Tom stayed at Cambridge two days, having meant to stay a week, but he
found the need of getting home again imperative. He longed to tell Ted
all about it, but something prevented him. Ted was as delightful as
ever, but Tom felt that the difference between them could not be bridged
by a confidence, as you bridge over a ravine first by a wire or a rope,
and strengthen it till it will bear men and beasts. His confidence, he
felt, would not reach to the other side, but dangle dismally in the air.
Before he left, however, he had another talk with him, in which he
expressed his feelings about the ravine, though he made no direct
attempts to bridge it over.
“These two days have been charming,” he said; “you must be dreadfully
happy here, Teddy.”
Ted looked up suspiciously.
“Is Saul also among the prophets?” he asked. “You nearly startled me out
of my wits yesterday by saying that you liked quiet country life, and
cows, and now you like Cambridge!”
Tom frowned and looked about for inspiration.
“I spent a week in London a month ago,” he said, “and enjoyed it
immensely. There were a heap of people I knew, and I went dancing and
dining all night, and all day the noise of the town roared round me.
Then I went home, and as it was a lovely day, I got out at the park
gates and walked. Do you remember that little hollow just to the left of
the drive, where I shot two woodcock one day? Well, it is full of birch
trees, and the birch trees were beginning to have a little green cloud
of leaves round them, and all over the ground were clumps of primroses
pushing up among last year’s dead leaves. The sun was setting, and the
rays struck the birch trunks horizontally. I felt as if I could have sat
there for ever and looked at it. As a matter of fact, in five minutes I
was tired of it, and went on walking.”
“Is it a parable?” asked Ted.
“Yes; obviously Cambridge is the quiet, little, green hollow. I remember
I used to think it so terrible that people should live there for ever,
and only busy themselves with what went on in the little hollow. I was
wrong. When I stopped in the little hollow at home, I thought there
could be nothing more lovely than to live there always.”
“In fact, you wanted to--you envied the birds which did?”
“In the same way as one envies people who grow beards, when one is
shaving in the morning,” said Tom. “I wouldn’t ever really grow one
myself. But I envied the birds to whom such a hollow was native and
natural.”
Markham laughed.
“Birds and beards--what metaphor are you going to employ next?”
Tom stood in front of him, smoking meditatively.
“If the green hollow satisfies you, you are right to live there always;
but one cannot be two people. I couldn’t live there always. I said just
now I was in love with cows and country life. So I am; but if I knew
there was nothing else, I should be absolutely wretched. Of course,
every human being is a mass of limitations, saddled with the idea that
he can be unlimited, and, personally, I can’t limit myself to living
always in the green hollow, and any one who can seems to me necessarily
more limited than I. A man is judged by his power of desire. To desire
much is better than to desire little.”
“You are not very convincing,” remarked Ted.
“No one has ever convinced anybody of anything, except by triumphant
achievement of some sort,” said Tom, “and because I call you a bird in a
green hollow, I shan’t convince you you had better have been a man, or
that I am one either. But what I mean is this. We are all human beings,
and we ought to live in a human environment. We differ from beasts
chiefly because we have high and intelligible emotions. It is our duty
to mix with all sorts of people, to know what every one is thinking
about, to be ecstatically miserable, to be ecstatically happy, and to
fall in love.”
“Oh, that part of human life is well looked after,” said Markham; “it is
almost universal to fall in love. I suppose, by the way, that you are
going off now because your ten minutes--or was it five--in the green
hollow is over?”
Markham spoke rather bitterly. These two days had been very pleasant to
him, and Tom’s delightful habit of falling back at once into his old
relations with every one made him feel that his own circle had narrowed,
while Tom’s had widened, and his remarks about green hollows had
emphasized this.
Tom looked up.
“No, I am not the least tired of it,” he said, “and that is partly the
reason why I am going. It is always a pity to stop till one is tired of
a thing. You see, necessarily I am not so much at home here as you are,
and that I should be tired of it some time goes without saying. But I
have another reason for going, which perhaps you will know about soon.”
“You said that last night,” said Markham.
“Only once? I wonder I haven’t said it oftener.”
He paused a moment, and mentally threw a rope across the ravine, and saw
it fail to reach the other side, and dangle helplessly in the air.
“Well, good-bye, old boy; I must be off if I am to catch my train,” he
said. “I’m going straight home. Messages of all sorts, I suppose? I read
Aristophanes most mornings with your father. I am very stupid, but he is
very kind.”
It was nearly dark when he got home, but the evening was still and warm,
and after tea he took a short stroll up to the top of the hill in front
of the house, and watched the crimson-splashed west paling to saffron
before the approach of night. In front lay a gentle slope of
thick-growing, tussocky grass, and beyond, a clump of silver-stemmed
birch trees, standing slender and still luminous in the gathering dusk.
Through the bushes the little noises of night crept stealthily about,
and one by one the stars were lit in the velvet sky, and all things lay
hushed under the benediction of night.
But in his mind, as the colours faded out of earth and air, a golden
morrow dawned and brightened. He would see her to-morrow; he would come
as a man to a woman; he would claim his right to know his fate, be it
best or worst. He would not have hastened even if he could those few
hours that lay between him and the next day. There had been something in
their intercourse of late which made him know, or think he knew, that it
would be well with him. The fine instinct of a lover, which formulates
nothing, made him absolutely and entirely happy at the present moment.
Unconsciously, he enjoyed the pleasures of the Higher Hedonist, who
knows that the long-drawn pause before the full melody bursts out is of
infinite moment. The anticipation of pain is nearly always keener,
especially to imaginative and emotional people, than the pain itself,
and the same thing is true, even in a higher degree, of joy. Not that
Tom was conscious at the time that he was _pro tempore_ a philosopher of
the Higher Hedonist school. All he knew was that the thought of May
flooded the half hour he sat alone and looked at the paling west, and
made it a rosary of passionately happy moments.
Tom, who could never be in time for breakfast at an easy half-past nine
at Cambridge, found no difficulty in getting to the vicarage at
half-past eight. Breakfast passed as usual, Mr. Markham making vitriolic
comments on the tactics of the Liberal party, and May and Tom trying to
originate intelligent observations on politics, which they seldom or
never succeeded in doing, and after breakfast Mr. Markham and Tom lit
pipes and began on their Aristophanes.
The vicar observed that Tom was even less attentive than usual, and,
with a certain amount of tact, remembered, at the end of half an hour,
that he had some pressing work to do.
Tom shut up his book at once, and hoped he hadn’t already taken up too
much of the vicar’s time. The vicar replied: “Not at all,” and nobody
knew what to say next.
But a remembrance of his own days of love and youth, the memory of
standing in a quiet shaded garden, and offering to a girl his life and
love, came across the elder man, and he turned to the window with his
hands in his pockets, so as not to look at Tom.
“You needn’t go up yet, need you?” he asked. “I am coming your way in
half an hour, and we might go up together. May has got an idle morning
to-day; make her play croquet with you. There’s a capital new set I
ordered the other day, which we put up on Saturday.”
“Thanks, I’ll wait,” said Tom bluntly. “I suppose I shall find Miss
Markham in the garden?”
“Yes; I saw her go out just now. You’ll be ready in half an hour, then?”
May was seated under a tree at the far end of the garden, and Tom
strolled across the lawn to her. There was a book in her lap, which she
was not reading, and she saw him coming and smiled. For the first time
in his life Tom found the difficulty of seeing some one he knew, a long
way off, approaching, and beginning to smile at the right moment,
non-existent.
He sat down on the grass by her, and for a few moments neither spoke a
word. But when a thing is inevitable the most awkward people cannot
prevent it. Then he got up and knelt by her. She was sitting in a low
chair, and their eyes were on a level, and he looked her gravely in the
face.
“I love you more than the whole world,” said Tom bravely, “and I have
come to ask you whether you care for me at all.”
“Yes, Tom,” she said, and their lips met in a lover’s first kiss.
Tom’s marriage with May Markham took place in July. It was celebrated
quietly at Applethorpe, but the world and his wife condescended to take
considerable interest in it. The season was beginning to wear a little
thin, and the marriage of a wealthy and fairly well-connected young man,
who had many friends, with an absolutely unknown girl who, the world
said, was extraordinarily beautiful, and who, so said his wife, was
rather a stick, was a matter of some interest when interests were
beginning to get rather few. Moreover, for various reasons, this
particular marriage had been talked about to a certain extent, and when
a thing is talked about, its reputation is made. It matters very little
whether abuse or praise is showered on anything, as long as it is
showered with sufficient liberality, and a little story connected with
Tom was the subject of both abuse and praise, and when these are mixed
in the right proportions, the matter becomes one of almost overwhelming
interest. The story, which the intelligent reader may take for what it
is worth, but which certainly was not true, was merely that he had been
engaged to Miss Maud Wrexham. But the world and his wife care not at all
whether a story is true or not: it is sufficient if it amuses or
interests them. Fiction, after all, adds a great charm to human life,
and if we did away with fiction altogether, we should have to discard
pleasant little fictions as well as unpleasant little fictions. Such a
prospect would strike terror into the whole human race from George
Washington down to Ananias and Sapphira.
* * * * *
For the next three months the newly wedded pair disappeared out of the
ken of their fellows, but about the middle of October they came back to
Applethorpe, and lived at the Park with old Mr. Carlingford. That
amiable old cynic had completely lost his heart to May, who, for a time,
extinguished his desire for observing the weaknesses of human nature.
But I am bound to add that, as soon as the two went abroad, his habit
returned on him.
His remark on their return is worth recording. May was tired with the
journey, and went to bed early, and he and Tom sat up over the fire,
while Tom descanted on perfect womanhood. The old gentleman listened
with amusement and satisfaction, and when he took up his candle to go to
bed he turned to his son and said--
“I believe you are more in love with her than ever. What time are family
prayers to be?”
“At nine,” said Tom.
Mr. Carlingford was so much pleased at the brilliance of his induction
that he appeared punctually next morning, and seemed to take an
intelligent interest in a lesson from Joshua.
Tom and May had been out one day hunting in a delightful sloppy week
following a frosty Christmas, and after a long run had got home rather
tired and stiff, after dark had fallen. Tea was laid in the hall, and as
soon as May had finished she went upstairs to change her riding habit,
while Tom sat on with his chair drawn close up to the grate, smoked
cigarettes, and reflected that really the nicest part of hunting was
getting home again. He proposed to have a hot bath before dinner, but
the fire was too good to leave just yet.
He had just arrived at these comfortable conclusions when May came down
again, with her hat and jacket on.
Tom looked up in surprise.
“Where on earth are you going, dear?” he asked.
“I’ve just been told that poor old Lambert is dying,” said May, “and I
must go down to see him. Poor old fellow, he was in danger yesterday,
and he was so frightened of death. I ought not to have gone out hunting
to-day, Tom; he may be dead.”
“But you oughtn’t to go out now,” said Tom; “you’re awfully tired. I
suppose all has been done that can be done.”
“Tom, I must go!” said she.
“Well, send round to the stables, and tell them to have the brougham out
at once.”
“No, dear, I can’t wait.”
Tom got up.
“Well, you shan’t go alone. I shall come with you.”
“No, why should you?”
“Nonsense, May,” said Tom, putting on his hat and coat, and opening the
front door. “Good Lord, it’s beginning to snow again! I was afraid it
would.”
They walked on some time in silence, and then Tom, thrusting his hand
through May’s arm, found she had only got a thin jacket on.
“May, you really shouldn’t come out like this,” he said. “You will catch
your death of cold. You must go back and put something thicker on.”
“No, I can’t, I can’t,” said May quickly. “I may be too late as it is.”
“May, it’s madness. Here, I forgot--take this.”
Tom took off his coat and held it out for her.
“No, Tom, it’s all right; I don’t want anything more.”
“I insist on your putting it on,” said Tom.
“Please, Tom.”
“May, do as you are told,” said Tom. “My darling, you shall put it on. I
really mean it!”
Tom had his way, and the two walked quickly on again, Tom’s long coat
almost touching the ground, and the sleeves coming nearly to the tips of
her fingers. This time May thrust her hand through Tom’s arm.
“You’re very good to me,” she said. “Ah, here’s the house! Come inside;
you can’t wait in the snow. They will all be in the other room.”
A woman, with eyes red with weeping, opened the door to them, and as
soon as she saw May, burst out crying again.
“Thank God you’ve come, miss,” she said. “He’s been asking for you all
the evening, and he’s far gone. And how are you, Master Tom? Won’t you
come by the fire, sir? You’re all over snow. It’s a poor fire, I’m
afraid, but we’ve had no time to think of aught to-day.”
Tom felt utterly bewildered and helpless. He tried to respond to the
woman’s greeting, but found no words. May in the mean time had slipped
off her coat.
“He’s in here, I suppose,” she said. “I will go in at once.”
The two went in together, and Tom sat down by the fire. The door had
been left half open, and he could hear words spoken inside.
“Here’s Miss May, Jack,” said the woman, keeping to the name she had
always known her by; “she’s come to see you.”
There was the sound of a chair being moved along the ground, and after a
moment’s silence he heard May’s voice.
“Dear old friend, I have come just in time to see you before you go. It
is not so dreadful, is it? Christ has taken you by the hand; He is just
going to cure you of all your pain and suffering, and what is even
better, of all your sin. He has been through all you are going through.
We are very weak, but infinitely strong in His strength. Yes, you know
that, do you not?”
There came some reply from the dying man which he could not catch, and
the harsh, unpleasant voice of the doctor broke in.
“He’s going fast,” he said.
Tom heard the chair pushed away, and May’s voice began again.
“It is nearly all over. You are very tired, are you not, and want to
rest. Let us say the best prayer of all over together--‘Our Father----’”
The door from the outside opened, and Mr. Markham came in. He looked
puzzled and surprised to see Tom there. Tom rose to meet him.
“Hush!” he whispered. “May is in there with Lambert. He is on the point
of death. He has been asking for her all the evening, they say.”
Mr. Markham began taking off his coat, and stood for a moment before the
fire.
“I shall wait a minute or two till May comes out,” he said.
At a sudden impulse, however, Tom rose, quietly closed the door into the
sick room, and sat down again by the fire. All the sordid shabbiness of
the place contrasted too painfully with the supreme scene which was
going on within, and he wished to separate the two. On the table stood a
teapot, and a teacup without a saucer, into which was thrust a
half-eaten crust of bread. A dull, spiritless fire, half-choked in grey
ash, smouldered in the grate, and the kettle, with its lid off, stood in
the fender, half-overturned, in a puddle of water. A wooden china-faced
clock, painted with a scroll of pink and blue flowers, stood on the
mantelpiece between two white crockery dogs, and marked the moments
with a harsh insistence. There was a slipper, worn down at the heel,
lying on the shabby worsted rug, which lay crooked by the fender, and
another, presumedly its fellow, half under the table. A hungry,
mournful-looking cat sat blinking at them from under the table with
anxious, perturbed eyes, while inside that door May knelt by the bed of
a dying cottager, and in some mysterious way knew how to reach the
dim-lit soul of the old man, and to make it easy for him to die. There
was a reality about it which Tom felt the revivalist meeting had lacked.
The clock on the mantelpiece had scarcely beaten out five loud minutes
when the door opened again and May came out.
“Ah! you have come,” she said in a low voice to her father; “it is just
too late. He died quite peacefully and happily.”
“I was here this afternoon,” he replied, “and I just went back to the
vicarage, and came on again.”
May turned to Tom.
“Tom, dear, you’d better go home. I must wait here a little. These poor
people want me.”
“Mayn’t I wait for you?” said Tom.
“No, dear. I shall be tidying up and putting things straight. You’d
better go home. But I wish you’d send the carriage back for me in about
an hour. I’m rather tired, and then you can take your coat.”
Tom got up and put on his coat.
“Is there anything I can do, May?” asked her father.
“You might just come in and speak to Mrs. Lambert. Yes, do that; she
would like it.”
The two went back into the sick room, and Tom out into the night.
Something in what had taken place impressed him profoundly. What was
that power which the old man felt, which was able to ease his last
lonely moments? How could words be of any avail, when that last
horrible, ghastly parting of soul and body came? Tom, like all healthy,
vigorous people, felt an intense physical loathing at the thought of
death. It was terrible and unnatural that this beautiful machine should
in a moment become a dead thing, something to be buried away out of
sight. How could words make death seem death no longer, but the
beginning of life? For the swindling greengrocer and his increased
balance, which to him appeared to be the direct effect of grace, but to
Tom to have had a much more sublunary and intelligible connection with
his taking the pledge, there was an explanation which he could
appreciate, but this was altogether different. The test was a real test;
certain words had for a man round whom the inevitable loneliness of
death lay like a cold, blinding mist, a comfort which made him face it
with calmness, and to May, as to him, they must have been the expression
of something very real. For the first time in his life he had seen, in
an aspect that could not be mistaken, the consolation of religious
beliefs. The most severe test conceivable had been applied, and a belief
in a Power stronger than death had proved itself stronger than death.
And Tom, in whom unfamiliarity with such phenomena had bred, not
contempt, but absolute want of interest, was much puzzled. Somehow the
tragic, simple scene which he had just been through was more convincing
than a hundred volumes full of the triumphant sufferings of martyrs.
Tom suddenly felt rather vexed and hurt in his mind. Why did this mean
so much to May and to others, and so little to him? If the power of that
Life and Death was all-embracing, why had it not touched him? Why had
the belief in which he had been brought up passed from him so utterly,
being remembered now only as he remembered nursery rhymes and childish
stories?
May came back an hour later, just in time to dress for dinner, and in
spite of the love and trust which existed between them, neither of them
spoke of that which troubled them. May was longing to say to him, “Tom,
how is it that this means nothing to you? It was for you He lived and
died,” but a very natural reticence prevented her. She saw that Tom was
rather upset about something, and this was not the time for it. Such a
subject must come spontaneously, inevitably, and meanwhile she was
content to bide her time, trusting in the Power which never yet failed.
But they both felt at that moment that something had come between them.
Just as they were going down to dinner Tom said to her--
“I am glad you went, May; you made it easier for the poor old fellow.
How real it all is to you!”
“Yes, Tom,” she said, “it is the realest thing in the world.”
Unluckily, at that moment Tom’s candle fell out of the candle-stick he
was carrying, spattering his trousers with wax, and making it absolutely
imperative to speak of the annoying ways of wax candles, and the
possible opportunity passed, and it became harder to take advantage of
the next.
Old Mr. Carlingford was not very well. He was suffering from a slight
attack of gout, and the man who behaves cheerfully and equably under
such an infliction has yet to be found. Consequently at dinner he spent
his irritation by being less amiably cynical than usual, and he
discussed questions of ethics in a somewhat unpleasant manner.
“Good and bad is a very poor division to make of the human race,” he
said. “How is one to know in ninety cases out of a hundred if a man is
good or not? He doesn’t wear a certificate round his neck. You might as
well divide the race, for any practical purpose, into those who have got
strawberry marks on their left arm and those who have not. Fools and
wise is the only proper classification.”
“But they don’t wear certificates round their necks,” said Tom.
“No, Tom, and people don’t wear certificates round their necks to say
whether they’ve got noses or not. The fact is so patent.”
“Only to the wise,” said Tom.
“Exactly so, and the fools don’t matter. Whereas about good and bad, the
better a man is the more easily is he deceived, because it is impossible
to know much of this wicked world and remain good. ‘Keep yourself
unspotted from the world!’ Yes, you can do that if you seal yourself
hermetically up in a convent or monastery, in which case it is hard to
see why you have been born at all. To live like that casts a stigma on
the intelligence of the Creator.”
Tom unthinkingly laughed, for the conviction which his father threw into
this last remark amused him, but looking up he saw May flush deeply and
bend her eyes over her plate. Dessert was on the table, and she ate her
orange quickly, and rose to leave.
Tom saw the trouble in her face, but did not see how to remedy it. He
and his father drew their chairs up to the fire, and the latter,
abstaining for hygienic reasons from port, “took it out” in cynicism.
“I don’t mind saying these things to you, Tom,” he said, “because I
don’t think you are a fool. Do you remember when you told me you were
going to be a sculptor, how I warned you against folly? A dislike of
folly is the one thing I have successfully cultivated, and I should like
put on my tombstone: ‘He hated a fool.’ Especially I hate those fools
who talk about their consciences. Conscience is simply ecclesiastical
argot for digestion. No man with a good digestion has a bad conscience.
The health of the conscience varies with the health of the digestion.”
“But people with bad digestions have good consciences sometimes,” said
Tom.
“Yes, because their health is so inferior that they cease thinking about
their bodies, and as they have to think about something, they think
about an imaginary existence which they call their souls.”
“Is that all your creed?” asked Tom. “I believe in my digestion.”
“No, it’s not my creed at all. It is a self-evident proposition; nobody
makes creeds of self-evident propositions, or we should all say twice
two are four every morning. My creed is, I believe in nothing, but I am
amused at everything except the gout.”
Tom laughed and helped himself to some more port.
“I wish you had the gout, Tom,” went on the old gentleman; “it is
perfectly loathsome to see you drinking port when I can’t. I never am
quite sure whether I would sooner have port and gout or neither, but I
believe that if one goes on drinking port when one has gout one dies.
That would annoy me immensely. Any one can die.”
“Yes, it’s very easy,” said Tom. “I suppose that’s why every one does
it.”
“It’s sheer laziness in most cases,” said his father; “people die when
they cease to be interested in things. Unless, of course, they catch
small-pox or cholera, but gentlemen don’t do such things.”
“Poor old Lambert is dead,” said Tom, after a pause; “he died this
evening. May was with him.”
“That wife of yours is an angel,” remarked Mr. Carlingford. “I really
begin to believe in angels, at least in one angel, when I think of her.
If I was Providence I should be immensely proud of myself for having
invented her. I suppose she helped him through it?”
“Yes, she did help him,” said Tom eagerly; “he had been asking for her
all the afternoon, and she prayed with him, and he died quietly instead
of being afraid.”
“What did she say to him?”
“Ah, don’t ask me, father,” said Tom, rising. “It was all very strange
to me, because it was so real to them both.”
“But what was real to them?” asked his father. “Don’t you suppose that
the mere presence of May was what soothed the old man?--it would soothe
me, I know. I hope May will be with me when I die. But I shan’t want
soothing--I shan’t die until I no longer want to live. I am sure of
that, and it is a most comforting thought, and as soon as I no longer
want to live I am quite content that the powers of hell should do their
worst, as that hymn we had on Easter Sunday says.”
“No, it wasn’t her mere presence,” said Tom; “it was that she reminded
him of what they both believed.”
“Well, if he believed it, why did he need to be reminded of it?”
demanded his father. “It is so odd that Christians send for clergymen on
their death-beds, especially as those particular Christians who do so
seem to me to look upon God Himself as a sort of immeasurable clergyman.
It ought to be the one time they do not want them. No, you may depend on
it, it was simply her presence. Have you finished drinking liquid gout?
If so, we’ll go.”
When May went to bed Mr. Carlingford kissed her very affectionately.
“My dear, I wonder whether you are as nice to Tom as you are to me,” he
said. “I don’t believe you can be, or else I should be jealous of him.
Good-night, dear; you’ve had a tiring day.”
The two were moving up to London the next week, whither old Mr.
Carlingford absolutely and entirely declined to accompany them. “London
is only tolerable,” he said, “when it is quite full of fools. I dare say
there are plenty, even in January, but I can’t go to the New Cut to look
for them. The New Cut smells of cabbages and Salvation armies.”
“You’d much better come with us, father,” said Tom. “You know you will
feel awfully lonely without us.”
“I would sooner be lonely than live in that barrack in Grosvenor Square
in January,” said he; “besides, the house will be full of models and
clay. I believe we are all clay, and I don’t want to associate with
models.”
“There will soon be clay models too,” added Tom. “I’m going to work
hard.”
His father looked meditatively out of the window. The carriage had come
round, and they were putting in the luggage.
“If all men had to work and all women had to weep, every self-respecting
man would cut his throat this moment, and every self-respecting woman
would drown herself in her tears. What charming things family parties
would be, you know! Perhaps it’s right for you to work, though I don’t
see why you should; but don’t let May weep. Ah, here she is! Well,
good-bye. I suppose one or both of you will be coming down here soon.”
May’s inclination had been to stop down in the country longer, but Tom
represented that he really had to begin to work at once, and that no one
in the world--not even himself--could work in the country. The Golden
Age was going to return--the earth was again to be peopled with gods and
goddesses; a shining procession was to begin to walk out of his studio.
The grand style was possible. While the Hermes stood still and smiled at
the baby on his arm nothing was impossible. Art ruled the world. He
thought of the old paradox that nature copied art, and found that it
contained its grain of truth. Until Turner painted golden liquid
sunsets, they did not exist, or at any rate no one saw them, whereas now
any one who had seen a first-rate Turner could find one on any clear
summer’s evening in the country; and until he saw the Hermes he did not
know there were such people, but as a matter of fact he met half a dozen
of them now in every street in London. They were there all the time, but
one had to be taught how to see them. And he finished up with “Ars
longa.”
This last argument appealed to May. Tom was ready to begin working; it
was criminal to delay. The herald of the Golden Age, the Iris who was to
bring it down from heaven, was a statue of Demeter mourning for her lost
child. Tom had already made a small clay sketch of it, and he could wait
no longer. Besides, there was Wallingthorpe to be confuted. That eminent
artist had used all his powers of eloquence in abuse, persuasion, and
lament over Tom, who had heard him unmoved, and merely asked him as a
personal favour to wait until he saw what could be done. Wallingthorpe
talked about civilization and advance, and the torchlight procession of
artists who ran and handed on the flaring brand from the one to the
other until it reached the goal. The torch was in Tom’s hands, and
instead of running on with it towards the goal, he was deliberately
running backwards and laying it at the feet of Praxiteles. It was a
Vandalism.
Tom roared with laughter over that brilliant tirade, and vowed he would
make a heroic group, in which he himself was kneeling before Praxiteles
and handing him the torch of Art, while Wallingthorpe in a frock coat
and tall hat was trying to snatch it away. It was a fine subject. Many
thanks for the suggestion.
So May yielded, and paid farewell visits among all the old parishioners,
and one snowy afternoon in January, as has been stated, they drove away
from Applethorpe up to London, and Tom started his work as an artist
seriously and with set purpose.