forthat! You have spoken and I must speak. Why you are everything, everything, all the world to me. It was last Sunday in church . . . Doyou remember . . . When they said, 'Whom have I in heaven but thee, andthere is none upon earth' . . . I looked up and caught your eye, andwondered if you DID understand. But it is enough--I won't hamper youeither. If you want to go back to the old life and live it, I won't saya word. I will be just your most faithful friend--you will allow that?"

The heaven seemed to open over Howard, and the solid earth reeled roundhim where he sate. It was so, then! He sate for a moment like a manstunned, and then opened his eyes on bliss unutterable. She was closeto him, her breath on his cheek, her eyes full of tears. He took herinto his arms, and put his lips to hers. "My dearest darling child, " hesaid, "are you sure? . . . I can't believe it. . . . Oh my sweetest, itcan't be true. Why, I have loved you with all my soul since that firstmoment I saw you--indeed it was before; and I have thought of nothingelse day and night. . . . What does it all mean . . . The well of life?"

They sate holding each other close. The whole soul of the girl rose toclasp and to greet his, in that blest fusion of life which seems tohave nothing hidden or held back. She made him tell her over and overagain the sweet story of his love. 

"What COULD I do?" she said. "Why, when I was at Cambridge that week, Ididn't dare to claim your time and thought. Why CAN'T one make oneselfunderstood? Why, my one hope, all that time, was just for the minutes Igot with you; and yet I thought it wasn't fair not to try to seemamused; then I saw you were vexed at something--vexed that I shouldwant to talk to you--what a WRETCHED business!"

"Never mind all that now, child, " said Howard, "it's a perfectnightmare. Why can't one be simple? Why, indeed? and even now, I simplycan't believe it--oh, the wretched hours when I thought you weredrifting away from me; do men and women indeed miss their chances so?If I had but known! Yet, I must tell you this--when I first came tothis spring here, I thought it held a beautiful secret forme--something which had been in my life from everlasting. It was so, and this was what it held for me. "

The afternoon sped swiftly away, and the shadow of the western downsfell across the pool. An immense and overpowering joy filled Howard'sheart, and the silent world took part in his ecstasy. 

"You remember that first day?" said Maud. "I had felt that day as ifsome one was coming to me from a long way off drawing nearer. . . . Isaw you drive up in the carriage, and I wondered if we should befriends. "

"Yes, " said Howard, "it was you on the lawn--that was when I saw youfirst!"

"And now we must go back and face the music, " said Howard. "What do youthink? How shall we make it all known? I shall tell Aunt Anne to-night. I shall be glad to do that, because there has fallen a veil between us. Don't forget, dear child, how unutterably wretched and intolerable Ihave been. She tried to help me out, but I was running with my headdown on the wrong track. Oh, what a miserable fool I was! That comes ofbeing so high-minded and superior. If you only knew how solemn I havebeen! Why couldn't I just speak?"

"You might have spoken any time, " said Maud. "Why, I would have walkedbarefoot to Dorchester and back to please you! It does seem horrible tothink of our being apart all that time, out of such beautifulconsideration--and you were my own, my very own all the time, everymoment. "

"I will come and tell your father to-morrow, " said Howard presently. "How will Master Jack take it? Will he call you Miss?"

"He may call me what he likes, " said Maud. "I shan't get off easily. "

"Well, we have an evening and a night and a morning for our secret, "said Howard. "I wish it could be longer. I should like to go on forever like this, no one knowing but you and me. "

"Do just as you like, my lord and master, " said Maud. 

"I won't have you talk like that, " said Howard; "you don't know whatyou give me. Was ever anyone in the world so happy before?"

"There's one person who is as happy, " said Maud; "you can't guess whatI feel. Does it sound absurd to say that if you told me to stand stillwhile you cut me into little bits, I should enjoy it?"

"I won't forget that, " said Howard; "anything to please you--you neednot mind mentioning any little wishes you may have of that kind. "

They laughed like children, and when they came to the village, theybecame very ceremonious. At the Vicarage gate they shook hands, andHoward raised his hat. "You will have to make up for this dignifiedparting some time, " said Howard. "Sleep well, my darling child! If youever wake, you will know that I am thinking of you; not far apart!Good-night, my sweet one, my only darling. "

Maud put one hand on his shoulder, but did not speak--and then slippedin light-footed through the gate. Howard walked back to the Manor, through the charmed dusk and the fragrance of hidden flowers, full ofan almost intolerable happiness, that was akin to pain. The eveningstar hung in liquid, trembling light above the dark down, the skyfading to a delicious green, the breeze rustled in the heavy-leavedsycamores, and the lights were lit in the cottage windows. Did everyhome, every hearth, he wondered, mean THAT? Was THAT present in dim anddumb lives, the spirit of love, the inner force of the world? Yes, itwas so! That was the secret hidden in the Heart of God. 

XXII

LOVE AND CERTAINTY

The weeks that followed were a time for Howard of very singularhappiness--happiness of a quality of which he had not thought himselfcapable, and in the very existence of which he was often hardly able tobelieve. He had never known what intimate affection was before; and itwas strange to him, when he had always been able to advance so swiftlyin his relations with others to a point of frankness and evenbrotherliness, to discover that there was a whole world of emotionbeyond that. He was really deeply reserved and reticent; but headmitted even comparative strangers so easily and courteously to hishouse of life, that few suspected the existence of a secret chamber ofthought, with an entrance contrived behind the pictured arras, whichwas the real fortress of his inner existence, and where he sateoftenest to contemplate the world. That chamber of thought was a placeof few beliefs and fewer certainties; if he adopted, as he wasaccustomed to do, conventional language and conventional ideas, it wasonly to feel himself in touch with his fellows; for Howard's mind wasreally a place of suspense and doubt; his scepticism went down to thevery roots of life; his imagination was rich and varied, but he did nottrust his hopes or even his fears; all that he was certain of was justthe actual passage of his thought and his emotion; he formed no viewsabout the future, and he abandoned the past as one might abandon thedebris of the mine. 

It was delicious to him to be catechised, questioned, explored by Maud, to have his reserve broken through and his reticence disregarded; butwhat oftenest brought the great fact of his love home to him with anoverpowering certainty of joy was the girl's eager caresses andendearing gestures. Howard had always curiously shrunk from physicalcontact with his fellows; he had an almost childishly observant eye, and his senses were abnormally alert; little bodily defects anduglinesses had been a horror to him; and the way in which Maud wouldseek his embrace, clasp his hand, lay her cheek to his, as if nestlinghome, gave him an enraptured sense of delight that transcended allexperience. He was at first in these talks very tender of what heimagined her to believe; but he found that this did not in the leastsatisfy her, and he gradually opened his mind more and more to herfearless view. 

"Are you certain of nothing?" she asked him one day, half mirthfully. 

"Yes, of one thing, " he said, "of YOU! You are the only real andperfect thing and thought in the world to me--I have always been alonehitherto, " he added, "and you have come near to me out of the deep--ashining spirit!"

Howard never tired of questioning her in these days as to how her lovefor him had arisen. 

"That is the mystery of mysteries!" he said to her once; "what was itin me or about me to make you care?"

Maud laughed. "Why, you might as well ask a man at a shop, " she said, "which particular coin it was that induced him to part with hiswares--it's just the price! Why, I cared for you, I think, before Iever saw you, before I ever heard of you; one thinks--I supposeeveryone thinks--that there must be one person in the world who iswaiting for one--and it seems to me now as if I had always known it wasyou; and then Jack talked about you, and then you came; and that wasenough, though I didn't dare to think you could care for me; and thenhow miserable I was when you began by seeming to take an interest inme, and then it all drifted away, and I could do nothing to hold it. Howard, why DID you do that?"

"Oh, don't ask me, darling, " he said. "I thought--I thought--I don'tknow what I did think; but I somehow felt it would be like putting abird that had sate to sing to me into a cage, if I tried to captureyou; and yet I felt it was my only chance. I felt so old. Why you mustremember that I was a grown-up man and at work, when you were in longclothes. And think of the mercy of this--if I had come here, as I oughtto have done, and had known you as a little girl, you would have becomea sort of niece to me, and all this could never have happened--it wouldall have been different. "

"Well, we won't think of THAT, " said Maud decisively. "I was rather ahorrid little girl, and I am glad you didn't see me in that stage!"

One day he found her a little sad, and she confessed to having had amelancholy dream. "It was a big place, like a square in a town, full ofpeople, " she said. "You came down some steps, looking unhappy, and wentabout as if you were looking for me; and I could not attract yourattention, or get near you; once you passed quite close to me and oureyes met, and I saw you did not recognise me, but passed on. "

Howard laughed. "Why, child, " he said, "I can't see anyone else but youwhen we are in the same room together--my faculty of observation hasdeserted me. I see every movement you make, I feel every thought youthink; you have bewitched me! Your face comes between me and my work;you will quite ruin my career. How can I go back to my tiresome boysand my old friends?"

"Ah, I don't want to do THAT!" said Maud. "I won't be a hindrance; youmust just hang me up like a bird in a cage--that's what I am--to singto you when you are at leisure. "

XXIII

THE WEDDING

The way in which the people at Windlow took the news was verycharacteristic. Howard frankly did not care how they regarded it. Mr. Sandys was frankly and hugely delighted. He apologised to Howard forhaving mentioned the subject of Guthrie to him. 

"The way you took it, Howard, " he said, "was a perfect model ofdelicacy and highmindedness! Why, if I had dreamed that you cared formy little girl, I would have said, and truly said, that the dearestwish of my heart had been fulfilled. But one is blind, a parent isblind; and I had somehow imagined you as too sedate, as altogether toomuch advanced in thought and experience, for such a thing. I wouldrather have bitten out my tongue than spoken as I did to you. It isexactly what my dear girl needs, some one who is older and wiser thanherself--she needs some one to look up to, to revere; she is thoughtfuland anxious beyond her years, and she is made to repose confidence in amind more mature. I do not deny, of course, that your position atWindlow makes the arrangement a still more comfortable one; but I havealways said that my children must marry whom they would; and I shouldhave welcomed you, my dear Howard, as a son-in-law, under anycircumstances. "

Jack, on the contrary, was rather more cautious in his congratulations. "I am all for things being fixed up as people like, " he said, "and I amsure it's a good match for Maud, and all that. But I can't put the twoends together. I never supposed that you would fall in love, any morethan that my father would marry again; and when it comes to yourfalling in love with Maud--well, if you knew that girl as I do, youwould think twice! I can't conceive what you will ever have to talkabout, unless you make her do essays. It is really rather embarrassingto have a Don for a brother-in-law. I feel as if I should have to say'we' when I talked to the other Dons, and I shall be regarded withsuspicion by the rest of the men. But of course you have my blessing, if you will do it; though if you like to cry off, even now, I will tryto keep the peace. I feel rather an ass to have said that about FredGuthrie; but of course he is hard hit, and I can't think how I shallever be able to look him in the face. What bothers me is that I neversaw how things were going. Well, may it be long before I find myself inthe same position! But you are welcome to Missy, if you think you canmake anything of her. "

Mrs. Graves did little more than express her delight. "It was what Isomehow hoped from the first for both of you, " she said. 

"Well, " said Howard, "the only thing that puzzles me is that when yousaw--yes, I am sure you saw--what was happening, you didn't make asign. "

"No, " said Mrs. Graves, "that is just what one can't do! I didn't doubtthat it would come right, I guessed what Maud felt; but you had to findthe way to her yourself. I was sure of Maud, you see; but I was notquite sure of you. It does not do to try experiments, dear Howard, withforces as strong as love; I knew that if I told you how things stood, you would have felt bound out of courtesy and kindness to speak, andthat would have been no good. If it is illegal to help a man to commitsuicide, it is worse, it is wicked to push a man into marriage; but Iam a very happy woman now--so happy that I am almost afraid. "

Howard talked over his plans with Mrs. Graves; there seemed no sort ofreason to defer his wedding. He told her, too, that he had a furtherplan. There was a system at Beaufort by which, after a certain numberof years' service, a Fellow could take a year off duty, withoutaffecting his seniority or his position. "I am going to do this, " hesaid. "I do not think it is unwise. I am too old, I think, both to makeMaud's acquaintance as I wish, and to keep my work going at the sametime. It would be impossible. So I will settle down here, if you willlet me, and try to understand the place and the people; and then if itseems well, I will go back to Cambridge in October year, and go on withmy work. I hope you will approve of that?"

"I do entirely approve, " said Mrs. Graves. "I will make over to you atonce what you will in any case ultimately inherit--and I believe youryoung lady is not penniless either? Well, money has its uses sometimes. "

Howard did this. Mr. Redmayne wrote him a letter in which affection andcynicism were curiously mingled. 

"There will be two to please now instead of one, " he wrote. "I do not, of course, approve of Dons marrying. The tender passion is, I believe, inimical to solid work; this I judge from observation rather than fromexperience. But you will get over all that when you are settled; andthen if you decide to return--and we can ill spare you--I hope you willreturn to work in a reasonable frame of mind. Pray give my respects tothe young lady, and say that if she would like a testimonial to yourhonesty and sobriety, I shall be happy to send her one. "

All these experiences, shared by Maud, were absurdly delightful toHoward. She was rather alarmed by Redmayne's letter. 

"I feel as if I were doing rather an awful thing, " she said, "in takingyou away like this. I feel like Hotspur's wife and Enid rolled intoone. I shouldn't DARE to go with you at once to Cambridge--I shouldfeel like a Pomeranian dog on a lead. "

And so it came to pass that on a certain Monday in the month ofSeptember a very quiet little wedding took place at Windlow. The bellswere rung, and a hideous object of brushwood and bunting, that lookedlike the work of a bower-bird, was erected in the road, and called atriumphal arch. Mr. Redmayne insisted on coming, and escorted Monicafrom Cambridge, "without in any way compromising my honour and virtue, "he said: "it must be plainly understood that I have no INTENTIONS. " Hemade a charming speech at the subsequent luncheon, in which he saidthat, though he personally regretted the turn that affairs had taken, he could not honestly say that, if matrimony were to be regarded asadvisable, his friends could have done better. 

The strange thing to Howard was the contrast between his own acute andintolerable nervousness, and the entire and radiant self-possession ofMaud. He had a bad hour on the morning of the wedding-day itself. Hehad a sort of hideous fear that he had done selfishly and perversely, and that it was impossible that Maud could really continue to love him;that he had sacrificed her youth to his fancy, and his vividimagination saw himself being wheeled in a bath-chair along the Paradeof a health-resort, with Maud in melancholy attendance. 

But when he saw his child enter the church, and look up to catch hiseye, his fears melted like a vapour on glass; and his love seemed tohim to pour down in a sudden cataract, too strong for a human heart tohold, to meet the exquisite trustfulness and sweetness of his bride, who looked as though the gates of heaven were ajar. After that he sawand heard nothing but Maud. They went off together in the afternoon toa little house in Dorsetshire by a lonely sea-cove, which Mr. Sandyshad spent many glorious and important hours in securing and arranging. It was only an hour's journey. If Howard had needed reassuring he hadhis desire; for as they drove away from Windlow among the thin cries ofthe village children, Howard put his arm round Maud, and said "Well, child?" upon which she took his other hand in both of her own, anddropping her head on his shoulder, said, "Utterly and entirely andabsolutely proud and happy and content!" And then they sate in silence. 

XXIV

DISCOVERIES

It was a time of wonderful discoveries for Howard, that month spent inthe little house under the cliff and beside the cove. It was a tinyhamlet with half a dozen fishermen's cottages and two or three largerhouses, holiday-dwellings for rich people; but there was no one livingthere, except a family of children with a governess. The house theywere in belonged to an artist, and had a big studio in which theymostly sate. An elderly woman and her niece were the servants, and thelife was the simplest that could be imagined. Howard felt as if hewould have liked it prolonged for ever. They brought a few books withthem, but did little else except ramble through the long afternoons inthe silent bays. It was warm, bright September weather, still and hazy;and the sight of the dim golden-brown promontories, with pale-greengrass at the top, stretching out one beyond another into the distance, became for Howard a symbol of all that was most wonderful and perfectin life. 

He could not cease to marvel at the fact that this beautiful youngcreature, full of tenderness and anxious care for others, and with lovethe one pre-occupation of her life, should yield herself thus to himwith such an entire and happy abandonment. Maud seemed for the time tohave no will of her own, no thought except to please him; he could notget her to express a single preference, and her guileless diplomacy todiscover what he preferred amused and delighted him. At the same timethe exploration of Maud's mind and thought was an entire surprise tohim--there was so much she did not know, so many things in the world, which he took for granted, of which she had never heard; and yet inmany ways he discovered that she knew and perceived far more than hedid. Her judgment of people was penetrating and incisive, and wasformed quite instinctively, without any apparent reason; she had, too, a charming gift of humour, and her affection for her own circle did notin the least prevent her from perceiving their absurdities. She was notall loyalty and devotion, nor did she pretend to be interested inthings for which she did not care. There were many conventions, whichHoward for the first time discovered that he himself unconsciouslyheld, which Maud did not think in the least important. Howard began tosee that he himself had really been a somewhat conventional person, with a respect for success and position and dignity and influence. Hesaw that his own chief motive had been never to do anythingdisagreeable or unreasonable or original or decisive; he began to seethat his unconscious aim had been to fit himself without self-assertioninto his circle, and to make himself unobtrusively necessary to people. Maud had no touch of this in her nature at all; her only ambitionseemed to be to be loved, which was accompanied by what seemed toHoward a marvellous incapacity for being shocked by anything; she waswholly innocent and ingenuous, but yet he found to his surprise thatshe knew something of the dark corners of life, and the moral problemsof village life were a matter of course to her. He had naturallysupposed that a girl would have been fenced round by illusions; but itwas not so. She had seen and observed and drawn her conclusions. Shethought very little of what one commonly called sins, and herindignation seemed aroused by nothing but cruelty and treachery. Itbecame clear to Howard that Mr. Sandys and Mrs. Graves had been verywise in the matter, and that Maud had not been brought up in any sillyignorance of human frailty. Her religion was equally a surprise to him. He had thought that a girl brought up as Maud had been would be sure tohold a tissue of accepted beliefs which he must be careful not todisturb. But here again she seemed to have little but a few fineprinciples, set in a simple Christian framework. They were talkingabout this one day, and Maud laughed at something he said. 

"You need not be so cautious, " she said, "though I like you to becautious--you are afraid of hurting me; but you won't do that! CousinAnne taught me long ago that it was no use believing anything unlessyou understood more or less where it was leading you. It's no goodpretending to know. Cousin Anne once said to me that one had to choosebetween science and superstition. I don't know anything about science, but I'm not superstitious. "

"Yes, " said Howard, "I see--I won't be fussy any more; I will justspeak as I think. You are wiser than the aged, child! You will have tohelp me out. I am a mass of crusted prejudices, I find; but you aremelting them all away. What beats me is how you found it all out. "

Thus the hours they spent together became to Howard not only a sourceof joy, but an extraordinary simplification of everything. Maud seemedto have lived an absolutely uncalculating life, without any idea ofmaking any position for herself at all; and it sickened Howard to thinkhow so much of his own existence had been devoted to getting on theright side of people, driving them on a light rein, keeping them deftlyin his own control. Maud laughed at this description of himself, andsaid, "Yes, but of course that was your business. I should have been avery tiresome kind of Don; we don't either of us want to punish people, but I want to alter them. I can't bear stupid people, I think. I hadrather people were clever and unsatisfactory than dull and good. Ifthey are dull there's no reason for their being good. I like people tohave reasons!"

They talked--how often they did that!--about the complications that hadbeset them. 

"The one thing I can't make out, " said Maud, "is how or why you everthought I cared for that little boy. He was such a nice boy; but he hadno reasons. Oh, dear, how wretched he made me!"

"Well, " said Howard, "I must ask you this--what did really happen onthat awful afternoon at the Folly?"

Maud covered her face with her hands. "It was too dreadful!" she said. "First of all, you were looking like Hamlet--you don't know howromantic you looked! I did really believe that you cared for me then--Icouldn't help it--but there was some veil between us; and the number oftimes I telegraphed from my brain to you that day, 'Can't youunderstand?' was beyond counting. I suppose it was very unmaidenly, butI was past that. Then there was that horrible imitation; such adisgusting parody! and then I was prouder of you than ever, because youreally took it so well. I was too angry after that for anything, andwhen you went off with father, and Monica sketched and Jack lay downand smoked, Freddy Guthrie walked off with me, and I said to him, 'Ireally cannot think how you dared to do that--I think it was simplyshameful!' Well, he got quite white, and he did not attempt to excusehimself; and I believe I said that if he did not put it straight withyou, I would never speak to him again: and then I rather repented; andthen he began making love to me, and said the sort of things people sayin books. Howard, I believe that people really do talk like books whenthey get excited--at all events it was like a bad novel! But I was verystern--I can be very stern when I am angry--and said I would not hearanother word, and would go straight back if he said any more; and thenhe said something about wanting to be friends, and wanting to have somehope; and then I got suddenly sorry about it all--it seemed such awaste of time--and shook hands with him, feeling as if I was acting inan absurd play, and said that of course we were friends; and I think Iinsisted again on his apologising to you, and he said that I seemed tocare more for your peace of mind than his; and I simply walked away andhe followed, and I shouldn't be surprised if he was crying; it was alllike a nightmare; but I did somehow contrive to make it up with himlater, and told him that I thought him a very nice boy indeed. "

"I daresay that was a great comfort to him, " said Howard. 

"I meant it to be, " said Maud, "but I did not feel I could go on actingin a sort of melodrama. "

"Now, I am very inquisitive, " said Howard, "and you needn't answer meif you don't like--but that day that I met you going away from AuntAnne--oh, what a pig I was! I was at the top of my highmindedgame--what had happened then?"

"Of course I will tell you, " said Maud, "if you want to know. Well, Irather broke down, and said that things had gone wrong; that you hadbegun by being so nice to me, and we seemed to have made friends; andthat then a cloud had come between us: and then Cousin Anne said itwould be all right, she KNEW; and she said some things about you Iwon't repeat, to save your modesty; and then she said, 'Don't beAFRAID, Maud! don't be ashamed of caring for people! Howard is used tomaking friends with boys, and he is puzzled by you; he wants a friendlike you, but he is afraid of caring for people. You are not afraid ofhim nor he of you, but he is afraid of his own fear. ' She did not seemto know how I cared, but she put it all right somehow; she prayed withme, for courage and patience; and I felt I could afford to wait and seewhat happened. "

"And then?" said Howard. 

"Why, you know the rest!" said Maud. "I saw as we sate by the wall, ina flash, that you did indeed care for me, and I thought to myself, 'Here is the best thing in the world, and we can't be going to miss itout of politeness;' and then it was all over in a moment!"

"Politeness!" said Howard, "yes, it was all politeness; that's mygreatest sin. Yes, " he added, "I do thank God with all my heart foryour sweet courage that day!" He drew Maud's hand into his own, as theysate together on the grass just above the shingle of the little bay, where the sea broke on the sands with crisp wavelets, and ran like afine sheet of glass over the beach. "Look at this little hand, " hesaid, "and let me try to believe that it is given me of its own willand desire!"

"Yes, " said Maud, smiling, "and you may cut it off at the wrist if youlike--I won't even wince. I have no further use for it, I believe!"Howard folded it to his heart, and felt the little pulse beat in theslender wrist; and presently the sun went down, a ball of fire into theopalescent sea-line. 

XXV

THE NEW KNOWLEDGE

But the weeks which followed Howard's marriage were a great deal morethan a refreshing discovery of companionable and even unexpectedqualities. There was something which came to him, of which the words, the gestures, the signs of love seemed like faint symbols; the essenceof it was obscure to him; it reminded him of how, as a child, alaughing group of which he was one had joined hands to receive agalvanic shock; the circle had dislinked again in a moment, with criesof surprise and pleasure; but to Howard it had meant much more thanthat; the current gave him a sense of awful force and potency, thepotency of death. What was this strange and fearful essence which couldpass instantaneously through a group--swifter even than thought--andleave the nerves for a moment paralysed and tingling? Even so it waswith him now. What was happening to him he did not know--some vast andcloudy presence, at which he could not even dare to look, seemedwinging its way overhead, the passage of which he could only dimlydiscern, as a man might discern the flight of an eagle in abreeze-ruffled mountain pool. 

He had come in contact with a force of incalculable energy and joy, which was different, not in degree but in kind, from all previousemotional experiences. He understood for the first time the meaning ofwords like "mystical" and "spiritual, " words which he had hithertoalmost derided as unintelligent descriptions of subjective impressions. He had thought them to be terms expressive of vague and even muddledemotions of which scientific psychology would probably dispose. It wasa new element and a new force, of which he felt overwhelmingly certain, though he could offer no proof, tangible or audible, of its existence. He had before always demanded that anyone who attempted to uphold theexistence of any psychic force should at the same time offer anexperimental test of its actuality. But he was here faced with anexperience transcendental and subjective, of which he could give noaccount that would not sound like some imaginative exaggeration. He wasnot even sure that Maud felt it, or rather he suspected that theexperience of wedded love was to her the heightening and emphasizing ofsomething which she had always known. 

The essence of it was that it was like the inrush of some moving tidethrough an open sluice-gate. Till then it seemed to him that hisemotions had been tranquilly discharging themselves, like the waterwhich drips from the edge of a fountain basin; that now somethingstronger and larger seemed to flow back upon him, something externaland prodigious, which at the same time seemed, not only to invade andpermeate his thought but to become one with himself; that was thewonder; it did not seem to him like something added to his spirit, butas though his soul were enlarged and revived by a force which was hisown all the time, an unclaimed, unperceived part of himself. 

He said something of this to Maud, speaking of the happiness that shehad brought him. She said, "Ah, you can't expect me to realise that! Ifeel as though you were giving everything and receiving nothing, as ifI were one more of the duties you had adopted. Of course, I hope that Imay be of some use, some time; but I feel at present as if you had beenstriding on your way somewhere, and had turned aside to comfort andhelp a little child by the roadside who had lost his way!"

"Oh, " said Howard, "it's not that; it isn't only that you are the joyand light of my life; it is as if something very far away and powerfulhad come nearer to both of us, and had lifted us on its wings--what ifit were God?"

"Yes, " said Maud musingly, "I think it is that!"

XXVI

LOVE IS ENOUGH

The days slipped past, one by one, with an incredible swiftness. Forthe first time in his life Howard experienced the extraordinarysensation of having nothing to do, no plans ahead, nothing but thedelight of the hour to taste. One day he said to Maud, "It seems almostwicked to be so deliciously idle--some day I suppose we must make someplans. But I do not seem ever to have lived before; and all that I everdid and thought of seems as small and trivial as a little town seenfrom the top of a tower--one can't conceive what the little creaturesare about in their tiny slits of streets and stuffy houses, crawlingabout like beetles on some ridiculous business. The first thing I shalldo when I get back will be to burn my old book; such wretched, stodgy, unenlightened stuff as it all is; like the fancies of a blind man aboutthe view of a landscape. "

"Oh no, you mustn't do that, " said Maud. "I have set my heart on yourwriting a great book. You must do that--you must finish this one. I amnot going to keep you all to myself, like a man pushing about aperambulator. "

"Well, I will begin a new book, " said Howard, "and steal an old title. It shall be called Love is Enough. "

On the last night before they left the cottage they talked long aboutthings past, present, and to come. 

"Now, " said Maud, "I am not going to be a gushing and sentimental youngbride any more. I am not sentimental, best-beloved! Do you believethat? The time we have had here together has been the best and sweetesttime of my whole life, every minute worth all the years that wentbefore. But you must write that down, as Dr. Johnson said, in the firstpage of your pocket-book, and never speak of it again. It's all toogood and too sacred to talk about--almost to think about. And I don'tbelieve in looking BACK, Howard--nor very much, I think, in lookingforward. I know that I wasted ever so much time and energy as agirl--how long ago that seems!--in wishing I had done this and that;but it's neither useful nor pleasant. Now we have got things to do. There is plenty to do at Windlow for a little for you and me. We havegot to know everybody and understand everybody. And I think that whenthe year is out, we must go back to Cambridge. I can't bear to think Ihave stopped that. I am not going to hoard you, and cling round you. You have got things to do for other people, young men in particular, which no one else can do just like you. I am not a bit ambitious. Idon't want you to be M. P. , LL. D. , F. R. S. , &c. , &c. , &c. , but I do wantyou to do things, and to help you to do things. I don't want to be asort of tea-table Egeria to the young men--I don't mean that--and Idon't wish to be an interesting and radiant object at dinner-tables;but I am sure there is trouble I can save you, and I don't intend youto have any worries except your own. I won't smudge my fingers over theaccounts, like that wretched Dora in David Copperfield. Understandthat, Howard; I won't be your girl-bride. I won't promise that I won'twear spectacles and be dowdy--anything to be prosaic!"

"You may adorn yourself as you please, " said Howard, "and of course, dearest child, there are hundreds of things you can do for me. I am thefeeblest of managers; I live from hand to mouth; but I am not going tosubmerge you either. If you won't be the girl-bride, you are not to bethe professional sunbeam either. You are to be just yourself, the onereal, sweet, and perfect thing in the world for me. Chairekecharitoenae--do you know what that means? It was the angel's opinionlong ago of a very simple mortal. We shall affect each other, sureenough, as the days go on. Why what you have done for me already, Idare hardly think--you have made a man out of a machine--but we won'tgo about trying to revise each other; that will take care of itself. Ionly want you as you are--the best thing in the world. "

The last morning at Lydstone they were very silent; they took one longwalk together, visiting all the places where they had sate andlingered. Then in the afternoon they drove away. The old maidservantgave them, with almost tearful apologies, two little ill-tied posies offlowers, and Maud kissed her, thanked her, made her promise to write. As they drove away Maud waved her hand to the little cove--"Good-bye, Paradise!" she said. 

"No, " said Howard, "don't say that; the swallow doesn't make thesummer; and I am carrying the summer away with me. "

XXVII

THE NEW LIFE

The installation at Windlow seemed as natural and obvious as any otherof the wonderful steps of Howard's new life. The only thing whichbothered him was the incursions of callers, to which his marriageseemed to have rendered the house liable. Howard loved monotony, and inthe little Windlow party he found everything that he desired. At firstit all rather amused him, because he felt as though he were acting in acharming and absurd play, and he was delighted to see Maud act herwedded part. Mrs. Graves frankly enjoyed seeing people of any sort orkind. But Howard gradually began to find that the arrival of county andclerical neighbours was a really tiresome thing. Local gossip wasunintelligible to him and did not interest him. Moreover, the necessityof going out to luncheon, and even to dinner, bored him horribly. Hesaid once rather pettishly to Maud, after a week of constantinterruptions and little engagements, that he hoped that this sort ofthing would not continue. 

"It seems to knock everything on the head, " he went on; "these countryidylls are all very well in their way; but when it comes toentertaining parties day by day, who 'sit simply chatting in a rusticrow, ' it becomes intolerable. It doesn't MEAN anything; one can't getto know these people; if there is anything to know, they seem to thinkit polite to conceal it; it can't be a duty to waste all the time thatthis takes up?"

Maud laughed and said, "Oh, you must forgive them; they haven't much todo or talk about, and you are a great excitement; and you are reallyvery good to them!"

Howard made a grimace. "It's my wretched habit of civility!" he said. "But really, Maud, you can't LIKE them?"

"Yes, I believe I do, " said Maud. "But then I am more or less used tothe kind of thing. I like people, I think!"

"Yes, so do I, in a sort of way, " said Howard; "but, really, with someof these caravans it is more like having a flock of sheep in the place!"

"Well, I like SHEEP, then, " said Maud; "I don't really see how we canstop it. "

"I suppose it's the seamy side of marriage!" said Howard. 

Maud looked at him for a moment, and then, getting up from her chairand coming across to him, she put her hands on his shoulders and lookedin his face. 

"Are you VEXED?" she said in rather a tragic tone. 

"No, of course, not vexed, " said Howard, catching her round the waist. "What an idea! I am only jealous of everything which seems to come inbetween us, and I have seemed to see you lately through a mist of oddlydressed females. It's a system, I suppose, a social system, to enablepeople to waste their time. I feel as if I had got caught in a sort ofglue--wading in glue. One ought to live life, or the best part of it, on one's own lines. I feel as if I was on show just now, and it's anuisance. "

"Well, " said Maud, "I am afraid I do rather like showing you off andfeeling grand; but it won't go on for ever. I'll try to contrivesomething. I don't see why you need be drawn in. I'll talk to CousinAnne about it. "

"But I am not going to mope alone, " said Howard. "Where thou goest, Iwill go. I can't bear to let you out of my sight, you little witch! ButI feel it is casting pearls before swine--your pearls, I mean. "

"I don't see what to do, " said Maud, looking rather troubled. "I oughtto have seen that you hated it. "

"No, it's my own stupid fault, " said Howard. "You are right, and I amwrong. I see it is my business at present to go about like a dancingbear, and I'll dance, I'll dance! It's priggish to think about wastingone's sweetness. What I really feel is this. 'Here's an hour, ' I say, 'when I might have had Maud all to myself, and she and I have beentalking about the weather to a pack of unoccupied females. '"

"Something comes of it, " said Maud. "I don't know what it is, but it'sa kind of chain. I don't think it matters much what they talk about, but there is a sort of kindness about it which I like--something whichlies behind ideas. These people don't say anything, but they thinksomething into one--it's alive, and it moves. "

"Oh, yes, " said Howard, "it's alive, no doubt. It would amuse me a gooddeal to see these people at home, if I could just be hidden in thecurtains, and hear what they really talked about, and what they reallyfelt. It's when they have their armour on that they bore me. It is nota pretty armour, and they don't wear it well; they don't fight init--they only wear it that you mayn't touch them. If they would givethemselves away and talk like Miss Bates, I could stand it. "

"Well, " said Maud, "I am going to say something rather bold. It comes, I think, of living at Cambridge with clever people, and having realthings to talk about, that makes your difficulty. You care aboutpeople's minds more than about themselves, perhaps? But I'm on theirlevel, and they seem to me to be telling something about themselves allthe time. Of course it must be GHASTLY for you, and we will try toarrange things better. "

"No, dearest, you won't, and you mustn't, " said Howard. "That's thebest of marriage, that one does get a glimpse into different things. You are perfectly and entirely right. It simply means that I can't talktheir language, and I will learn it. I am a prig; your husband is aprig--but he will try to do better. It isn't a duty, and it isn't apleasure, and it isn't a question of minds at all. It is just livinglife on ordinary terms. I won't have anything different at all. I'mashamed of myself for my moans. When I have anything in the way of workto do, it may be different. But now I see what I have to do. I amsuffering from the stupidity of so-called clever people; and youmustn't mind it. Only don't, for Heaven's sake, try to contrive, or tospare me things. That is how the ugly paterfamilias is made. Youmustn't spoil me or manage me; if I ever suspect you of doing that, I'll just go back to Cambridge alone. I hate even to have made you lookat me as you did just now--you must forgive me that and many otherthings; and now you must promise just this, that if I am snappish youwon't give way; you must not become a slipper-warmer. "

"Yes, yes, I promise, " said Maud, laughing; "here's my hand on it! Youshall be diligently henpecked. But I am always rather puzzled aboutthese things; all these old ideas about mutual consolation and adviceand improvement and support ought to be THERE--they all meansomething--they mean a great deal! But the moment they are spokenabout, or even thought about, they seem so stuffy and disgusting. Idon't understand it! I feel that one ought to be able to talk plainlyabout anything; and yet the more plainly you talk about such things asthese, the more hateful you are, and the meaner you feel!"

XXVIII

THE VICAR'S VIEW

Another small factor which caused Howard some discomfort was theconversation of the Vicar. This, at the first sight of Windlow, hadbeen one of the salient features of the scene. It had been amusing tosee the current of a human mind running so frankly open to inspection;and, moreover, the Vicar's constantly expressed deference for theexalted quality of Howard's mind and intellectual outfit, though it hadnot been seriously regarded, had at least an emollient effect. But itis one thing to sit and look on at a play and to be entertained by thecomic relief of some voluble character, and quite another to encounterthat volubility at full pressure in private life. There was a certaincharm at first in the Vicar's inconsequence and volatility; but indaily intercourse the good man's lack of proportion, his indiscriminateinterest in things in general, proved decidedly fatiguing. Given acrisis, and the Vicar's view was interesting, because it was, as arule, exactly the view which the average man would be likely to take, melodramatic, sentimental, commonplace, with this difference, thatwhereas the average man is tongue-tied and has no faculty ofexpression, the Vicar had an extraordinarily rich and emphaticvocabulary; and it was thus an artistic presentment of the ordinarystandpoint. But in daily life the Vicar talked with impregnablecontinuity about any subject in which he happened to be interested. Helistened to no comment; he demanded no criticism. If he conversed abouthis parishioners or his fellow-parsons or his country neighbours, itwas not uninteresting; but when it was genealogy or folklore orprehistoric remains, it was merely a tissue of scraps, clawed out ofbooks and imperfectly remembered. Howard found himself respecting theVicar more and more; he was so kindly, so unworldly, so full ofperfectly guileless satisfaction: he was conscious too of his ownirrepressibility. He said to Howard one day, as they were walkingtogether, "Do you know, Howard, I often think how many blessings youhave brought us--I assure you, quiet and modest as you are, you arefelt, your influence permeates to the very ends of the parish; I cannotexactly say what it is, but there's a sense of something that has to bedealt with, to be reckoned with, a mind of force and energy in thebackground; your approval is valued, your disapproval is feared. Thereis a consciousness, not perhaps expressed or even actually realised, ofcondescension, of gratification at one from so different a spherecoming among us, sharing our problems, offering us, howeverunobtrusively, sympathy and fellow-feeling. It's very human, veryhuman, " said the Vicar, "and that's a large word! But among all theblessings which I say you have brought us, of course my dear girl'shappiness must come first in my regard; and there I hardly know how toexpress what a marvellous difference you have made! And then I feelthat I, too, have come in for some crumbs from the feast, like the dogsunder the table mentioned so eloquently in Scripture--sustenanceunregarded and unvalued, no doubt, by yourself--cast out inevitably andnaturally as light from the sun! It is not only the actual dicta, " saidthe Vicar, "though these alone are deeply treasured; it's the method ofthought, the reserve, the refinement, which I find insensibly affectingmy own mental processes. Before I was a mere collector of details. NowI find myself saying, 'What is the aim of all this? What is thesynthesis? Where does it come in? Where does it tend to?' I have not asyet found any very definite answer to these self-questionings, but thenew spirit, the synthetic spirit, is there; and I find myself tooconcentrating my expression; I have become conscious in your presenceof a certain diffuseness of talk--I used, I think, to indulge much insynonyms and parallel clauses--a characteristic, I have seen it said, of our immortal Shakespeare himself--but I have found myself latelyconsidering the aim, the effect, the form of my utterances, and havepractised--mainly in my sermons--a certain economy of language, which Ihope has been perceptible to other minds besides my own. "

"I always think your sermons very good, " said Howard, quite sincerely;"they seem to me arrows deliberately aimed at a definite target--theyhave the grace of congruity, as the articles say. "

"You are very good, " said the Vicar. "I am really overwhelmed; but Imust admit that your presence--the mere chance of your presence--hasmade me exercise an unwonted caution, and indeed introduce now and thenan idea which is perhaps rather above the comprehension of my flock!"

"But may I go back for one moment?" said Howard. "You will forgive myasking this--but what you said just now about Maud interested me verymuch, and of course pleased me enormously. I would do anything I couldto make her happy in any way--I wish you would tell me how and in whatyou think her more content. I want to learn all I can about her earlierdays--you must remember that all that is unknown to me. Won't youexercise your powers of analysis for my benefit?"

"You are very kind, " said the Vicar in high delight; "let me see, letme see! Well, dear Maud as a girl had always a very high and anxioussense of responsibility and duty. She conceived of herself--perhapsowing to some chance expressions of my own--as bound as far as possibleto fill the place of her dear mother--a gap, of course, that it wasimpossible to fill, --my own pursuits are, you will realise, meredistractions, or, to be frank, were originally so designed, to combatmy sense of loss. But I am personally not a man who makes a morbiddemand for sympathy--I have little use for sympathy. I face my troublesalone; I suffer alone, " said the Vicar with an incredible relish. "Andthen Jack is an independent boy, and has no taste for being dominated. So that I fear that dear Maud's most touching efforts hardly fell onvery responsive soil. She felt, I think, the failure of her efforts;and kind as Cousin Anne is, there is, I think, a certain vagueness ofoutline about her mind. I would not call her a fatalist, but she haslittle conception of the possibility of moulding character;--it's arich mind, but perhaps an indecisive mind? Maud needed a vocation--sheneeded an aim. And then, too, you have perhaps observed--or possibly, "said the Vicar gleefully, "she has effaced that characteristic out ofdeference to your own great power of amiable toleration--but she had acertain incisiveness of speech which had some power to wound? I willgive you a small instance. Gibbs, the schoolmaster, is a very worthyman, but he has a certain flightiness of manner and disposition. DearMaud, talking about him one day at our luncheon-table, said that oneread in books how some people had to struggle with some underlyingbeast in their constitution, the voracious man, let us say, with thepig-like element, the cruel man with the tiger-like quality. 'Mr. Gibbs, ' she said, 'seems to me to be struggling not with a beast, butwith a bird. ' She went on very amusingly to say that he reminded her ofa wagtail, tripping along with very short steps, and only saved byadroitness from overbalancing. It was a clever description of poorGibbs--but I felt it somehow to be indiscreet. Well, you know, poorGibbs came to me a few days later--you realise how gossip spreads inthese places--and said that he was hurt in his mind to think that MissMaud should call him a water-wagtail. Servants' tattle, I suppose. Iwas considerably annoyed at this, and Maud insisted on going toapologise to Gibbs, which was a matter of some delicacy, because shecould not deny that she had applied the soubriquet--or is itsobriquet?--to him. That is just a minute instance of the sort of thingI mean. "

"I confess, " said Howard, "that I do recognise Maud's touch--she has astrong sense of humour. "

"A somewhat dangerous thing, " said Mr. Sandys. "I have a very strongsense of humour myself, or rather what might be called risibility. Noone enjoys a witty story or a laughable incident more than I do. But Ikeep it in check. The indulgence of humour is a risky thing; not veryconsistent with the pastoral office. But that is a small point; andwhat I am leading up to is this, that dear Maud's restlessness, andeven morbidity, has entirely disappeared; and this, my dear Howard, Iattribute entirely to your kind influence and discretion, of which weare all so conscious, and to the consciousness of which it is sopleasant to be able to give leisurely expression. "

But the Vicar was not always so fruitful a talker as this. Thedifficulty with him was to shift the points. There were long walks inMr. Sandys' company which were really of an almost nightmare quality. He had a way of getting into a genealogical mess, in which he used tosay that it cleared the air to be able to state the difficulties. 

Howard used to grumble a little over this to Mrs. Graves. "Yes, " shesaid, "if Frank were not so really unselfish a man, he would be a boreof purest ray serene; but his humanity breaks through. I made a compactwith him long ago, and told him plainly that there were certainsubjects he must not talk to me about. I suppose you couldn't do that?"

"No, " said Howard, "I can't do that. It's my greatest weakness, Ibelieve, that I can't say a good-natured decisive thing, until I amreally brought to bay--and then I say much more than I need, and not atall good-naturedly. I must get what fun out of Frank I can. There's agood deal sprinkled about; and one comfort is that Maud understands. "

"Yes, " said Mrs. Graves, "she understands! I know no one who seesweaknesses in so absolutely clear a light as Maud, and who can at thesame time so wholly neglect them in the light of love. "

"That's good news for me, " said Howard, "and it is absolutely true. "

XXIX

THE CHILD

The day on which Howard learned that Maud would bear him a child was aday of very strangely mixed emotions. He saw how the hope dawned on thespirit of Maud like the rising of a star, and he could rejoice in thatwith whole-hearted joy, in the mere sharing of a beautiful secret; butit was strange to him to see how to Maud it seemed like the realisationand fulfilling of all desire, the entering into a kingdom; it was notonly the satisfaction of all the deepest vital processes, but somethingglorious, unthinkable, the crowning of destiny, the summit of life. There was no reasoning about it; it was the purest and finest instinct. But with Howard it was not thus. He could not look beyond Maud; and itseemed to him like the dawning of a new influence, a new fealty, whichwould almost come in between him and his wife, a division of heraffections. She seemed to him, in the few tremulous words they spoke, to have her eyes fixed on something beyond him; it was not so much agift that she was bringing him as a claim of further devotion. Herealised with a shock of surprise that in the books he had read, in theimagined crises of life, the thought of the child, the heir, theoffshoot, was supposed to come as the crown of father's and mother'shopes alike, and that it was not so with him. Was he jealous of the newclaim? It was something like that. He found himself resolving anddetermining that no hint of this should ever escape him; he even feltdeeply ashamed that such a thought should even have crossed his mind. He ought rather to rejoice wholly and completely in Maud's happiness;but he desired her alone, and so passionately that he could not bear tohave any part of the current of her soul diverted from him. As helooked forward through the years, it was Maud and himself, in sceneafter scene; other relations, other influences, other surroundingsmight fade and decay--but children, however beautiful and delightful, making the house glad with life and laughter, he was not sure that hewanted them. Yet he had always thought that he possessed a strongpaternal instinct, an interest in young life, in opening problems. Hadthat all, he wondered, been a mere interest, a thing to exercise hisenergy and amiability upon, and had his enjoyment of it all dependedupon his real detachment, upon the fact that his responsibility wasonly a temporary one? It was all very bewildering to him. Moreover, hisquiet and fertile imagination flashed suddenly through pictures of whathis beloved Maud might have to endure, such a frail child as shewas--illness, wretchedness, suffering. Would he be equal to all that?Could he play the role of tranquil patience, of comforting sympathy? Hedetermined not to anticipate that, but it blew like a cold wind on hisspirit; he could not bear that the sunshine of life should be clouded. 

He had a talk with his aunt on the subject; she had divined, in somemarvellous way, the fact that the news had disturbed him; and she said, "Of course, dear Howard, I quite understand that this is not the samething to you as it is to Maud and me. It is one of the things whichdivide, and must always divide, men from women. But there is somethingbeyond what you see: I know that it must seem to you as if somethingalmost disconcerting had passed over life--as if such a hope mustabsorb the heart of a mother; but there is a thing you cannot know, andthat is the infinite dearness in which this involves you. You wouldthink perhaps that it could not be increased in Maud's case, but it isincreased a hundredfold--it is a splendour, a worship, as of divinecreative power. Don't be afraid! Don't look forward! You will see dayby day that this has brought Maud's love for you to a point of whichyou could hardly dream. Words can't touch these things: you must justbelieve me that it is so. You will think that a childless wife likemyself cannot know this. There is a strange joy even in childlessness, but it is the joy that comes from the sharing of a sorrow; but the joywhich comes from sharing a joy is higher yet. "

"Yes, " said Howard, "I know it, and I believe it. I will tell you veryfrankly that you have looked into my very heart; but you have not seenquite into the depths: I see my own weakness and selfishness clearly. With every part of my mind and reason I see the wonder and strength ofthis; and I shall feel it presently. What has shocked me is just mylack of the truer instinct; but then, " he added, smiling, "that's justthe shadow of comfort and ease and the intellectual life: one goes sofar on one's way without stumbling across these big emotions; and whenone does actually meet them, one is frightened at their size andstrength. You must advise and help me. You know, I am sure, that mylove for Maud is the strongest, largest, purest thing, beyond allcomparison and belief, that has ever happened to me. I am never for asingle instant unaware of it. I sometimes think there is nothing elseleft of me; and then this happens, and I see that I have not gone deepenough yet. "

"Yes, " said Mrs. Graves, smiling, "life is like the sea, I think. Whenone is a child, it is just a great plain of waters, with little shipssailing on it: it is pleasant to play by, with breaking waves to wadein, and little treasures thrown up on its rim; then, as one knows more, one realises that it is another world, full of its own urgent life, quite regardless of man, and over which man has no power, except by alittle trickery in places. Man is just a tiresome, far-off incident, his ships like little moving shadows, his nets and lines like smallfretful devices. But the old wise monsters of the depths live their ownlives; never seen perhaps, or even suspected, by men. That's all verysilly and fanciful, of course! But old and invalided as I am, I seem tobe diving deeper and deeper into life, and finding it full of surprisesand mysteries and utterly unexpected things. "

"Well, " said Howard, "I am still a child on the shore, picking upshells, fishing in the shallows. But I have learned something of late, and it is wonderful beyond thought--so wonderful that I feel sometimesas if I was dreaming, and should wake up to find myself in some othercentury!"

It did indeed soon dawn upon Howard that there was a change in Maud, that their relations had somehow altered and deepened. The littlebarrier of age, for one thing, which he had sometimes felt, seemedobliterated. There had been in Howard's mind a sense that he had knowna number of hard facts and ugly features about life, had been aware ofmean, combative, fierce, cruel elements which were hidden from Maud. Now this all seemed to be purged away; if these things were there, theywere not worth knowing, except to be disregarded. They were basematerial knowledge which one must not even recognise; they were notreal forces at all, only ugly, stubborn obstacles, through which lifemust pass, like water flowing among rocks; they were not life, only thechannel of life, through which one passed to something more free andgenerous. He began to perceive that such things mattered nothing at allto Maud; that her life would have been just as fine in quality if shehad lived in the smallest cottage among the most sordid cares. He sawthat she possessed the wisdom which he had missed, because she lived inand for emotion and affection, and that all material things existedonly to enshrine and subserve emotion. 

Their life seemed to take on a new colour and intensity. They talkedless; up till now it had been a perpetual delight to Howard to elicitMaud's thoughts and fancies about a thousand things, about books, people, ideas. Her prejudices, ignorances, enthusiasms half charmed, half amused him. But now they could sit or walk silent together in aneven more tranquil happiness; nearness was enough, and thought seemedto pass between them without need of speech. Howard began to resume hiswork; it was enough that Maud should sit by, reading, working, writing. A glance would pass between them and suffice. 

One day Howard laid down his pen, and looking up, having finished achapter, saw that Maud's eyes were fixed upon him with an anxiousintentness. She was sitting in a low chair near the fire, and an openbook lay disregarded on her knee. He went across to her and sat down ona low chair beside her, taking her hand in his. 

"What is it, dear child?" he said. "Am I very selfish and stupid to sithere without a word like this?"

Maud put her lips to his hand, and laughed a contented laugh. "Oh no, no, " she said; "I like to see you hard at work--there seems no need tosay anything--it's just you and me!"

"Well, " said Howard, "you must just tell me what you were thinking--youhad travelled a long way beyond that. "

"Not out of your reach, " said Maud; "I was just thinking how differentmen and women were, and how I liked you to be different. I wasremembering how awfully mysterious you were at first--so full to thebrim of strange things which I could not fathom. I always seemed to bedislodging something I had never thought of. I used to wonder how youcould find time, in the middle of it all, to care about me: you werealways giving me something. But now it has all grown so much simplerand more wonderful too. It's like what you said about Cambridge longago, the dark secret doorways, the hidden gardens; I see now that allthose ideas and thoughts are only things you are carrying with you, like luggage. They are not part of you at all. Don't you know how, whenone is quite a child, a person's house seems to be all a mysteriouspart of himself? One thinks he has chosen and arranged it all, knowswhere everything is and what it means--everything seems to be a sort ofdeliberate expression of his tastes and ideas--and, then one getsolder, and finds out that people don't know what is in their houses atall--there are rooms into which they never go; and then one finds thatthey don't even see the things in their own rooms, have forgotten howthey came there, wouldn't know if they were taken away. My, I used tofeel as if the scents and smells of houses were all arranged and chosenby their owners. It's like that with you; all the things you know andremember, the words you speak, are not YOU at all; I see and feel younow apart from all that. "

"I am afraid I have lost what novelists call my glamour, " said Howard. "You have found me out, the poor, shivering, timid thing that sits likea wizard in the middle of his properties, only hoping that the stuffedcrocodile and the skeleton will frighten his visitors. "

Maud laughed. "Well, I am not frightened any more, " she said. "I doubtif you could frighten me if you tried. I wonder how I should feel if Isaw you angry or chilly. Are you ever angry, I wonder?"

"I think some of my pupils would say that I could be verydisagreeable, " said Howard. "I don't think that I was ever very fierce, but I have realised that I was on occasions very unpleasant. "

"Well, I'll wait and see, " said Maud; "but what I was going to say wasthat you seem to me different--hardly the person I married. I used towonder a little at first how I had had the impudence . . . And then Iused to think that perhaps some day you would wake up, and find you hadcome to the bottom of the well, but you never seemed disappointed. "

"Disappointed!" said Howard; "what terrible rubbish! Why Maud, don'tyou KNOW what you have done for me? You have put the whole thingstraight. It's just that. I was full of vanities and thoughts and bitsof knowledge, and I really think I thought them important--they AREimportant too, like food and drink--one must have them--at least menmust--but they don't matter; at least it doesn't matter what they are. Men have always to be making and doing things--business, money, positions, duties; but the point is to know that they are unimportant, and yet to go on doing them as if they mattered--one must dothat--seriously and not solemnly; but you have somehow put all that inthe right place; and I know now what matters and what does not. There, do you call that nothing?"

"Perhaps we have found it out together, " said Maud; "the onlydifference is that you have the courage to tell me that you were wrong, while I have never even dared to tell you what a hollow sham I am, andwhat a mean and peevish child I was before you came on the scene. "

"Well, we won't look into your dark past, " said Howard. "I am quitecontent with what they call the net result!" and then they satetogether in silence, and had no further need of words. 

XXX

CAMBRIDGE AGAIN

Howard was summoned to Cambridge in June for a College meeting. He wasvery glad to see Cambridge and the familiar faces; but he had not beenparted from Maud for a day since their marriage, and he was ratheramazed to find, not that he missed her, but how continuously he missedher from moment to moment; the fact that he could not compare noteswith her about every incident seemed to rob the incidents of theirsavour, and to produce a curious hampering of his thoughts. A change, too, seemed to have passed over the College; his rooms were just as hehad left them, but everything seemed to have narrowed and contracted. He saw a great many of the undergraduates, and indeed was delighted tofind how they came in to see him. 

Guthrie was one of the first to arrive, and Howard was glad to meet himalone. Howard was sorry to see that the cheerful youth had evidentlybeen feeling acutely what had happened; he had not lost his spirits, but he had a rather worn aspect. He inquired about the Windlow party, and they talked of indifferent things; but when Guthrie rose to go, hesaid, speaking with great diffidence, "I wanted to say one thing toyou, and now I do not know how to express it; it is that I don't wantyou to think I feel in any way aggrieved--that would be simplyabsurd--but more than that, I want to say that I think you behavedquite splendidly at Windlow--really splendidly! I hope you don't thinkit is impertinent for me to say that, but I want you to know howgrateful I am to you--Jack told me what had happened--and I thoughtthat if I said nothing, you might feel uncomfortable. Please don't feelanything of the kind--I only wish with all my heart that I could thinkI could behave as you did if I had been in your place, and I want to befriends. "

"Yes indeed, " said Howard, "I think it is awfully good of you to speakabout it. You won't expect me, " he added, smiling, "to say that I wishit had turned out otherwise; but I do hope you will be happy, with allmy heart; and you will know that you will have a real welcome atWindlow if ever you care to come there. "

The young man shook hands in silence with Howard, and went out with asmile. "Oh, I shall be all right, " he said. 

Jack sate up late with Howard and treated him to a long grumble. 

"I do hope to goodness you will come back to Cambridge, " he said. "Youmust simply make Maud come. You must use your influence, your beautifulinfluence, of which we hear so much. Seriously, I do miss you here verymuch, and so does everybody else. Your pupils are in an awful stew. They say that you got them through the Trip without boring them, andthat Crofts bores them and won't get them through. This place rathergets on my nerves now. The Dons don't confide in me, and I don't seethings from their angle, as my father says. I think you somehow managedto keep them reasonable; they are narrow-minded men, I think. "

"This is rather a shower of compliments, " said Howard. "But I think Ivery likely shall come back. I don't think Maud would mind. "

"Mind!" said Jack, "why you wind that girl round your little finger. She writes about you as if you were an archangel; and look here, I amsorry I took a gloomy view. It's all right; you were the right person. Freddy Guthrie would never have done for Maud--he's in a great wayabout it still, but I tell him he may be thankful to have escaped. Maudis a mountain-top kind of girl; she could never have got on without alot of aspirations, she couldn't have settled down to the country-housekind of life. You are a sort of privilege, you know, and all that;Freddy Guthrie would never have been a privilege. "

"That's rather a horror!" said Howard; "you mustn't let these thingsout; you make me nervous!"

Jack laughed. "If your brother-in-law mayn't say this to you, I don'tknow who may. But seriously, really quite seriously, you are a biggerperson than I thought. I'll tell you why. I had a kind of feeling thatyou ought not to let me speak to you as you do, that you ought to havesnapped my head off. And then you seemed too much upset by what I said. I don't know if it was your tact; but you had your own way all thetime, with me and with everybody; you seemed to give way at everypoint, and yet you carried out your programme. I thought you hadn'tmuch backbone--there, the cat's out; and now I find that we were alldancing to your music. I like people to do that, and it amuses me tofind that I danced as obediently as anyone, when I really thought Icould make you do as I wished. I admire your way of going on: you makeeveryone think that you value their opinion, and yet you know exactlywhat you want and get it. "

Howard laughed. "I really am not such a diplomatist as that, Jack! I amnot a humbug; but I will tell you frankly what happens. What people sayand think, and even how they look, does affect me very much at thetime; but I have a theory that most people get what they really want. One has to be very careful what one wants in this world, not becauseone is disappointed, but because Providence hands it one with a smile;and then it often turns out to be an ironical gift--a punishment indisguise. "

"Maud shall hear that, " said Jack; "a punishment in disguise--that willdo her good, and take her down a peg or two. So you have found it outalready?"

"My dear Jack, " said Howard, "if you say anything of the kind, you willrepent it. I am not going to have Maud bothered just now with anynonsense. Do you hear that? The frankness of your family is one of itsgreatest charms--but you don't quite know how much the frankness ofbabes and sucklings can hurt--and you are not to experiment on Maud. "

Jack looked at Howard with a smile. "Here's the real man at last--thetyrant's vein! Of course, I obey. I didn't really mean it; and I liketo hear you speak like that; it's rather fine. "

Presently Jack said, "Now, about the Governor--rather a douche, Iexpect? But I see you can take care of yourself; he's hugelydelighted--the intellectual temperature rises in every letter I getfrom him. But I want to make sure of one thing. I'm not going to stayon here much longer. I don't want a degree--it isn't the slightest use, plain or coloured. I want to get to work. If you come up again nextterm, I can stand it, not otherwise. "

"Very well, " said Howard, "that's a bargain. I must just talk thingsover with Maud. If we come up to Cambridge in October, you will staytill next June. If we don't, you shall be planted in the business. Theywill take you in, I believe, at any time, but would prefer you tofinish your time here. "

"Yes, that's it, " said Jack, "but I want work: this is all right, in away, but it's mostly piffle. How all these Johnnies can dangle on, Idon't know; it's not my idea of life. "

"Well, there's no hurry, " said Howard, "but it shall be arranged as youwish. "

XXXI

MAKING THE BEST OF IT

Howard became aware that with his colleagues he had suddenly becomerather a person of importance. His "place" in the country was held insome dim way to increase the grandeur of the College. He found himselfdeferred to and congratulated. Mr. Redmayne was both caustic andaffectionate. 

"You look very well, I must say, " he said. "You have a touch of thelanded personage about you which becomes you. I should like you to comeback here for our sakes, but I shan't press it. And how is Madam? Ihope you have got rid of your first illusions? No? Well you must makehaste and be reasonable. I am not learned in the vagaries of femininetemperament, but I imagine that the fair sex like to be dominated, andyou will do that. You have a light hand on the reins--I always saidthat you rode the boys on the snaffle, but the curb is there! and inmatrimony--well, well, I am an old bachelor of course, and I have asuspicion of all nooses. Never mind my nonsense, Kennedy--what I likeabout you, if I may say so, is that you have authority withoutpretensions. People will do as you wish, just to please you; now I havealways to be cracking the whip. These fellows here are very worthy men, but they are not men of the world! They are honest and sober--indeedone can hardly get one of them to join one in a glass of port--but theyare limited, very limited. Now if only you could have kept clear ofmatrimony--no disrespect to Madam--what a comfortable time we mighthave had here! Man appoints and God disappoints--I suppose it is allfor the best. "

"Well, " said Howard, "I think you will me see back here in October--mywife is quite ready to come, and there isn't really much for me to doat Windlow. I believe I am to be on the bench shortly; but if I livethere in the vacations, that will be enough; and I don't feel that Ihave finished with Beaufort yet. "

"Excellent!" said Mr. Redmayne. "I commend Madam's good sense anddiscretion. Pray give her my regards, and say that we shall welcome herat Cambridge. We will make the best of it--and I confess that in yourplace--well, if all women were like Madam, I could view marriage withcomparative equanimity--though of course, I make the statement withoutprejudice. "

XXXII

HOWARD'S PROFESSION

When Howard came back from Cambridge he had a long talk with Maud overthe future; it seemed almost tacitly agreed that he should return tohis work there, at all events for a time. 

"I feel very selfish and pompous about all this, " said Howard; "MYwork, MY sphere--what nonsense it all is! Why should I come down toWindlow, take possession, and having picked the sweetest flower in thegarden, stick it in my buttonhole and march away?"

Maud laughed and said, "Oh, no, it isn't that--it is quite a simplematter. You have learnt a trade, a difficult trade; why should you giveit up? We don't happen to need the money, but that doesn't matter. Mybusiness is to take off your shoulders, if I can, all the troubleentailed on you by marrying me--it's simply a division of labour. Youcan't just settle down in the country as a small squire, with nothingmuch to do. People must do the work they can do, and I should bemiserable if I thought I had pulled you out of your place in the world. "

"I don't know, " said Howard; "there seems to me to be something ratherstuffy about it: why can't we just live? Women do; there is no fussmade about their work, and their need to express themselves; yet theydo it even more than men, and they do it without priggishness. My workat Cambridge is just what everyone else is doing, and if I don't do it, there will be half a dozen men capable of doing it and glad to do it. The great men of the world don't talk about the importance of theirwork: they just do whatever comes to hand--it's only the second-ratemen who say that their talents haven't full scope. Do you remember poorChambers, who was at lunch the other day? He told me that he hadmigrated from a town parish to a country parish, and that he missed theorganisation so much. 'There seems nothing to organise down in thecountry!' he said. 'Now in my town parish there was the whole machineto keep going--I enjoyed that, and I don't feel I am giving effect tothe best part of myself. ' That seemed to me such a pompous line, and Ifelt that I didn't want to be like that. One's work! how little itmatters! No one is indispensable--the disappearance of one man justgives another his chance. "

"Yes, of course, it is rather hard to draw the line, " said Maud, "and Ithink it is a pity to be solemn about it; but it seems to me so simplein this case. You can do the work--they want you back--there is noreason why you should not go back. "

"Perhaps it is mere laziness, " said Howard, "but I feel as if I wanteda different sort of life now, a quieter life; and yet I know that thereis a snare about that. I rather mistrust the people who say they mustget time to think out things. It's like the old definition ofmetaphysics--the science of muddling oneself systematically. I don'tthink one can act by reason; one must act by instinct, and reason justprevents one's making a fool of oneself. "

"I believe the time for the other life will come quite naturallylater, " said Maud. "At your age, you have got to do things. Of courseit's the same with women in a way, but marriage is their obviouscareer, and the pity is that there don't seem enough husbands to goround. I can sit in my corner and placidly survey the overstockedmarket now!"

Howard got up and leaned against the chimneypiece, surveying his wifewith delight. "Ah, child, " he said, "I was lucky to come in when I did. I shiver at the thought that if I had arrived a little later therewould have been 'no talk of thee and me' as Omar says. You would havebeen a devoted wife, and I should have been a hopeless bachelor!"

"It's unthinkable, " said Maud, "it's horrible even to speculate aboutsuch things--a mere question of proximity! Well, it can't be mendednow; and the result is that I not only drive you back to work, but youhave to carry me back as well, like Sindbad and the old man of the sea. "

"Yes, it's just like that!" said Howard. 

He made several attempts, with Mr. Sandys and with his aunt--even withMiss Merry--to get encouragement for his plan; but he could obtain nosympathy. 

"I'm sick of the very word 'ideal, '" he said to Maud. "I feel like awaiter handing about tumblers on a tray, pressing people to haveideals--at least that is what I seem to be supposed to be doing. Ihaven't any ideals myself--the only thing I demand and practise iscivility. "

"Yes, I don't think you need bother about ideals, " said Maud, "it'swonderful the depressing power of words; there are such a lot of fineand obvious things in the world, perfectly distinct, absolutelynecessary, and yet the moment they become professional, they depriveone of all spirit and hope--Jane has that effect on me, I am afraid. Iam sure she is a fine creature, but her view always makes me feeluncomfortable--now Cousin Anne takes all the things one needs forgranted, and isn't above making fun of them; and then they suddenlyappear wholesome and sensible. She is quite clear on the point; now ifSHE wanted you to stay, it would be different. "

"Very well, so be it!" said Howard; "I feel I am caught in femininetoils. I am like a child being taught to walk--every step applauded, handed on from embrace to embrace. I yield! I will take my beautifulmind back to Cambridge, I will go on moulding character, I will go onsuggesting high motives. But the responsibility is yours, and if youturn me into a prig, it will not be my fault. "

"Ah, I will take the responsibility for that, " said Maud, "and, by theway, hadn't we better begin to look out for a house? I can't live inCollege, I believe, not even if I were to become a bedmaker?"

"Yes, " said Howard, "a high-minded house of roughcast and tile, withplenty of white paint inside, Chippendale chairs, Watts engravings. Ihave come to that--it's inevitable, it just expresses the situation;but I mustn't go on like this--it isn't funny, this academicirony--it's dreadfully professional. I will be sensible, and write toan agent for a list. It had better just be 'a house' with nothingdistinctive; because this will be our home, I hope, and that theofficial residence. And now, Maud, I won't be tiresome any more; wecan't waste time in talking about these things. I haven't done withmaking love to you yet, and I doubt if I ever shall!"

XXXIII

ANXIETY

The months moved slowly on, a time full of deepening strain and anxietyto Howard. Maud herself seemed serene enough at first, full of hope;she began to be more dependent on him; and Howard perceived two thingswhich gave him some solace; in the first place he found that, sharp asthe tension of anxiety in his mind often was, he did not realise it asa burden of which he would be merely glad to be rid. He had aninstinctive dislike of all painful straining things--ofresponsibilities, disagreeable duties, things that disturbed histranquillity; but this anxiety did not come to him in that light atall; he longed that it should be over, but it was not a thing which hedesired to banish from his mind; it was all bound up with love andhappy anticipation; and next he learned the joy of doing things thatwould otherwise be troublesome for the sake of love, and found them alltransmuted, not into seemly courtesies, but into sharp and urgentpleasures. To be of use to Maud, to entertain her, to disguise hisanxieties, to compel himself to talk easily and lightly--all thisfilled his soul with delight, especially when he found as the monthswent on that Maud began to look to him as a matter of course; andthough Howard had been used to say that being read aloud to was theonly occupation in the world that was worse than reading aloud, hefound that there was no greater pleasure than in reading to Maud day byday, in finding books that she cared for. 

"If only I could spare you some of this, " he said to her one day, "that's the awful thing, not to be able to share the pain of anyonewhom one loves. I feel I could hold my hand in the fire with a smile, if only I knew that it was saving you something!"

"Ah, dearest, I know, " said Maud, "but you mustn't think of it likethat; it INTERESTS me in a curious way--I can't explain--I don't feelhelpless; I feel as if I were doing something worth the trouble!"

At last the time drew near; it was hot, silent, airless weather; thesun lay fiercely in the little valley, day by day; one morning theywere sitting together and Maud suddenly said to him, "Dearest, onething I want to say; if I seem to be afraid, I am NOT afraid: will youremember that? I want to walk every step of the way; I mean to do it, Iwish to do it; I am not afraid in my heart of hearts of anything--pain, or even worse; and you must remember that, even if I do not seem toremember!"

"Yes, " said Howard, "I will remember that; and indeed I know it; youeven take away my own fears when you speak so; love takes hands beneathit all. "

But on the following morning--Maud had a restless and sufferingnight--Mrs. Graves came in upon Howard as he tried to read, to tell himthat there was great anxiety, Maud had had a sudden attack of pain; ithad passed off, but they were not reassured. "The doctor will be herepresently, " she said. Howard rose dry-lipped and haggard. "She sendsyou her dearest love, " she said, "but she would rather be alone; shedoesn't wish you to see her thus; she is absolutely brave, and that isthe best thing; and I am not afraid myself, " she added: "we must justwait--everything is in her favour; but I know how you feel and how youmust feel; just clasp the anxiety close, look in its face; it's ablessed thing, though you can't see it as I do--blessed, I mean, thatone CAN feel so. "

But the fear thickened after this. A carriage drew up, and Howard sawtwo doctors descend, carrying bags in their hands. His heart sickenedwithin him, yet he was helped by seeing their unembarrassed andcheerful air, the nod that one of them, a big, fresh-faced man, gave tothe coachman, the look he cast round the beautiful old house. Peoplecould think of such things, Howard saw, in a moment like that. He wentdown and met them in the hall, and had that strange sense of unrealityin moments of crisis, when one hears one's own voice saying courteousthings, without any volition of one's own. The big doctor looked at himkindly. "It is all quite simple and straightforward!" he said. "Youmust not let yourself be anxious; these times pass by and one wondersafterwards how one could have been so much afraid. "

But the hours brought no relief; the doctors stayed long in the house;something had occurred, Howard knew not what, did not dare toconjecture. The silence, the beauty of the whole scene, wasinsupportably horrible to him. He walked up and down in the afternoon, gazing at Maud's windows--once a nurse came to the window and opened ita little. He went back at last into the house; the doctors were there, talking in low tones to Mrs. Graves. "I will be back first thing in themorning, " said one; the worst, then, had not happened. But as heappeared a look of inquiry passed between them and Mrs. Graves. Shebeckoned to him. 

"She is very ill, " she said; "it is over, and she has survived; but thechild is dead. "

Howard stood blankly staring at the group. "I don't understand, " hesaid; "the child is dead--yes, but what about Maud?"

The doctor came up to him. "It was sudden, " he said; "she had anattack--we had anticipated it--the child was born dead; but there isevery reason to believe that she will recover; it has been a greatshock, but she is young and strong, and she is full of pluck--you neednot be anxious at present; there is no imminent danger. " Then he added, "Mr. Kennedy, get some rest yourself; she may need you, and you mustnot be useless: I tell you, the first danger is over and will notrecur; you must just force yourself to eat--try to sleep. "

"Sleep?" said Howard with a wan smile, "yes, if you could tell me howto do that!"

The doctors departed; Howard went off with Mrs. Graves. She made himsit down, she told him a few details; then she said, "Dearest boy, it'sno use wasting words or pity just now--you know what I feel; I wouldtell you plainly if I feared the worst. I do NOT fear it, and now letme exercise my art on you, for I am sure I can help you a little. Onemust not play with these things, but this is in earnest. "

She came and sate down beside him, and stroked his hair, his brow; shesaid, "Just try, if you can, to cast everything out of your mind; relaxyour limbs, be entirely passive; and don't listen to what I say--justlet your mind float free. " Presently she began to speak in a low voiceto him; he hardly heeded what she said, for a strange drowsinesssettled down upon him like the in-flowing of some oblivious tide, andhe knew no more. 

A couple of hours later he awoke from a deep sleep, with a sense ofsweet visions and experiences--he looked round. Mrs. Graves sate besidehim smiling, but the horror suddenly darted back into his mind with aspasm of fear, as if he had been bitten by a poisonous serpent. 

"What has been happening?" he said. 

"Ah, " said Mrs. Graves quietly, "you have been asleep. I have somepower in these things, which I don't use except in times of need--someday I will tell you more; I found it out by accident, but I have usedit both for myself and others. It's just a natural force, of which manypeople are suspicious, because it doesn't seem normal; but don't beafraid, dear boy--all goes well; she is sleeping quietly, and she knowswhat has happened. "

"Thank you, " said Howard; "yes, I am better; but I could almost wish Ihad not slept--I feel the pain of it more. I don't feel just now as ifanything in the world could make up for this--as if anything could makeit seem just to endure such misery. What has one done to deserve it?"

"What indeed?" said Mrs. Graves, "because the time will come when youwill ask that in a different sense. Don't you see, dear boy, that eventhis is life's fulness? One mustn't be afraid of suffering--what onemust be afraid of is NOT suffering; it's the measure of love--you wouldnot part with your love if that would free you from suffering?"

"No, " said Howard slowly, "I would not--you are right. I can see that. One brings the other; but I cannot see the need of it. "

"That is only because one does not realise how much lies ahead, " saidMrs. Graves. "Be content that you know at least how much youlove--there's no knowledge like that!"

XXXIV

THE DREAM-CHILD

For some days Howard was in an intolerable agony of mind about Maud;she lay in a sort of stupor of weakness and weariness, recognising noone, hardly speaking, just alive, indifferent to everything. They couldnot let him be with her, they would allow no one to speak to her. Theshock had been too great, and the frail life seemed flickering to itsclose: once or twice he was just allowed to see her; she lay like atired child, her head on her hand, lost in incommunicable dreams. Howard dared not leave the house, and the tension of his nerves becameso acute that the least thing--a servant entering the room, or anyonecoming out to speak with him as he paced up and down the garden--causedhim an insupportable horror; had they come to summon him to see theend? The frightful thing was the silence, the blank silence of the onehe loved best. If she had moaned or wept or complained, he could haveborne it better; but she seemed entirely withdrawn from him. Even whena little strength returned, they feared for her reason. She seemedunaware of where she was, of what had happened, of all about her. Thenight was the worst time of all. Howard, utterly wearied out, would goto bed, and sink into sleep, sleep so profound that it seemed likedescending into some deep and oblivious tide; then a current of miserywould mingle with his dreams, a sense of unutterable depression; andthen he would suddenly wake in the grip of fear, formless and bodilessfear. The smallest sound in the house, the creaking of a door, afootfall, would set his heart beating with fierce hammer strokes. Hewould light his candles, wander restlessly about, gaze out from hiswindow into the blackness of the garden, where the trees outlinedthemselves against the dark sky, pierced with stars; or he would try toread, but wholly in vain. No thought, no imagination seemed to have anymeaning for him, in the presence of that raging dread. Had he, hewondered, come in sight of the ultimate truth of life? The pain hesuffered seemed to him the strongest thing in the world, stronger thanlove, stronger than death. The thick tides of the night swept past himthus, till the light began to outline the window crannies; and thenthere was a new day to face, with failing brain and shattered strength. 

The only comfort he received was in the presence of his aunt. She aloneseemed strong, almost serene, till he wondered if she was not hard. Shedid not encourage him to speak of his fears: she talked quietly aboutordinary things, not demanding an answer; she saw the doctors, whomHoward could not bear to see, and told him their report. The fearchanged its character as the days went on; Maud would live, theythought; but to what extent she would regain her strength they couldnot say, while her mental powers seemed in abeyance. 

Mr. Sandys often looked in, but he seemed at first helpless in Howard'spresence. Howard used to bestir himself to talk to him, with asickening sense of unreality. Mr. Sandys took a very optimistic view ofMaud's case; he assured Howard that he had seen the same thing a dozentimes; she had great reserves of strength, he believed; it was butnature insisting upon rest and quiet. His talk became a sort of reliefto Howard, because he refused to admit any possibility of ultimatedisaster. No tragedy could keep Mr. Sandys silent; and Howard began tobe aware that the Vicar must have thought out a series of topics totalk to him about, and even prepared the line of conversationbeforehand. Jack had been sent for at the crisis, but when the imminentdanger lessened, Howard suggested that he should go back to Cambridge, in which Jack gratefully acquiesced. 

One day Mrs. Graves came suddenly in upon Howard, as he sate drearilytrying to write some letters, and said, "There is a great improvementthis morning. I went in to see her, and she has come back to herself;she mentioned your name, and the doctor says you can see her for a fewminutes; she must not talk, but she is herself. You may just come andsit by her for a few minutes; it will be best to come at once. "

Howard got up, and was seized by a sudden giddiness. He grasped hischair, and was aware that Mrs. Graves was looking at him anxiously. 

"Can you manage it, dear boy?" she said. "You have had a great strain. "

"Manage it?" said Howard, "why, it's new life. I shall be all right ina moment. Does she know what has happened?"

"Yes, " said Mrs. Graves, "she knows all--it is you she is anxiousabout--she isn't thinking of herself at all. "

Howard followed his aunt out of the room, feeling suddenly alert andstrong. They entered the room; as they did so, Maud turned and lookedat him--the faintest tinge of colour had returned to her face; she heldout her hands to him, and let them fall again. Howard stepped quicklyto the side of the bed, dropped on his knees, and took his wife in hisarms. She nestled close to him for a moment, and then looked at himwith a smile--then speaking in a very low voice, almost a whisper, shesaid:

"Yes, I know--you will help me, dearest; yes, I have come back toyou--I have been wandering far away, with the child--you know--hewanted me, I think; but I have left him somewhere, safe, and I am sentback--I didn't think I could come back, but I had to choose; I havechosen . . . " her voice died away, and she looked long and anxiously athim. "You are not well, " she said; "it is my fault. "

"Ah, you must not talk, darling, " said Howard; "we will talk later on;just let me be sure that you won't leave me--that is enough, that's allI want, just we two together again, and the dear child, ours for ever. "

"The dear child, " said Maud, "that is right--he is ours, beloved. Iwill tell you about him. "

"Not now, " said Howard, "not now. "

Maud gave him a nod, in her old way, just the ghost of a nod; and thenjust put her face beside his own, and lay in silence, till he wascalled away. Then she kissed his hand as he bent over her, and said, "Don't be afraid, dearest--I am coming back--it is like a greatstaircase, with light at the top. I went just to the edge--it's full ofsweet sound there, and now I am coming down again. Those are mydreams, " she added; "I am not out of my dreams yet. "

Howard went out, waving his hand; he found Mrs. Graves beside him. 

"Yes, " she said, "I have no more fear. "

Howard was suddenly seized with faintness, uncontrollable dizziness. Mrs. Graves took him to the library, and made him sit down, but hisweakness continued in spite of himself. 

"I really am ashamed of myself, " he said, "for this dreadfulexhibition. "

"Exhibition!" said Mrs. Graves, "it's the best thing that can happen. Imust tell you that I have been even more anxious about you than Maud, because you either couldn't or wouldn't break down--those are thepeople who are in danger at a time like this! Why the sight of you hashalf killed me, dear boy! If you had ever said you were miserable, orbeen rude or irritable, or forgotten yourself for a moment, I shouldhave been happier. It's very chivalrous and considerate, of course;though you will say that you didn't think of that; but it's hardlyhuman--and now at last I see you are flesh and blood again. "

"Well, I am not sure that it isn't what I thought about you, " saidHoward. 

"Ah, " said Mrs. Graves, "I am an old woman; and I don't think death isso terrible to me. Life is interesting enough, but I should often beglad to get away; there is something beyond that is a good deal easierand more beautiful. But I don't expect you to feel that. "

"You think she will get well?" said Howard faintly. 

"Yes, she will get well, and soon, " said Mrs. Graves. "She has beenresting in her own natural way. The poor dearest baby--you don't know, you can't know, what that means to Maud and even to me; you will haveto be very good to her for a long time yet; you won't understand hersorrow--she won't expect you to; but you mustn't fail her; and you mustdo as you are bid. This afternoon you must just go out for a walk, andyou must SLEEP, dear; that's what you want; you don't know what aspectre you are; and you must just get well as quick as you can, forMaud's sake and mine. "

That afternoon there fell on Howard after his walk--though the worldwas sweet to him and dear again, he was amazed to find how weak hewas--an unutterable drowsiness against which he could hardly fight. Thedelicious weariness came on him like a summer air; he stumbled to bedthat night, and oh, the wonder of waking in a new world, the incrediblehappiness that greeted him, happiness that merged again in a strangeand serene torpor of the senses, every sight and sound striking sharpand beautiful on his eye and ear. 

For some days he was only allowed to see Maud for little lengtheningperiods; they said little, but just sate in silence with a fewwhispered words. Maud recovered fast, and was each day a littlestronger. 

One evening, as he sate with her, she said, "I want to tell you nowwhat has been happening to me, dearest. You must hear it all. You mustnot grieve yourself about the little child, because you cannot haveknown it as I did--but you must let me grieve a little . . . You willsee when I tell you. I won't go back too far. There was all the painfirst--I hope I did not behave very badly, but I was beside myself withpain, and then I went off . . . You know . . . I don't rememberanything of that . . . And then I came back again, feeling thatsomething very strange had happened to me, and I was full of joy; andthen I saw that something was wrong, and it came over me what hadhappened. The strange thing is that though I was so weak--I couldhardly think and I could not speak--yet I never felt more clear orstrong in mind--no, not in mind either, but in myself. It seems sostrange that I have never even SEEN our child, not with my eyes, thoughthat matters little. But then when I understood, I did indeed failutterly; you seemed to me so far away; I felt somehow that you werethinking only about me, and I could simply think of nothing but thechild--my own child, gone from me in a moment. I simply prayed with allmy soul to die and have done with everything, and then there was astrange whirl in the air like a great wind, and loud confused noises, and I fell away out of life, and thought it was death. And then I awokeagain, but it was not here--it was in a strange wide place--a sort oftwilight, and there were hills and trees. I stood up, and suddenly felta hand in my own, and there was a little child beside me, looking up atme. I can't tell you what happened next--it is rather dim to me, but Isate, or walked, or wandered, carrying the child--and it TALKED to me;yes, it talked in a little clear voice, though I can't rememberanything it said; but I felt somehow as if it was telling me what mighthave been, and that I was getting to KNOW it somehow--does that seemstrange? It seems like months and years that I was with it; and I feelnow that I not only love it, but know it, all its thoughts, all itsdesires, all its faults--it had FAULTS, dearest; think of that--faultssuch as I have, and other faults as well. It was not quite content, butit was not unhappy; but it wasn't a dream-child at all, not like alittle angel, but a perfectly real child. It laughed sometimes, and Ican hear its little laughter now; it found fault with me, it wanted togo on--it cried sometimes, and nothing would please it; but it loved meand wanted to be with me; and I told it about you, and it not onlylistened, but asked me many times over to tell it more, about you, about me, about this place--I think it had other things in its mind, recollections, I thought, which it tried to tell me; so it went on. Once or twice I found myself here in bed--but I thought I was dying, and only wanted to lose myself and get back to the child--and then itall came to an end. There was a great staircase up which we wenttogether; there was cloud at the top, but it seemed to me that therewas life and movement behind it; there was no shadow behind the cloud, but light . . . And there was sound, musical sound. I went up with thechild's hand clasped close in my own, but at the top he disengagedhimself, and went in without a word to me or a sign, not as if he wereleaving me, but as if his real life, and mine too, were within--just asa child would run into its home, if you came back with it from a walk, and as if it knew you were following, and there was no need ofgood-byes. I did not feel any sorrow at all then, either for the childor myself--I simply turned round and came down . . . And then I wasback in my room again . . . And then it was you that I wanted. "

"That's all very wonderful, " said Howard, musing, "wonderful andbeautiful. . . . I wish I had seen that!"

"Yes, but you didn't need it, " said Maud; "one sees what one needs, Ithink. And I want to add something, dearest, which you must believe. Idon't want to revert to this, or to speak of it again--I don't mean todwell upon it; it is just enough for me. One mustn't press these thingstoo closely, nor want other people to share them or believe them. Thatis the mistake one makes, that one thinks that other people ought tofind one's own feelings and fancies and experiences as real as onefinds them oneself. I don't even want to know what you think aboutit--I don't want you to say you believe in it, or to think about it atall. I couldn't help telling you about it, because it seems as real tome as anything that ever happened in my life; but I don't want you tohave to pretend, or to accept it in order to please me. It is just myown experience; I was ill, unconscious, delirious, anything you please;but it is just a blessed fact for me, for all that, a gift from God. Doyou really trust me when I say this, dearest? I don't claim a word fromyou about it, but it will make all the difference to me. I can go onnow. I don't want to die, I don't want to follow--I only want you tofeel, or to learn to feel, that the child is a real child, our veryown, as much a part of our family as Jack or Cousin Anne; and I don'teven want you to SAY that. I want all to be as before; the onlydifference is that I now don't feel as if I was CHOOSING. It isn't acase of leaving him or leaving you. I have you both--and I think youwanted me most; and I haven't a wish or a desire in my heart but to bewith you. "

"Yes, dearest, " said Howard, "I understand. It is perfect to be trustedso. I won't say anything now about it. I could not say anything. Butyou have put something into my heart which will spring up and blossom. Just now there isn't room for anything in my mind but the fact that youare given back to me; that's all I can hold; but it won't be all. I amglad you told me this, and utterly thankful that it is so. That youshould be here, given back to me, that must be enough now. I can'tcount up my gains; but if you had come back, leaving your heartelsewhere, how could I have borne that?"

XXXV

THE POWER OF LOVE

It was a few days later that Howard found himself sitting alone oneevening after dinner, with his aunt. 

"There is something that I want to talk to you about, " he said. "Nodoubt Maud has told you all about her strange experience? She hasdescribed it to me, and I don't know what to say or think. She waswonderfully fine about it. She said she would not mention it again, andshe did not desire me to talk about it--or even believe it! And I don'tknow what to do. It isn't the sort of thing that I believe in, though Ithink it beautiful, just because it was Maud who felt it. But I can'tsay what I really believe about it, without seeming unsympathetic andeven rough; and yet I don't like there being anything which means somuch to her, which doesn't mean much to me. "

"Yes, " said Mrs. Graves, "I foresaw that difficulty, but I think Mauddid right to tell you. "

"Of course, of course, " said Howard, "but I mean much more than that. Is there something really THERE, open to all, possible to all, fromwhich I am shut out by what the Bible calls my hardness of heart? Doyou really think yourself that a living spirit drew near and madeitself known to Maud thus? or is it a beautiful dream, a sort ofsubjective attempt at finding comfort, an instinctive effort of themind towards saving itself from sorrow?"

"Ah, " said Mrs. Graves, "who shall say? Of course I do not see any realobjection to the former, when I think of all the love and the emotionthat went to the calling of the little spirit from the deeps of life;but then I am a woman, and an old woman. If I were a man of your agewho had lived an intellectual life, I should feel very much as you do. "

"But if you believe it, " said Howard, "can you give me reasons why youbelieve it? I am not unreasonable at all. I hate the attitude of mindof denying the truth of the experience of others, just because one hasnot felt it oneself. Here, it seems to me, there are two explanations, and my scepticism inclines to what is, I suppose, the materialisticone. I am very suspicious of experiences which one is told to take ontrust, and which can't be intellectually expressed. It's the sort oftheory that the clergy fall back upon, what they call spiritual truth, which seems to me merely unchecked, unverifiable experience. I don't, to take a crude instance, believe in statues that wink; and yet thetendency of the priest is to say that it is a matter of childlikefaith; yet to me credulity appears to be one of the worst of sins. Itis incredulity which has disposed of superstition. "

"Yes, " said Mrs. Graves. "I fully agree with you about that; and thereis a great deal of very objectionable nonsense which goes by the nameof mysticism, which is merely emotion divorced from commonsense. "

"Yes, " said Howard, "and if I may speak quite frankly, I do very muchrespect your own judgment and your convictions. It seems to me that youhave a very sceptical turn of mind, which has acted as a solvent upon awhole host of stupid and conventional beliefs. I don't think you takethings for granted, and it always seems to me that you have got rid ofa great many foolish traditions which ordinary people accept--and it'sa fine attitude. "

"I'm not too old to be insensible to a compliment, " said Mrs. Graves, smiling. "What you are surprised at is to find that I have any beliefsleft, I suppose? And I expect you are inclined to think that I havedone the feminine thing ultimately, and compromised, so as to retainjust the comfortable part of the affair. "

"No, " said Howard, "I don't. I am much more inclined to think thatthere is something which is hidden from me; and I want you to explainit, if you can and will. "

"Well, I will try, " said Mrs. Graves. "Let me think. " She sate silentfor a little, and then she said: "I think that as I get older, Irecognise more and more the division between the rational part of themind and the instinctive part of the mind. I find more and more that mydeepest convictions are not rational--at least not arrived at byreason--only formulated by it. I think that reason ought to be able toformulate convictions; but they are there, whether expressed or not. Most women don't bring the reason to bear at all, and the result isthat they hold a mass of beliefs, some simply inherited, some merephrases which they don't understand, and some real convictions. A greatdeal of the muddle comes from the feminine weariness of logic, and agreat deal, too, from the fact that they never learn how to usewords--words are the things that divide people! But I believe more andmore, by experience, in the SOUL. I do not believe that the soul beginswith birth or ends with death. Now I have no sort of doubt in my ownmind that the soul of your child was a living thing, a spirit which haslived before, and will live again. Souls, I believe, come to the brinkof life, out of some unknown place, and by choice or impelled by someneed for experience, take shape. I don't know how or why this is--Ionly believe that it is so. If your child had lived, you would havebecome aware of its soul; you would have found it to have perfectlydistinct qualities and desires and views of its own, not learnt fromyou, and which you could not affect or change. All those qualities arein it from the time of birth--but it takes a soul some time to learnthe use of the body. But the connection between the soul and the fatherand mother who give it a body is a real one; I don't profess to knowwhat it is, or why it is that some parents have congenial children andsome quite uncongenial ones--that is only one of the many mysterieswhich beset us. Holding all this, it does not seem to me on the face ofit impossible that the soul of the child should have been brought intocontact with Maud's soul; though of course the whole affair is quitecapable of a scientific and material explanation. But I have seen toomany strange things in my life to make me accept the scientificexplanation as conclusive. I have known men and women who, after abereavement, have had an intense consciousness of the presence of thebeloved spirit with them and near them. I have experienced it myself;and it seems to me as impossible to explain as a sense of beauty. Ifone feels a particular thing to be beautiful, one can't give goodreasons for one's emotion to a person who does not think the same thingbeautiful; but it appears to me that the duty of explaining it awaylies on the one who does NOT feel it. One can't say that beauty is apurely subjective thing, because when two people think a thingbeautiful, they understand each other perfectly. Do I make myself clearat all, or is that merely a bit of feminine logic?"

"No, indeed, " said Howard slowly, "I think it is a good case. The verylast thing I would do is to claim to be fully equipped for theunderstanding of all mysteries. My difficulty is that while there aretwo explanations of a thing--a transcendental one and a material one--Ihanker after the material one. But it isn't because I want todisbelieve the transcendental one. It is because I want to believe itso much, that I feel that I must exclude all possibility of its beinganything else. "

"Yes, " said Mrs. Graves, "and I think you are perfectly right; one mustfollow one's conscience in this. I don't want you to swallow it wholeat all. I want you, and I am sure that Maud wants you, just to wait andsee. Don't begin by denying the possibility of its being atranscendental thing. Just hold the facts in your mind, and as lifegoes on, see if your experience confirms it, and until it does, do notpretend that it does. I don't claim to be omniscient. Something quitedefinite, of course, lies behind the mystery of life, and whatever itis, is not affected by what you or I believe about it. I may be whollyand entirely mistaken, and it may be that life is only a chemicalphenomenon; but I have kept my eyes open, and my heart open; and I amas sure as I can be that there is something very much bigger behind itthan that. I myself believe that each being is an immortal spirit, hampered by contact with mortal laws, and I believe that consciousnessand emotion are something superior even to chemistry. But to useemotion to silence people would be entirely repugnant to me, andequally to Maud. She isn't the sort of woman who would be content ifyou only just said you believed her. She would hate that!"

"Well, " said Howard, smiling, "you are two very wonderful women, andthat's the truth. I am not surprised at YOUR wisdom--it ISwisdom--because you have lived very bravely and loved many people; butit's amazing to me to find such courage and understanding in a girl. Ofcourse you have helped her--but I don't think you could have producedsuch thoughts in her unless they had been there to start with. "

"That's exactly what I have tried to say, " said Mrs. Graves. "Where didMaud's fine mixture of feeling and commonsense come from? Her motherwas a woman of some perception, but after all she married Frank, andFrank with all his virtue isn't a very mature spirit!"

"Ah, " said Howard, "my marriage has done everything for me! What ablind, complacent, petty ass I was--and am too, though I at leastperceive it! I see myself as an elderly donkey, braying and caperingabout in a paddock--and someone leans over the fence, and all ischanged. I ought not to think lightly of mysteries, when all thisastonishing conspiracy has taken place round me, to give me a home anda wife and a whole range of new emotions--how Maud came to care for meis still the deepest wonder of all--a loveless prig like me!"

"I won't be understood to subscribe to all that, " said Mrs. Graves, laughing, "though I see your point of view; but there's somethingdeeper even than that, dear Howard. You care for me, you care for Maud;but it's the power of caring that matters more than the power of caringfor particular people. Does that seem a very hard saying? You see I donot believe--what do you say to this--in memory lasting. You and I loveeach other here and now; when I die, I do not feel sure that I shallhave any recollection of you or Maud or my own dear husband--howhorrible that would sound to many men and nearly all women--but I havelearned how to love, and you have learned how to love, and we shallfind other souls to draw near to as the ages go on; and so I lookforward to death calmly enough, because whatever I am I shall havesouls to love, and I shall find souls to love me. "

"No, " said Howard, "I can't believe that! I can't believe in any lifehere or hereafter apart from Maud. It is strange that I should be thesentimentalist now, and you the stern sceptic. The thought to me isinfinitely dreary--even atrocious. "

"I am not surprised, " said Mrs. Graves, "but that's the last sacrifice. That is what losing oneself means; to believe in love itself, and notin the particular souls we love; to believe in beauty, not in beautifulthings. I have learned that! I do not say it in any complacency orsuperiority--you must believe me; but it is the last and hardest thingthat I have learned. I do not say that it does not hurt--one suffersterribly in losing one's dear self, in parting from other selves thatare even more dear. But would one send away the souls one loves bestinto a loveless paradise? Can one bear to think of them as hankeringfor oneself, and lost in regret? No, not for a moment! They pass on tonew life and love; we cannot ourselves always do it in this life--theflesh is weak and dear; and age passes over us, and takes away theclose embrace and the sweet desire. But it is the awakening of the soulto love that matters; and it has been to me one of the sweetestexperiences of my life to see you and Maud awaken to love. But you willnot stay there--nothing is ultimate, not the dearest and largestrelations of life. One climbs from selfishness to liking, and fromliking to passion, and from passion to love itself. "

"No, " said Howard, "I cannot rise to that yet; I see, I dimly feel, that you are far above me in this; but I cannot let Maud go. She ismine, and I am hers. "

Mrs. Graves smiled and said, "Well, we will leave it at that. Kiss me, dearest boy; I don't love you less because I feel as I do--perhaps evenmore, indeed. "

XXXVI

THE TRUTH

It was a sunny day of winter with a sharp breeze blowing, just afterthe birth of the New Year, that Howard and Maud left Windlow forCambridge. The weeks previous had been much clouded for Howard bydoubts and anxieties and a multiplicity of small business. Furnishingeven an official house for a life of graceful simplicity involvedintolerable lists, bills, letters, catalogues of things which it seemedinconceivable that anyone should need. The very number and variety ofbrushes required seemed to Howard an outrage on the love of cheapbeauty, so epigrammatically praised by Thucydides; he said with a groanto Maud that it was indeed true that the Nineteenth Century would standout to all time as the period of the world's history in which moreuseless things had been made than at any epoch before!

But this morning, for some blessed reason, all his vexations seemed toslip off from him. They were to start in the afternoon; but at abouteleven Maud in cloak and furred stole stepped into the library anddemanded a little walk. Howard looked approvingly, admiringly, adoringly at his wife. She had regained a look of health and lightnessmore marked than he had ever before seen in her. Her illness had proveda rest, in spite of all the trouble she had passed through. Some newbeauty, the beauty of experience, had passed into her face withoutmaking havoc of the youthful contours and the girlish freshness, andthe beautiful line of her cheek outlined upon the dark fur, with thewide-open eye above it, came upon Howard with an almost tormentingsense of loveliness, like a chord of far-off music. He flung down hispen, and took his wife in his arms for an instant. "Yes, " he said inanswer to her look, "it's all right, darling--I can manage anythingwith you near me, looking like that--that's all I want!"

They went out into the garden with its frost-crisped grass and leaflessshrubberies, with the high-standing down behind. "How it blows!" saidHoward:

 "''Twould blow like this through holt and hanger When Uricon the city stood: 'Tis the old wind, in the old anger, But then it threshed another wood!'

How beautiful that is--'the old wind, in the old anger!'--but it isn'ttrue, for all that. If one thing changes, everything changes; and thewind has got to march on, like you and me: there's nothing patheticabout it. The weak thing is to want to stay as we are!"

"Oh yes, " said Maud; "one wastes pity. I was inclined myself to bepathetic about it all yesterday, when I went up home and looked into mylittle old room. The furniture and books and pictures seemed to me toreproach me with having deserted them; but, oh dear, what a fantastic, foolish, anxious little wretch I was, with all my plans for upliftingeveryone! You don't know, dearest, you can't know, out of what astagnant little pool you fished me up!"

"And yet _I_ feel, " said Howard, "as if it was you who had saved mefrom a sort of death--what a charming picture! two people who can'tswim saving each other from drowning. "

"Well, that's the way that things are done!" said Maud decisively. 

They left the garden, and betook themselves to the pool; the waterswelled up, green and cold, from the depth, and hurried away down theirbare channel. 

"This is the scene of my life, " said Howard; "I WILL be sentimentalabout this! This is where my ghost will walk, if anywhere; goodheavens, to think that it was not three years ago that I came herefirst, and thought in a solemn way that it was going to have a strangesignificance for me. 'Significance, ' that is the mischief! But it isall very well, now that every minute is full of happiness, to laugh atthe old fears--they were very real at the time, --'the old wind, in theold anger'--one can't sit and dream, though it's pleasant, it'spleasant. "

"It was the only time in my life, " said Maud, "when I was ever brave!Why isn't one braver? It is agreeable at the time, and it is almostoverpaid!"

"It is like what a doctor told me once, " said Howard, "that he hadnever in his life seen a patient go to the operating table other thancalm and brave. Face to face with things one is all right; and yet onenever learns not to waste time in dreading them. "

They went on in silence up the valley, Maud walking beside him with allher old lightness. Howard thought he had never seen anything morebeautiful. They were out of the wind now, but could hear it hiss in thegrasses above them. 

"What about Cambridge?" said Maud. "I think it will be rather fun. Ihaven't wanted to go; but do you know, if someone came to me and said Imight just unpack everything, I should be dreadfully disappointed!"

"I believe I should be too, " said Howard. "My only fear is that I shallnot be interested--I shall be always wanting to get back to you--andyet how inexplicable that used to seem to me, that Dons who marriedshould really prefer to steal back home, instead of living the free andjoyous life of the sympathetic and bachelor; and even now it seemsdifficult to suppose that other men can feel as I do about THEIR wives. "

"Like the boy in Punch, " said Maud, "who couldn't believe that the twoearwigs could care about each other. "

A faint music of bells came to them on the wind. "Hark!" said Howard;"the Sherborne chime! Do you remember when we first heard that? It gaveme a delightful sense of other people being busy when I was unoccupied. To-day it seems as if it was warning me that I have got to be busy. "

They turned at last and retraced their steps. Presently Howard said, "There's just one more thing, child, I want to say. I haven't everspoken to you since about the vision--whatever it was--which youdescribed to me--the child and you. But I took you at your word!"

"Yes, " said Maud, "I have always been glad that you did that!"

"But I have wanted to speak, " said Howard, "simply because I did notwant you to think that it wasn't in my mind--that I had cast it alllightly away. I haven't tried to force myself into any belief aboutit--it's a mystery--but it has grown into my mind somehow, and becomereal; and I do feel more and more that there is something very true andgreat about it, linking us with a life beyond. It does seem to me life, and not silence; love, and not emptiness. It has not come in betweenus, as I feared it might--or rather it HAS come in between us, andseems to be holding both our hands. I don't say that my reason tells methis--but something has outrun my reason, and something stronger andbetter than reason. It is near and dear: and, dearest, you will believeme when I say that this isn't said to please you or to woo you--Iwouldn't do that! I am not in sight of the reality yet, as you havebeen; but it IS a reality, and not a sweet dream. "

Maud looked at him, her eyes brimming with sudden tears. "Ah, mybeloved, " she said, "that is all and more than I had hoped. Let it juststay there! I am not foolish about it, and indeed the further away thatit gets, the less I am sure what happened. I shall not want you tospeak of it: it isn't that it is too sacred--nothing is too sacred--butit is just a fact I can't reckon with, like the fact of one's own birthand death. All I just hoped was that you might not think it only agirl's fancy; but indeed I should not have cared if you HAD thoughtthat. The TRUTH--that is what matters; and nothing that you or I oranyone, in any passion of love or sorrow, can believe about the truth, can alter it; the only thing is to try to see it all clearly, not togive false reasons, not to let one's imagination go. "

"Yes, yes, " said Howard, "that's the secret of love and life andeverything; and yet it seems a hard thing to believe; because if itwere not for your illusions about me, for instance--if you could reallysee me as I am--you couldn't feel as you do; one comes back to trustingone's heart after all--that is the only power we have of reading thewriting on the wall. And yet that is not all; it IS possible to readit, to spell it out; but it is the interpretation that one needs, andfor that one must trust love, and love only. "

They went back to the house in a happy silence; but Maud slipped outagain, and went to the little churchyard. There behind the chancel, ina corner of the buttress, was a little mound. Maud laid a single whiteflower upon it. "No, " she said softly, as if speaking in the ear of achild, "no, my darling, I am not making any mistake. I don't think ofyou as sleeping here, though I love the place where the little limbsare laid. You are awake, alive, about your business, I don't doubt. I'dhave loved you, guarded you, helped you along; but you have made lovelive for me, and that, and hope, are enough now for us both! I don'tclaim you, sweet; I don't even ask you to remember and understand. "

THE END