The days slipped past, one by one, with an incredible swiftness. For
the first time in his life Howard experienced the extraordinary
sensation of having nothing to do, no plans ahead, nothing but the
delight of the hour to taste. One day he said to Maud, "It seems almost
wicked to be so deliciously idle--some day I suppose we must make some
plans. But I do not seem ever to have lived before; and all that I ever
did and thought of seems as small and trivial as a little town seen
from the top of a tower--one can't conceive what the little creatures
are about in their tiny slits of streets and stuffy houses, crawling
about like beetles on some ridiculous business. The first thing I shall
do 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 about
the view of a landscape."
"Oh no, you mustn't do that," said Maud. "I have set my heart on your
writing a great book. You must do that--you must finish this one. I am
not going to keep you all to myself, like a man pushing about a
perambulator."
"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 about
things past, present, and to come.
"Now," said Maud, "I am not going to be a gushing and sentimental young
bride any more. I am not sentimental, best-beloved! Do you believe
that? The time we have had here together has been the best and sweetest
time of my whole life, every minute worth all the years that went
before. But you must write that down, as Dr. Johnson said, in the first
page of your pocket-book, and never speak of it again. It's all too
good and too sacred to talk about--almost to think about. And I don't
believe in looking BACK, Howard--nor very much, I think, in looking
forward. I know that I wasted ever so much time and energy as a
girl--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 have
got to know everybody and understand everybody. And I think that when
the year is out, we must go back to Cambridge. I can't bear to think I
have 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. I
don't want you to be M.P., LL.D., F.R.S., &c., &c., &c., but I do want
you to do things, and to help you to do things. I don't want to be a
sort of tea-table Egeria to the young men--I don't mean that--and I
don'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 you
to have any worries except your own. I won't smudge my fingers over the
accounts, like that wretched Dora in David Copperfield. Understand
that, Howard; I won't be your girl-bride. I won't promise that I won't
wear 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 the
feeblest of managers; I live from hand to mouth; but I am not going to
submerge you either. If you won't be the girl-bride, you are not to be
the professional sunbeam either. You are to be just yourself, the one
real, sweet, and perfect thing in the world for me. Chaire
kecharitoenae--do you know what that means? It was the angel's opinion
long ago of a very simple mortal. We shall affect each other, sure
enough, as the days go on. Why what you have done for me already, I
dare hardly think--you have made a man out of a machine--but we won't
go about trying to revise each other; that will take care of itself. I
only want you as you are--the best thing in the world."
The last morning at Lydstone they were very silent; they took one long
walk together, visiting all the places where they had sate and
lingered. Then in the afternoon they drove away. The old maidservant
gave them, with almost tearful apologies, two little ill-tied posies of
flowers, 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 the
summer; and I am carrying the summer away with me."