stint, without measure. Nature opens her book to you. Have you ever
tried to read it? From the things which fret and worry our souls, from
the people who worry and fret us, from ourselves who worry and fret
ourselves, we can at least turn to Nature. There we find our right
place, a resting place of intense repose. There we lose that troublesome
part of ourselves, our own sense of importance. Then we rest, and not
until then.
"Why should you speak to me of rest?" the girl cried, her fund of
patience and control coming suddenly to an end. "I don't want to rest.
I want to live a full, rich life, crammed with interests. I want to
learn about life itself, not about things. It is so absurd to talk to
me of rest. You've had your term of unrest--you said so. I don't care
about peace and repose! I don't----"
She left off as suddenly as she had begun, fearing to seem too
ill-mannered.
"Of course you don't," he said gently, "and I'm a goose to think you
should. No, you will have to go out into the world, and to learn for
yourself that it is just the same there as everywhere: butter and cheese
making, prize-winning and prize-losing, and very little satisfaction
either over the winning or the losing; and a great many Auntie Lloyds,
probably a good deal more trying than the Little Stretton Auntie Lloyd.
Only, if I were you, I should not talk about it any more. I should just
go. Saddle the white horse and go! Get your experiences, thick and
quick. Then you will be glad to rest."
"Are you making fun of me?" she asked half suspiciously, for he had
previously joked about the slow pace of the white horse.
"No," he answered, in his kind way; "why should I make fun of you? We
cannot all be content to go on living a quiet life in a little village."
At that moment the exciseman passed by them on horseback. He raised his
hat to Joan, and looked with some curiosity at Hieronymus. Joan
colored. She remembered that she had not behaved kindly to him
yesterday; and after all, he was David, David who had always been good
to her, ever since she could remember.
"Who was that?" asked Hieronymus. "What a trim, nice-looking man!"
"He is David Ellis, the exciseman," Joan said, half reluctantly.
"I wonder when he is going to test the beer at the Green Dragon," said
the historian anxiously. "I wouldn't miss that for anything. Will you
ask him?"
Joan hesitated. Then she hastened on a few steps, and called "David!"
David turned in his saddle, and brought his horse to a standstill. He
wondered what Joan would have to say to him.
"When are you going to test the beer at the Green Dragon?" she asked.
"Some time this afternoon," he answered. "Why do you want to know?"
"The gentleman who is staying at the inn wants to know," Joan said.
"Is that all you have to say to me?" David asked quietly.
"No," said Joan, looking up at him. "There is something more: about the
pastry--"
But just then Hieronymus had joined them.
"If you're talking about pastry," he said cheerily, "I never tasted any
better than Miss Hammond's. I ate a dishful this morning!"
The exciseman looked at Joan, and at the historian.
"Yes," he said, as he cracked his whip, "it tastes good to those who can
get it, and it tastes bad to those who can't get it."
And with that he galloped away, leaving Joan confused, and Hieronymus
mystified. He glanced at his companion, and seemed to expect that she
would explain the situation; but as she did not attempt to do so he
walked quietly along with her until they came to the short cut which led
back to the Green Dragon. There he parted from her, making an
arrangement that she should come and write for him on the morrow. But
as he strolled home he said to himself, "I am much afraid that I have
been eating some one else's pastry! Well, it was very good, especially
the jam-puffs!"
*CHAPTER VI.*
*THE EXCISEMAN'S LIBRARY.*
David Ellis did not feel genially disposed toward the historian; and yet
when he stood in the kitchen of the Green Dragon, testing the new brew,
and saw Hieronymus eagerly watching the process, he could not but be
amused. There was something about Hieronymus which was altogether
irresistible. He had a power, quite unconscious to himself, of drawing
people over to his side. And yet he never tried to win; he was just
himself, nothing more and nothing less.
"I am not wishing to pry into the secrets of the profession," he said to
David Ellis; "but I do like to see how everything is done."
The exciseman good-naturedly taught him how to test the strength of the
beer, and Hieronymus was as pleased as though he had learned some great
secret of the universe, or unearthed some long-forgotten fact in
history.
"Are you sure the beer comes up to its usual standard?" he asked
mischievously, turning to Mrs. Benbow at the same time. "Are you sure it
has nothing of the beef-tea element about it? We drink beef-tea by the
quart in this establishment. I'm allowed nothing else."
David laughed, and said it was the best beer in the neighborhood; and
with that he left the kitchen and went into the ale-room to exchange a
few words with Mr. Howells, the proprietor of the rival inn, who always
came to the Green Dragon to have his few glasses of beer in peace, free
from the stormy remonstrances of his wife. Every one in Little Stretton
knew his secret, and respected it. Hieronymus returned to the parlor,
where he was supposed to be deep in study.
After a few minutes some one knocked at the door, and David Ellis came
in.
"Excuse me troubling you," he said, rather nervously, "but there is a
little matter I wanted to ask you about."
"It's about that confounded pastry!" thought Hieronymus, as he drew a
chair to the fireside and welcomed the exciseman to it.
David sank down into it, twisted his whip, and looked now at Hieronymus
and now at the books which lay scattered on the table. He evidently
wished to say something, but he did not know how to begin.
"I know what you want to say," said Hieronymus.
"No, you don't," answered the exciseman. "No one knows except myself."
Hieronymus retreated, crushed, but rather relieved too.
Then David, gaining courage, continued:
"Books are in your line, aren't they?"
"It just does happen to be my work to know a little about them," the
historian answered. "Are you interested in them too?"
"Well," said David, hesitating, "I can't say I read them, but I buy
them."
"Most people do that," said Hieronymus; "it takes less time to buy than
to read, and we are pressed for time in this century."
"You see," said the exciseman, "I don't buy the books for myself, and
it's rather awkward knowing what to get. Now what would you get for a
person who was really fond of reading: something of a scholar, you
understand? That would help me for my next lot."
"It all depends on the taste of the person," Hieronymus said kindly.
"Some like poetry, some like novels; others like books about the moon,
and others like books about the north pole, or the tropics."
David did not know much about the north pole or the tropics, but he had
certainly bought several volumes of poetry, and Hieronymus' words gave
him courage.
"I bought several books of poetry," he said, lifting his head up with a
kind of triumph which was unmistakable. "Cowper, Mrs. Hemans--"
"Yes," said Hieronymus patiently.
"And the other day I bought Milton," continued the exciseman.
"Ah," said the historian, with a faint smile of cheerfulness. He had
never been able to care for Milton (though he never owned to this).
"And now I thought of buying this," said David, taking from his pocket a
small slip of paper and showing it to his companion.
Hieronymus read: "Selections from Robert Browning."
"Come, come!" he said cheerily, "this is a good choice!"
"It is not my choice," said David simply. "I don't know one fellow from
another. But the man at the shop in Ludlow told me it was a book to
have. If you say so too, of course that settles the matter."
"Well," said Hieronymus, "and what about the other books?"
"I tell you what," said David suddenly, "if you'd come to my lodgings
one day, you could look at the books I've got and advise me about
others. That would be the shortest and pleasantest way."
"By all means," said the historian. "Then you have not yet given away
your gifts?"
"Not yet," said David quietly. "I am waiting awhile."
And then he relapsed into silence and timidity, and went on twisting his
whip.
Hieronymus was interested, but he had too much delicate feeling to push
the inquiry, and not having a mathematical mind he was quite unable to
put two and two together without help from another source. So he just
went on smoking his pipe, wondering all the time what possible reason
his companion could have for collecting a library beginning with Mrs.
Hemans.
After a remark about the weather and the crops--Hieronymus was becoming
quite agricultural--David rose in an undecided kind of manner, expressed
his thanks, and took his leave, but there was evidently something more
he wanted to say, and yet he went away without saying it.
"I'm sure he wants to speak about the pastry," thought Hieronymus.
"Confound him! Why doesn't he?"
The next moment the door opened, and David put his head in.
"There's something else I wanted to say," he stammered out. "The fact
is, I don't tell anybody about the books I buy. It's my own affair, and
I like to keep it to myself. But I'm sure I can trust you."
"I should just think you could," Hieronymus answered cheerily.
So he promised secrecy, and then followed the exciseman to the door, and
watched him mount his horse and ride off. Mr. Benbow was coming in at
the time, and Hieronymus said some few pleasant words about David Ellis.
"He's the nicest man in these parts," Mr. Benbow said warmly. "We all
like him. Joan Hammond will be a lucky girl if she gets him for a
husband."
"Is he fond of her, then?" asked Hieronymus.
"He has always been fond of her since I can remember," Mr. Benbow
answered.
Then Hieronymus, having received this valuable assistance, proceeded
carefully to put two and two together.
"Now I know for whom the exciseman intends his library!" he said to
himself triumphantly.
*CHAPTER VII.*
*AUNTIE LLOYD PROTESTS.*
Auntie Lloyd was a material, highly prosperous individual, utterly
bereft of all ideas except one; though, to be sure, the one idea which
she did possess was of overwhelming bulk, being, indeed, the sense of
her own superiority over all people of all countries and all centuries.
This was manifest not only in the way she spoke, but also in the way she
folded her hands together on the buckle of her waist-belt, as though she
were murmuring: "Thank heaven, I am Auntie Lloyd, and no one else!" All
her relations, and indeed all her neighbors, bowed down to her
authority; it was recognized by every one that the mistress of the
Tan-House Farm was a personage who must not be disobeyed in the smallest
particular. There had been one rebel in the camp for many years now:
Joan. She alone had dared to raise the standard of revolt. At first
she had lifted it only an inch high; but strength and courage had come
with years, and now the standard floated triumphantly in the air. And
to-day it reached its full height, for Auntie Lloyd had driven over to
the Malt-House Farm to protest with her niece about this dictation, and
Joan, though she did not use the exact words, had plainly told her to
mind her own business.
Auntie Lloyd had been considerably "worked up" ever since she had heard
the news that Joan went to write for a gentleman at the Green Dragon.
Then she heard that Joan not only wrote for him, but was also seen
walking about with him; for it was not at all likely that an episode of
this description would pass without comment in Little Stretton; and
Auntie Lloyd was not the only person who remarked and criticised. A bad
attack of sciatica had kept her from interfering at the outset; but as
soon as she was even tolerably well she made a descent upon the
Malt-House Farm, having armed herself with the most awe-inspiring bonnet
and mantle which her wardrobe could supply. But Joan was proof against
such terrors. She listened to all Auntie Lloyd had to say, and merely
remarked that she did not consider it was any one's affair but her own.
That was the most overwhelming statement that had ever been made to
Auntie Lloyd. No wonder that she felt faint.
"It is distinctly a family affair," she said angrily. "If you're not
careful, you'll lose the chance of David Ellis. You can't expect him to
be dangling about your heels all his life. He will soon be tired of
waiting for your pleasure. Do you suppose that he too does not know you
are amusing yourself with this newcomer?"
Joan was pouring out tea at the time, and her hand trembled as she
filled the cup.
"I won't have David Ellis thrust down my throat by you or by any one,"
she said determinedly.
And with that she looked at her watch, and calmly said that it was time
for her to be off to the Green Dragon, Mr. Howard having asked her to go
in the afternoon instead of the morning. But though she left Auntie
Lloyd quelled and paralyzed, and was conscious that she had herself won
the battle once and for all, she was very much irritated and distressed
too. Hieronymus noticed that something was wrong with her.
"What is the matter?" he asked kindly. "Has Auntie Lloyd been paying a
visit to the Malt-House Farm, and exasperated you beyond all powers of
endurance? Or was the butter-making a failure? Or is it the same old
story--general detestation of every one and everything in Little
Stretton, together with an inward determination to massacre the whole
village at the earliest opportunity?"
Joan smiled, and looked up at the kind face which always had such a
restful influence on her.
"I suppose that _is_ the root of the whole matter," she said.
"I am sorry for you," he said gently, as he turned to his papers, "but I
think you are not quite wise to let your discontent grow beyond your
control. Most people, you know, when their lives are paralyzed, are
found to have but sorry material out of which to fashion for themselves
satisfaction and contentment."
Her face flushed as he spoke, and a great peace fell over her. When she
was with him all was well with her; the irritations at home, the
annoyances either within or without, either real or imaginary, and
indeed all worries passed for the time out of her memory. David Ellis
was forgotten, Auntie Lloyd was forgotten; the narrow, dull, everyday
existence broadened out into many interesting possibilities. Life had
something bright to offer to Joan. She bent happily over the pages,
thoroughly enjoying her congenial task; and now and again during the
long pauses of silence when Hieronymus was thinking out his subject, she
glanced at his kind face and his silvered head.
And restless little Joan was restful.
*CHAPTER VIII.*
*THE DISTANCE GROWS.*
So the days slipped away, and Joan came regularly to the Green Dragon to
write to the historian's dictation. These mornings were red-letter days
in her life; she had never before had anything which she could have
called companionship, and now this best of all pleasures was suddenly
granted to her. She knew well that it could not last; that very soon the
historian would go back into his own world, and that she would be left
lonely, lonelier than ever. But meanwhile she was happy. She always
felt after having been with him as though some sort of peace had stolen
over her. It did not hold her long, this sense of peace. It was merely
that quieting influence which a mellowed nature exercises at rare
moments over an unmellowed nature, being indeed a snatch of that
wonderful restfulness which has something divine in its essence. She
did not analyze her feelings for him, she dared not. She just drifted
on, dreaming. And she was grateful to him too, for she had unburdened
her heavy heart to him, and he had not laughed at her aspirations and
ambitions. He had certainly made a little fun over her, but not in the
way that conveyed contempt; on the contrary, his manner of teasing gave
the impression of the kindliest sympathy. He had spoken sensible words
of advice to her, too; not in any formal set lecture--that would have
been impossible to him--but in detached sentences given out at different
times, with words simple in themselves, but able to suggest many good
and noble thoughts. At least that was what Joan gathered, that was her
judgment of him, that was the effect he produced on her.
Then he was not miserly of his learning. He was not one of those
scholars who keep their wisdom for their narrow and appreciative little
set; he gave of his best to every one with royal generosity, and he gave
of his best to her. He saw that she was really interested in history,
and that it pleased her to hear him talk about it. Out then came his
stores of knowledge, all for her special service! But that was only
half of the process; he taught her by finding out from her what she
knew, and then returning her knowledge to her two-fold enriched. She
was eager to learn, and he was interested in her eagerness. It was his
nature to be kind and chivalrous to every one, and he was therefore kind
and chivalrous to his little secretary. He saw her constantly in
"school hours," as he called the time spent in dictating, and out of
school hours too. He took such an interest in all matters connected
with the village that he was to be found everywhere, now gravely
contemplating the cows and comparing them with Mr. Benbow's herd, now
strolling through the market-place, and now passing stern criticisms on
the butter and poultry, of which he knew nothing. Once he even tried to
sell Joan Hammond's butter to Mrs. Benbow.
"I assure you, ma'am," he said to the landlady of the Green Dragon, "the
very best cooking butter in the kingdom! Taste and see."
"But it _isn't_ cooking butter!" interposed Joan hastily.
But she laughed all the same, and Hieronymus, much humbled by his
mistake, made no more attempts to sell butter.
He seemed thoroughly contented with his life at Little Stretton, and in
no hurry to join his friends in Wales. He was so genial that every one
liked him and spoke kindly of him. If he was driving in the
pony-carriage and saw any children trudging home after school, he would
find room for four or five of them and take them back to the village in
triumph. If he met an old woman carrying a bundle of wood, he
immediately transferred the load from herself to himself, and walked
along by her side, chatting merrily the while. As for the tramps who
passed on the highroad from Ludlow to Church Stretton, they found in him
a sympathetic friend. His hand was always in his pocket for them. He
listened to their tales of woe, and stroked the "property" baby in the
perambulator, and absolutely refused to be brought to order by Mrs.
Benbow, who declared that she knew more about tramps than he did, and
that the best thing to do with them was to send them about their
business as soon as possible.
"You will ruin the reputation of the Green Dragon," she said, "if you go
on entertaining tramps outside. Take your friends over to the other
inn!"
She thought that this would be a strong argument, as Hieronymus was
particularly proud of the Green Dragon, having discovered that it was
patronized by the aristocrats of the village, and considered infinitely
superior to its rival, the Crown Inn opposite.
But the historian, so yielding in other respects, continued his
intimacies with the tramps, sometimes even leaving his work if he
chanced to see an interesting-looking wanderer slouching past the Green
Dragon. Joan had become accustomed to these interruptions. She just sat
waiting patiently until Hieronymus came back, and plunged once more into
the History of the Dissolution of the Monasteries, or the Attitude of
the Foreign Powers to each other during the latter years of Henry VIII.
"I'm a troublesome fellow," he would say to her sometimes, "and you are
very patient with me. In fact, you're a regular little brick of a
secretary."
Then she would flush with pleasure to hear his words of praise. But he
never noticed that, and never thought he was leading her further and
further away from her surroundings and ties, and putting great distances
between herself and the exciseman.
So little did he guess it that one day he even ventured to joke with
her. He had been talking to her about John Richard Green, the
historian, and he asked her whether she had read "A Short History of the
English People." She told him she had never read it.
"Oh, you ought to have that book," he said; and he immediately thought
that he would buy it for her. Then he remembered the exciseman's
library, and judged that it would be better to let him buy it for her.
"I hear you have a very devoted admirer in the exciseman," Hieronymus
said slyly.
"How do you know that?" Joan said sharply.
"Oh," he answered, "I was told." But he saw that his volcanic little
companion was not too pleased; and so he began talking about John
Richard Green. He told her about the man himself, his work, his
suffering, his personality. He told her how the young men at Oxford
were advised to travel on the Continent to expand their minds, and if
they could not afford this advantage after their university career, then
they were to read _John Richard Green_. He told her, too, of his grave
at Mentone, with the simple words, "He died learning."
Thus he would talk to her, taking her always into a new world of
interest. Then she was in an enchanted kingdom, and he was the
magician.
It was a world in which agriculture and dairy-farming and all the other
wearinesses of her everyday life had no part. Some people might think
it was but a poor enchanted realm which he conjured up for her pleasure.
But enchantment, like every other emotion, is but relative after all.
Some little fragment of intellectuality had been Joan's idea of
enchantment. And now it had come to her in a way altogether unexpected,
and in a measure beyond all her calculations. It had come to her,
bringing with it something else.
She seemed in a dream during all that time; yes, she was slipping
further away from her own people, and further away from the exciseman.
She had never been very near to him, but lately the distance had become
doubled. When she chanced to meet him her manner was more than
ordinarily cold. If he had chosen to plead for himself, he might well
have asked what he had done to her that he should deserve to be treated
with such bare unfriendliness.
One day he met her. She was riding the great white horse, and David
rode along beside her. She chatted with him now and again, but there
were long pauses of silence between them.
"Father has made up his mind to sell old Nance," she said suddenly, as
she stroked the old mare's head. "This is my last ride on her."
"I am sorry," said David kindly. "She's an old friend, isn't she?"
"I suppose it is ridiculous to care so much," Joan said; "but you know
we've had her such a time. And I used to hang round her neck, and she
would lift me up and swing me."
"I remember," said David eagerly. "I've often watched you. I was
always afraid you would have a bad fall."
"You ran up and caught me once," Joan said, "And I was so angry; for it
wasn't likely that old Nance would have let me fall."
"But how could I be sure that the little arms were strong enough to
cling firmly to old Nance's neck?" David said. "So I couldn't help
being anxious."
"Do you remember when I was lost in that mist," Joan said, "and you came
and found me, and carried me home? I was so angry that you would not
let me walk."
"You have often been angry with me," David said quietly.
Joan made no answer. She just shrugged her shoulders.
There they were, these two, riding side by side, and yet they were miles
apart from each other. David knew it, and grieved.
*CHAPTER IX.*
*DAVID LAMENTS.*
David knew it, and grieved. He knew that Joan's indifference was
growing apace, and that it had taken to itself alarming proportions ever
since the historian had been at the Green Dragon. He had constantly met
Joan and Hieronymus together, and heard of them being together, and of
course he knew that Joan wrote to the historian's dictation. He never
spoke on the subject to any one. Once or twice Auntie Lloyd tried to
begin, but he looked straight before him and appeared not to understand.
Once or twice some other of the folk made mention of the good-fellowship
which existed between Joan and the historian.
"Well, it's natural enough," he said quietly. "Joan was always fond of
books, and one feels glad she can talk about them with some one who is
real clever."
But was he glad? Poor David! Time after time he looked at his little
collection of books, handling the volumes just as tenderly as one
handles one's memories, or one's hopes, or one's old affections. He had
not added to the library since he had spoken to Hieronymus and asked his
advice on the choice of suitable subjects. He had no heart to go on
with a hobby which seemed to have no comfort in it.
To-night he sat in his little sitting-room smoking his pipe. He looked
at his books as usual, and then locked them up in his oak chest. He sat
thinking of Joan and Hieronymus. There was no bitterness in David's
heart; there was only sorrow. He shared with others a strong admiration
for Hieronymus, an admiration which the historian never failed to win,
though it was often quite unconsciously received. So there was only
sorrow in David's heart, and no bitterness.
The clock was striking seven of the evening when some one knocked at the
door, and Hieronymus came into the room. He was in a particularly
genial mood, and puffed his pipe in great contentment. He settled down
by the fireside as though he had been there all his life, and chatted
away so cheerily that David forgot his own melancholy in his pleasure at
having such a bright companion. A bottle of whisky was produced, and the
coziness was complete.
"Now for the books!" said Hieronymus. "I am quite anxious to see your
collection. And look here; I have made a list of suitable books which
any one would like to have. Now show me what you have already bought."
David's misery returned all in a rush, and he hesitated.
"I don't think I care about the books now," he said.
"What nonsense!" said Hieronymus. "You are not shy about showing them
to me? I am sure you have bought some capital ones."
"Oh, it wasn't that," David said quietly, as he unlocked the oak chest
and took out the precious volumes and laid them on the table. In spite
of himself, however, some of the old eagerness came over him, and he
stood by, waiting anxiously for the historian's approval. Hieronymus
groaned over Mrs. Hemans' poetry, and Locke's "Human Understanding," and
Defoe's "History of the Plague," and Cowper, and Hannah More. He groaned
inwardly, but outwardly he gave grunts of encouragement. He patted
David on the shoulder when he found "Selections from Browning," and he
almost caressed him when he proudly produced "Silas Marner."
Yes, David was proud of his treasures; each one of them represented to
him a whole world of love and hope and consolation.
Hieronymus knew for whom the books were intended, and he was touched by
the exciseman's quiet devotion and pride. He would not have hurt
David's feelings on any account; he would have praised the books,
however unsuitable they might have seemed to him.
"My dear fellow," he said, "you've done capitally by yourself. You've
chosen some excellent books. Still, this list may help you to go on,
and I should advise you to begin with 'Green's History of the English
People.'"
David put the volumes back into the oak chest.
"I don't think I care about buying any more," he said sadly. "It's no
use."
"Why?" asked Hieronymus.
David looked at the historian's frank face, and felt the same confidence
in him which all felt. He looked, and knew that this man was loyal and
good.
"Well, it's just this," David said, quite simply. "I've loved her ever
since she was a baby-child. She was my own little sweetheart then. I
took care of her when she was a wee thing, and I wanted to look after
her when she was a grown woman. It has just been the hope of my life to
make Joan my wife."
He paused a moment, and looked straight into the fire.
"I know she is different from others, and cleverer than any of us here,
and all that. I know she is always longing to get away from Little
Stretton. But I thought that perhaps we might be happy together, and
that then she would not want to go. But I've never been quite sure.
I've just watched and waited. I've loved her all my life. When she was
a wee baby I carried her about, and knew how to stop her crying. She
has always been kinder to me than to any one else. It was perhaps that
which helped me to be patient. At least, I knew she did not care for
any one else. It was just that she didn't seem to turn to any one."
He had moved away from Hieronymus, and stood knocking out the ashes from
his pipe.
Hieronymus was silent.
"At least, I knew she did not care for any one else," continued David,
"until you came. Now she cares for you."
Hieronymus looked up quickly.
"Surely, surely, you must be mistaken," he said. David shook his head.
"No," he answered, "I am not mistaken. And I'm not the only one who has
noticed it. Since you've been here, my little Joan has gone further and
further away from me."
"I am sorry," said Hieronymus. He had taken his tobacco-pouch from his
pocket, and was slowly filling his pipe.
"I have never meant to work harm to her or you, or any one," the
historian said sadly. "If I had thought I was going to bring trouble to
any one here, I should not have stayed on. But I've been very happy
among you all, and you've all been good to me; and as the days went on I
found myself becoming attached to this little village. The life was so
simple and refreshing, and I was glad to have the rest and the change.
Your little Joan and I have been much together, it is true. She has
written to my dictation, and I found her so apt that, long after my hand
became well again, I preferred to dictate rather than to write. Then
we've walked together, and we've talked seriously and merrily, and sadly
too. We've just been comrades; nothing more. She seemed to me a little
discontented, and I tried to interest her in things I happen to know,
and so take her out of herself. If I had had any idea that I was doing
more than that, I should have left at once. I hope you don't doubt me."
"I believe every word you say," David said warmly.
"I am grateful for that," Hieronymus said, and the two men grasped
hands.
"If there is anything I could do to repair my thoughtlessness," he said,
"I will gladly do it. But it is difficult to know what to do and what
to say. For perhaps, after all, you may be mistaken."
The exciseman shook his head.
"No," he said, "I am not mistaken. It has been getting worse ever since
you came. There is nothing to say about it; it can't be helped. It's
just that sort of thing which sometimes happens: no one to blame, but
the mischief is done all the same. I don't know why I've told you about
it. Perhaps I meant to, perhaps I didn't. It seemed to come naturally
enough when we were talking of the books."
He was looking mournfully at the list which Hieronymus had drawn out for
him.
"I don't see that it's any use to me," he said.
He was going to screw it up and throw it into the fire, but the
historian prevented him.
"Keep it," he said kindly. "You may yet want it. If I were you, I
should go on patiently adding book after book, and with each book you
buy, buy a little hope too. Who knows? Some day your little Joan may
want you. But she will have to go out into the world first and fight
her battles. She is one of those who _must_ go out into the world and
buy her experiences for herself. Those who hinder her are only hurting
her. Don't try to hinder her. Let her go. Some day when she is tired
she will be glad to lean on some one whom she can trust. But she must
be tired first, and thus find out her necessity. And it is when we find
out our necessity that our heart cries aloud. Then it is that those who
love us will not fail us. They will be to us like the shadow of a great
rock in a weary land."
David made no answer, but he smoothed out the crumpled piece of paper
and put it carefully into his pocket.
*CHAPTER X.*
*HIERONYMUS SPEAKS.*
Hieronymus was unhappy; the exciseman might or might not be mistaken,
but the fact remained that some mischief had been done, inasmuch as
David Ellis' feelings were wounded. Hieronymus felt that the best thing
for him to do was to go, though he quite determined to wait until he saw
the hill-ponies gathered together. There was no reason why he should
hasten away as though he were ashamed of himself. He knew that not one
word had been spoken to Joan which he now wished to recall. His
position was a delicate one. He thought seriously over the matter, and
wondered how he might devise a means of telling her a little about his
own life, and thus showing her, without seeming to show her, that his
whole heart was filled with the memories of the past. He could not say
to Joan: "My little Joan, my little secretary, they tell me that I have
been making havoc with your heart. Now listen to me, child. If it is
not true, then I am glad. And if it is true, I am sad; because I have
been wounding you against my knowledge, and putting you through
suffering which I might so easily have spared you. You will recover
from the suffering; but alas! little Joan, that I should have been the
one to wound you."
He could not say that to her, though he would have wished to speak some
such words.
But the next morning after his conversation with David Ellis he sat in
the parlor of the Green Dragon fondling the ever faithful Gamboge.
Joan Hammond looked up once or twice from her paper, wondering when the
historian would begin work. He seemed to be taking a long time this
morning to rouse himself to activity.
"I shall take Gamboge with me when I go," he said at last. "I've bought
her for half a crown. That is a paltry sum to give for such a precious
creature."
"Are you thinking of going, then?" asked Joan fearfully.
"Yes," he answered cheerily. "I must just wait to see those rascals,
the hill-ponies, and then I must go back to the barbarous big world,
into which you are so anxious to penetrate."
"Father has determined to sell Nance," she said sadly; "so I can't
saddle the white horse and be off."
"And you are sorry to lose your old friend?" he said kindly.
"One has to give up everything," she answered.
"Not everything," Hieronymus said. "Not the nasty things, for
instance--only the nice things!"
Joan laughed and dipped her pen into the ink.
"The truth of it is, I'm not in the least inclined to work this
morning," said Hieronymus.
Joan waited, the pen in her hand. He had said that so many times
before, and yet he had always ended by doing some work after all.
"I believe that my stern task-mistress, my dear love who died so many
years ago--I believe that even she would give me a holiday to-day,"
Hieronymus said. "And she always claimed so much work of me; she was
never satisfied. I think she considered me a lazy fellow, who needed
spurring on. She had great ambitions for me; she believed everything of
me, and wished me to work out her ambitions, not for the sake of the
fame and the name, but for the sake of the good it does us all to
grapple with ourselves."
He had drawn from his pocket a small miniature of a sweet-looking woman.
It was a spiritual face, with tender eyes; a face to linger in one's
memory.
"When she first died," Hieronymus continued, as though to himself, "I
could not have written a line without this dear face before me. It
served to remind me that although I was unhappy and lonely, I must work
if only to please her. That is what I had done when she was alive, and
it seemed disloyal not to do so when she was dead. And it was the only
comfort I had; but a strong comfort, filling full the heart. It is ten
years now since she died; but I scarcely need the miniature, the dear
face is always before me. Ten years ago, and I am still alive, and
sometimes, often indeed, very happy; she was always glad when I laughed
cheerily, or I made some fun out of nothing. 'What a stupid boy you
are!' she would say. But she laughed all the same. We were very happy
together, she and I; we had loved each other a long time, in spite of
many difficulties and troubles. But the troubles had cleared, and we
were just going to make our little home together when she died."
There was no tremor in his voice as he spoke.
"We enjoyed everything," he went on; "every bit of fun, every bit of
beauty--the mere fact of living and loving, the mere fact of the world
being beautiful, the mere fact of there being so much to do and to be
and to strive after. I was not very ambitious for myself. At one time
I _had_ cared greatly; then the desire had left me. But when she first
came into my life, she roused me from my lethargy; she loved me, and did
not wish me to pause one moment in my life's work. The old ambitions had
left me, but for her sake I revived them; she was my dear good angel,
but always, as I told her, a stern task-giver. Then when she was gone,
and I had not her dear presence to help me, I just felt I could not go
on writing any more. Then I remembered how ambitious she was for me,
and so I did not wait one moment. I took up my work at once, and have
tried to earn a name and a fame for her sake."
He paused and stirred the fire uneasily.
"It was very difficult at first," he continued; "everything was
difficult. And even now, after ten years, it is not always easy. And I
cared so little. That was the hardest part of all: to learn to care
again. But the years pass, and we live through a tempest of grief, and
come out into a great calm. In the tempest we fancied we were alone; in
the calm we know that we have not been alone; that the dear face has
been looking at us lovingly, and the dear voice speaking to us through
the worst hours of the storm, and the dear soul knitting itself closer
and closer to our soul."
Joan bent over the paper.
"So the days have passed into weeks and months and years," he said, "and
here am I, still looking for my dear love's blessing and approval; still
looking to her for guidance, to her and no one else. Others may be able
to give their heart twice over, but I am not one of those. People talk
of death effacing love! as though death and love could have any dealings
the one with the other. They always were strangers; they always will be
strangers. So year after year I mourn for her, in my own way, happily,
sorrowfully, and always tenderly; sometimes with laughter, sometimes
with tears. When I see all the beautiful green things of the world, and
sing from very delight, I know she would be glad. When I make a good
joke or turn a clever sentence, I know she would smile her praise. When
I do my work well, I know she would be satisfied. And though I may fail
in all I undertake, still there is the going on trying. Thus I am
always a mourner, offering to her just that kind of remembrance which
her dear beautiful soul would cherish most."
He was handling the little miniature.
"May I see the face?" Joan asked very gently.
He put the miniature in her hands. She looked at it, and then returned
it to him, almost reverently.
"And now, little secretary," he said, in his old cheery way, "I do
believe I could do some work if I tried. It's only a question of
will-power. Come, dip your pen in the ink, and write as quickly as you
can."
He dictated for nearly an hour, and then Joan slipped off quickly home.
Up in her little bedroom it was all in vain that she chased the tears
from her face. They came again, and they came again.
"He has seen that I love him," she sobbed. "And that was his dear kind
way of telling me that I was a foolish little child. Of course I was a
foolish little child, but I couldn't help it! Indeed I couldn't help
it. And I must go on crying. No one need know."
So she went on crying, and no one knew.
*CHAPTER XI.*
*HIERONYMUS GOES.*
They were captured, those little wretches, the hill-ponies, having been
chased down from all directions, and gathered together in the enclosure
set apart for their imprisonment. There they were, cribbed, cabined, and
confined, some of them distressed, and all of them highly indignant at
the rough treatment which they had received. This gathering together of
the wild ponies occurred two or three times in the year, when the owners
assembled to identify their particular herd, and to reimpress their mark
on the ponies which belonged to them. It was no easy matter to drive
them down from the hills; though indeed they came down willingly enough
at night to seek what they might devour. Then one might hear their
little feet pattering quickly over the ground, helter-skelter! The
villagers were well accustomed to the sound. "It's only the
hill-ponies, the rascals!" they would say. But when they were wanted,
they would not come. They led the beaters a rare dance over hill and
dale; but it always ended in the same way. Then, after four or five
years of life on the hills, their owners sold them, and that was the end
of all their fun, and all their shagginess too.
Hieronymus stood near the enclosure watching the proceedings with the
greatest interest. The men were trying to divide the ponies into
groups, according to the mark on their backs. But this was no easy
matter either; the little creatures kicked and threw themselves about in
every direction but the right one, and they were so strong that their
struggles were generally successful. The sympathies of Hieronymus went
with the rebels, and he was much distressed when he saw three men
hanging on to the tail of one of the ponies, and trying to keep him back
from another group.
"I say, you there!" he cried, waving his stick. "I can't stand that."
Mrs. Benbow, who was standing near him, laughed, and called him to
order.
"Now don't you be meddling with what you don't understand," she said.
"You may know a good deal about books, but it's not much you'll know
about hill-ponies."
"That's quite true," said Hieronymus humbly.
"Come along with me now," commanded Mrs. Benbow, "and help me buy a red
pig!"
Nothing but a red pig would have made Hieronymus desert the hill-ponies.
A red pig was of course irresistible to any one in his senses; and the
historian followed contentedly after the landlady of the Green Dragon.
She made her way among the crowds of people who had come to this great
horse-fair, which was the most important one of the whole year.
Hieronymus was much interested in every one and everything he saw; he
looked at the horses, and sheep, and cows, and exchanged conversation
with any one who would talk to him.
"There's a deal of money will change hands to-day," said a jolly old
farmer to him. "But prices be dreadful low this year. Why, the pigs be
going for a mere nothing."
"I'm going to buy a pig," Hieronymus said proudly, "a red one."
"Ah," said the farmer, looking at him with a sort of indulgent disdain,
"it's a breed as I care nothing about."
Then he turned to one of his colleagues, evidently considering
Hieronymus rather a feeble kind of individual, with whom it was not
profitable to talk.
The historian was depressed for the moment, but soon recovered his
spirits when he saw the fascinating red pigs. And his pride and conceit
knew no bounds when Mrs. Benbow actually chose and bought the very
animal which he had recommended to her notice. He saw David Ellis, and
went to tell him about the pig. The exciseman laughed, and then looked
sad again.
"My little Joan is very unhappy," he said, half in a whisper. "The old
white horse is to be sold. Do you see her there yonder? How I wish I
could buy the old mare and give her to Joan!"
"That would be a very unwise thing for you to do," said Hieronymus.
"Yes," said David. "And do you know, I've been thinking of what you
said about her going out into the world. And I found this
advertisement. Shall I give it to her?"
Hieronymus looked at it.
"You're a dear fellow, David," he said warmly. "Yes, give it to her.
And I too have been thinking of what you said to me. I've told her a
little of my story, and she knows now how my heart is altogether taken
up with my past. So, if I've done any harm to her and you, I have tried
to set it right. And to-morrow I am going home. You will see me off at
the station?"
"I'll be there," said the exciseman.
But there was no sign in his manner that he wished to be rid of
Hieronymus. The historian, who all unconsciously won people's hearts,
all unconsciously kept them too. Even Auntie Lloyd, to whom he had been
presented, owned that he "had a way" about him. (But then he had asked
after her sciatica!) He spoke a few words to Joan, who stood lingering
near the old white mare. She had been a little shy of him since he had
talked so openly to her; and he had noticed this, and used all his
geniality to set her at her ease again.
"This is my last afternoon," he said to her, "and I have crowned the
achievements of my visit here by choosing a red pig. Now I'm going back
to the big barbarous world to boast of my new acquirements--brewing
beer, eating pastry, drinking beef-tea, cutting up the beans, making
onion pickles, and other odd jobs assigned to me by Queen Elizabeth of
the Green Dragon. Here she comes to fetch me, for we are going to drive
the red pig home in the cart. Then I'm to have some tea with rum in it,
and some of those horrible Shropshire crumpets. Then if I'm alive after
the crumpets and the rum, there will be a few more odd jobs for me to
do, and then to-morrow I go. As for yourself, little secretary, you are
going to put courage into your heart, and fight your battles well. Tell
me?"
"Yes," she said; and she looked up brightly, though there were tears in
her eyes.
"Do you know those words, '_Hitch your wagon to a star?_'" he said.
"Emerson was right. The wagon spins along merrily then. And now
good-bye, little secretary. You must come and see me off at the station
to-morrow. I want all my friends around me."
So on the morrow they gathered round him, Mr. Benbow, Mrs. Benbow, two
of the Malt-House Farm boys, the old woman who kept the grocer's shop,
and who had been doing a good trade in sweetmeats since Hieronymus came,
the exciseman, and Joan Hammond, and old John of the wooden leg. They
were all there, sorrowful to part with him, glad to have known him.
"If you would only stay," said Mrs. Benbow; "there are so many odd jobs
for you to do!"
"No, I must go," said the historian. "There is an end to everything,
excepting to your beef-tea. But I've been very happy."
His luggage had increased since he came to Little Stretton. He had
arrived with a small portmanteau; he went away with the same
portmanteau, an oak chair which Mr. Benbow had given him, and a small
hamper containing Gamboge.
"Take care how you carry that hamper," he said to the porter. "There is
a dog inside undergoing a cat incarnation!"
To Joan he said: "Little secretary, answer the advertisement and go out
into the world."
And she promised.
And to David he said: "When you've finished that book-list write to me
for another one."
And he promised.
Then the train moved off, and the dear kind face was out of sight.
* * * * *
Mrs. Benbow went home to do the scouring and cleaning.
David rode off to Ludlow and bought a book.
Joan sat in her room at the Malt-House Farm, and cried her heart out.
Then she looked at the advertisement and answered it. "It was kind of
David," she said.
* * * * *
So Joan went out into the world.
* * * * *
The weeks, the months, seem long without her. He buys his books, and
with every new book he buys new comfort. He recalls the historian's
words: "Some day, when she is tired, she will be glad to lean on some
one whom she can trust."
So David waits.
THE END.
* * * * * * * *
*AN IDYLL OF LONDON.*
*BY BEATRICE HARRADEN.*
It was one o'clock, and many of the students in the National Gallery had
left off work, and were refreshing themselves with lunch and
conversation. There was one old worker who had not stirred from his
place; but he had put down his brush, and had taken from his pocket a
small book, which was, like its owner, thin and shabby of covering. He
seemed to find pleasure in reading it, for he turned over its pages with
all the tenderness characteristic of one who loves what he reads. Now
and again he glanced at his unfinished copy of the beautiful portrait of
Andrea del Sarto, and once his eyes rested on another copy next to his,
better and truer than his; and once he stooped to pick up a girl's
prune-colored tie which had fallen from the neighboring easel. After
this he seemed to become unconscious of his surroundings, as unconscious
indeed as any one of the pictures near him. Any one might have been
justified in mistaking him for the portrait of a man, but that his lips
moved; for it was his custom to read softly to himself.
The students passed back to their places, not troubling to notice him,
because they knew from experience that he never noticed them, and that
all greetings were wasted on him, and all words were wanton expenditure
of breath. They had come to regard him very much in the same way as
many of us regard the wonders of Nature, without astonishment, without
any questionings, and often without any interest. One girl, a newcomer,
did chance to say to her companion:
"How ill that old man looks!"
"Oh, he always looks like that," was the answer. "You will soon get
accustomed to him. Come along! I must finish my 'Blind Beggar' this
afternoon."
In a few minutes most of the workers were busy again, although there
were some who continued to chat quietly, and several young men who
seemed reluctant to leave their girl friends, and who were by no means
encouraged to go! One young man came to claim his book and pipe, which
he had left in the charge of a bright-eyed girl, who was copying Sir
Joshua's Angels. She gave him his treasures, and received in exchange a
dark-red rose, which she fastened in her belt; and then he returned to
his portrait of Mrs. Siddons. But there was something in his
disconsolate manner which made one suspect that he thought less of Mrs.
Siddons' beauty than of the beauty of the girl who was wearing the
dark-red rose! The strangers strolling through the rooms, stopped now
and again to peer curiously at the students' work. They were stared at
indignantly by the students themselves, but they made no attempt to move
away, and even ventured sometimes to pass criticisms of no tender
character on some of the copies. The fierce-looking man who was copying
"The Horse Fair" deliberately put down his brushes, folded his arms, and
waited defiantly until they had gone by; but others, wiser in their
generation, went on painting calmly. Several workers were painting the
new Raphael; one of them was a white-haired old gentlewoman, whose hand
was trembling, and yet skillful still. More than once she turned to
give a few hints to the young girl near her, who looked in some distress
and doubt. Just the needful help was given, and then the girl plied her
brush merrily, smiling the while with pleasure and gratitude. There
seemed to be a genial, kindly influence at work, a certain homeliness
too, which must needs assert itself where many are gathered together,
working side by side. All made a harmony: the wonderful pictures
gathered from many lands and many centuries, each with its meaning, and
its message from the Past; the ever-present memories of the painters
themselves, who had worked and striven and conquered; and the living
human beings, each with his wealth of earnest endeavor and hope.
Meanwhile, the old man read on uninterrupted, until two hands were put
over his book, and a gentle voice said:
"Mr. Lindall, you have had no lunch again. Do you know, I begin to hate
Lucretius. He always makes you forget your food."
The old man looked up, and something like a smile passed over his
joyless face when he saw Helen Stanley bending over him.
"Ah!" he answered, "you must not hate Lucretius. I have had more
pleasant hours with him than with any living person."
He rose, and came forward to examine her copy of Andrea del Sarto's
portrait.
"Yours is better than mine," he said critically; "in fact, mine is a
failure. I think I shall only get a small price for mine; indeed, I
doubt whether I shall get sufficient to pay for my funeral."
"You speak dismally," she answered, smiling.
"I missed you yesterday," he continued, half-dreamily. "I left my work,
and I wandered through the rooms, and I did not even read Lucretius.
Something seemed to have gone out from my life; at first I thought it
must be my favorite Raphael, or the Murillo; but it was neither the one
nor the other, it was you. That was strange, wasn't it? But you know
we get accustomed to anything, and perhaps I should have missed you less
the second day, and by the end of a week I should not have missed you at
all. Mercifully, we have in us the power of forgetting."
"I do not wish to plead for myself," she said, "but I do not believe
that you or any one could really forget. That which outsiders call
forgetfulness might be called by the better name of resignation."
"I don't care about talking anymore now," he said suddenly, and he went
to his easel and worked silently at his picture; and Helen Stanley
glanced at him, and thought she had never seen her old companion look so
forlorn and desolate as he did to-day. He looked as if no gentle hand
had ever been placed on him in kindliness and affection; and that seemed
to her a terrible thing, for she was one of those prehistorically-minded
persons who persist in believing that affection is as needful to human
life as rain to flower-life. When first she came to work at the gallery,
some twelve months ago, she had noticed this old man, and had wished for
his companionship; she was herself lonely and sorrowful, and, although
young, had to fight her own battles, and had learned something of the
difficulties of fighting; and this had given her an experience beyond
her years. She was not more than twenty-four years of age, but she
looked rather older, and though she had beautiful eyes, full of meaning
and kindness, her features were decidedly plain as well as unattractive.
There were some in the Gallery who said among themselves jestingly, that
Mr. Lindall had waited so many years before talking to any one, he might
have chosen some one better worth the waiting for! But they soon got
accustomed to seeing Helen Stanley and Mr. Lindall together, and they
laughed less than before; and meanwhile the acquaintance ripened into a
sort of friendship, half sulky on his part, and wholly kind on her part.
He told her nothing about himself, and asked nothing about herself; for
weeks he never even knew her name. Sometimes he did not speak at all,
and the two friends would work silently side by side until it was time
to go; and then he waited until she was ready, and walked with her
across Trafalgar Square, where they parted and went their own ways.
But occasionally, when she least expected it, he would speak with
glowing enthusiasm on art; then his eyes seemed to become bright, and
his bent figure more erect, and his whole bearing proud and dignified.
There were times, too, when he would speak on other subjects; on the
morality of free thought, and on those who had died to indicate free
thought; on Bruno, of blessed memory, on him, and scores of others too.
He would speak of the different schools of philosophy; he would laugh at
himself, and at all who, having given time and thought to the study of
life's complicated problems, had not reached one step farther than the
old world thinkers. Perhaps he would quote one of his favorite
philosophers, and then suddenly relapse into silence, returning to his
wonted abstraction, and to his indifference to his surroundings. Helen
Stanley had learned to understand his ways, and to appreciate his mind,
and, without intruding on him in any manner, had put herself gently into
his life, as his quiet companion and his friend. No one, in her
presence, dared to speak slightingly of the old man, to make fun of his
tumble-down appearance, or of his worn-out silk hat with a crack in the
side, or of his rag of a black tie, which, together with his overcoat,
had "seen better days." Once she brought her needle and thread, and
darned the torn sleeve during her lunch time; and though he never knew
it, it was a satisfaction to her to have helped him.
To-day she noticed that he was painting badly, and that he seemed to
take no interest in his work; but she went on busily with her own
picture, and was so engrossed in it that she did not at first observe
that he had packed up his brushes, and was preparing to go home.
"Three more strokes," he said quietly, "and you will have finished your
picture. I shall never finish mine. Perhaps you will be good enough to
set it right for me. I am not coming here again. I don't seem to have
caught the true expression; what do you think? But I am not going to let
it worry me, for I am sure you will promise to do your best for me.
See, I will hand over these colors and these brushes to you, and no
doubt you will accept the palette as well. I have no further use for
it."
Helen Stanley took the palette which he held out toward her, and looked
at him as though she would wish to question him.
"It is very hot here," he continued, "and I am going out. I am tired of
work."
He hesitated, and then added: "I should like you to come with me, if you
can spare the time."
She packed up her things at once, and the two friends moved slowly away,
he gazing absently at the pictures, and she wondering in her mind as to
the meaning of his strange mood.
When they were on the steps inside the building, he turned to Helen
Stanley and said:
"I should like to go back to the pictures once more. I feel as if I
must stand among them just a little longer. They have been my
companions for so long that they are almost part of myself. I can close
my eyes and recall them faithfully. But I want to take a last look at
them; I want to feel once more the presence of the great masters, and to
refresh my mind with their genius. When I look at their work, I think
of their life, and can only wonder at their deaths. It was so strange
that they should die."
They went back together, and he took her to his favorite pictures, but
remained speechless before them, and she did not disturb his thoughts.
At last he said:
"I am ready to go. I have said farewell to them all. I know of nothing
more wonderful than being among a number of fine pictures. It is almost
overwhelming. One expects Nature to be grand; but one does not expect
Man to be grand."
"You know we don't agree there," she answered. "_I_ expect everything
grand and great from Man."
They went out of the Gallery, and into Trafalgar Square. It was a
scorching afternoon in August, but there was some cooling comfort in
seeing the dancing water of the fountains sparkling so brightly in the
sunshine.
"Do you mind stopping here a few minutes?" he said. "I should like to
sit down and watch. There is so much to see."
She led the way to a seat, one end of which was occupied by a workman,
who was sleeping soundly, and snoring too, his arms folded tightly
together. He had a little clay pipe in the corner of his mouth; it
seemed to be tucked in so snugly that there was not much danger of its
falling to the ground. At last Helen spoke to her companion.
"What do you mean by saying that you will not be able to finish your
picture? Perhaps you are not well--indeed, you don't look well. You
make me anxious, for I have a great regard for you."
"I am ill and suffering," he answered quietly. "I thought I should have
died yesterday; but I made up my mind to live until I saw you again, and
I thought I would ask you to spend the afternoon with me and go with me
to Westminster Abbey, and sit with me in the Cloisters. I do not feel
able to go by myself, and I know of no one to ask except you; and I
believed you would not refuse me, for you have been very kind to me. I
do not quite understand why you have been kind to me, but I am
wonderfully grateful to you. To-day I heard some one in the Gallery say
that you were plain; I turned round and I said, 'I beg your pardon, I
think she is very beautiful.' I think they laughed, and that puzzled
me; for you have always seemed to me a very beautiful person."
At that moment the little clay pipe fell from the workman's mouth, and
was broken into bits. He awoke with a start, gazed stupidly at the old
man and his companion, and at the broken clay pipe.
"Curse my luck!" he said, yawning. "I was fond of that damned little
pipe."
The old man drew his own pipe and his own tobacco-pouch from his pocket.
"Take these, stranger," he said. "I don't want them. And good luck to
you!"
The man's face brightened up as he took the pipe and pouch.
"You're uncommon kind," he said. "Can you spare them?" he added,
holding them out half-reluctantly.
"Yes," answered the old man; "I shall not smoke again. You may as well
have these matches, too."
The laborer put them in his pocket, smiled his thanks, and walked some
little distance off; and Helen watched him examine his new pipe, and
then fill it with tobacco and light it.
Mr. Lindall proposed that they should be getting on their way to
Westminster, and they soon found themselves in the Abbey. They sat
together in the Poet's Corner. A smile of quiet happiness broke over
the old man's tired face as he looked around and took in all the solemn
beauty and grandeur of the resting place of the great.
"You know," he said half to himself, half to his companion, "I have no
belief of any kind, and no hopes and no fears; but all through my life
it has been a comfort to me to sit quietly in a church or a cathedral.
The graceful arches, the sun shining through the stained windows, the
vaulted roof, the noble columns, have helped me to understand the
mystery which all our books of philosophy cannot make clear, though we
bend over them year after year, and grow old over them, old in age and
in spirit. Though I myself have never been outwardly a worshiper, I
have never sat in a place of worship but that, for the time being, I
have felt a better man. But directly the voice of doctrine or dogma was
raised, the spell was broken for me, and that which I hoped was being
made clear had no further meaning for me. There was only one voice
which ever helped me, the voice of the organ arousing me, filling me
with strange longing, with welcome sadness, with solemn gladness. I
have always thought that music can give an answer when everything else
is of no avail. I do not know what you believe."
"I am so young to have found out," she said, almost pleadingly.
"Don't worry yourself," he answered kindly. "Be brave and strong, and
let the rest go. I should like to live long enough to see what you will
make of your life. I believe you will never be false to yourself or to
any one. That is rare. I believe you will not let any lower ideal take
the place of your high ideal of what is beautiful and noble in art, in
life. I believe that you will never let despair get the upper hand of
you. If it does, you may as well die; yes, you may as well die. And I
entreat you not to lose your entire faith in humanity. There is nothing
like that for withering up the very core of the heart. I tell you,
humanity and nature have so much in common with each other that if you
lose your entire faith in the former, you will lose part of your
pleasure in the latter; you will see less beauty in the trees, the
flowers, and the fields, less grandeur in the mighty mountains and the
sea; the seasons will come and go, and you will scarcely heed their
coming and going; winter will settle over your soul, just as it settled
over mine. And you see what I am."
They had now passed into the Cloisters, and they sat down in one of the
recesses of the windows, and looked out upon the rich plot of grass
which the Cloisters inclose. There was not a soul there except
themselves; the cool and the quiet and the beauty of the spot refreshed
these pilgrims, and they rested in calm enjoyment.
Helen was the first to break the silence. "I am glad you have brought me
here," she said; "I shall never grumble now at not being able to afford
a fortnight in the country. This is better than anything else."
"It has always been my summer holiday to come here," he said. "When I
first came I was like you, young and hopeful, and I had wonderful
visions of what I intended to do and to be. Here it was I made a vow
that I would become a great painter, and win for myself a resting-place
in this very abbey. There is humor in the situation, is there not?"
"I don't like to hear you say that," she answered. "It is not always
possible for us to fulfill all our ambitions. Still, it is better to
have had them and failed of them, than not to have had them at all."
"Possibly," he replied coldly. Then he added: "I wish you would tell me
something about yourself. You have always interested me."
"I have nothing to tell you about myself," she answered frankly. "I am
alone in the world, without friends and without relations. The very name
I use is not a real name. I was a foundling. At times I am sorry I do
not belong to any one, and at other times I am glad there is no one whom
I might possibly vex and disappoint. You know I am fond of books and of
art, so my life is not altogether empty, and I find my pleasure in hard
work. When I saw you at the gallery I wished to know you, and I asked
one of the students who you were. He told me you were a misanthrope,
and I was sorry, because I believed that humanity ought to be helped and
loved, not despised. Then I did not care so much about knowing you,
until one day you spoke to me about my painting, and that was the
beginning of our friendship."
"Forty years ago," he said sadly, "the friend of my boyhood deceived me.
I had not thought it possible that he could be false to me. He screened
himself behind me, and became prosperous and respected at the expense of
my honor. I vowed I would never again make a friend. A few years
later, when I was beginning to hold up my head, the woman whom I loved
deceived me. Then I put from me all affection and all love. Greater
natures than mine are better able to bear these troubles, but my heart
contracted and withered up."
He paused for a moment, many recollections overpowering him. Then he
went on telling her the history of his life, unfolding to her the story
of his hopes and ambitions, describing to her the very home where he was
born, and the dark-eyed sister whom he had loved, and with whom he had
played over the daisied fields and through the carpeted woods, and all
among the richly tinted bracken. One day he was told she was dead, and
that he must never speak her name; but he spoke it all the day and all
the night--Beryl, nothing but Beryl; and he looked for her in the fields
and in the woods and among the bracken. It seemed as if he had unlocked
the casket of his heart, closed for so many years, and as if all the
memories of the past and all the secrets of his life were rushing out,
glad to be free once more, and grateful for the open air of sympathy.
"Beryl was as swift as a deer," he exclaimed. "You would have laughed
to see her on the moor. Ah, it was hard to give up all thoughts of
meeting her again. They told me I should see her in heaven, but I did
not care about heaven. I wanted Beryl on earth, as I knew her, a merry,
laughing sister. I think you are right; we don't forget, we become
resigned in a dead, dull kind of way."
Suddenly he said: "I don't know why I have told you all this. And yet
it has been such a pleasure to me. You are the only person to whom I
could have spoken about myself, for no one else but you would have
cared."
"Don't you think," she said gently, "that you made a mistake in letting
your experiences embitter you? Because you had been unlucky in one or
two instances, it did not follow that all the world was against you.
Perhaps you unconsciously put yourself against all the world, and
therefore saw every one in an unfavorable light. It seems so easy to do
that. Trouble comes to most people, doesn't it? and your philosophy
should have taught you to make the best of it. At least, that is my
notion of the value of philosophy."
She spoke timidly and hesitatingly, as though she gave utterance to
these words against her will.
"I am sure you are right, child," he said eagerly.
He put his hands to his eyes, but he could not keep back the tears.
"I have been such a lonely old man," he sobbed; "no one can tell what a
lonely, loveless life mine has been. If I were not so old and so tired,
I should like to begin all over again."
He sobbed for many minutes, and she did not know what to say to him of
comfort; but she took his hand within her own and gently caressed it, as
one might do to a little child in pain. He looked up and smiled through
his tears.
"You have been very good to me," he said, "and I dare say you have
thought me ungrateful. You mended my coat for me one morning, and not a
day has passed but that I have looked at the darn and thought of you. I
like to remember that you have done it for me. But you have done far
more than this for me; you have put some sweetness into my life.
Whatever becomes of me hereafter, I shall never be able to think of my
life on earth as anything but beautiful, because you thought kindly of
me, and acted kindly for me. The other night, when this terrible pain
came over me, I wished you were near me; I wished to hear your voice.
There is very beautiful music in your voice."
"I would have come to you gladly," she said, smiling quietly at him.
"You must make a promise that when you feel ill again you will send for
me. Then you will see what a splendid nurse I am, and how soon you will
become strong and well under my care; strong enough to paint many more
pictures, each one better than the last. Now, will you promise?"
"Yes," he said, and he raised her hand reverently to his lips.
"You are not angry with me for doing that?" he asked suddenly. "I
should not like to vex you."
"I am not vexed," she answered kindly.
"Then perhaps I may kiss it once more?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered, and again he raised her hand to his lips.
"Thank you," he said quietly, "that was kind of you. Do you see that
broken sun-ray yonder? Is it not golden? I find it very pleasant to
sit here; and I am quite happy and almost free from pain. Lately I have
been troubled with a dull, thudding pain near my heart, but now I feel
so strong that I believe I shall finish that Andrea del Sarto after
all."
"Of course you will," she answered cheerily, "and I shall have to
confess that yours is better than mine. I am quite willing to yield the
palm to you."
"I must alter the expression of the mouth," he replied. "That is the
part which has worried me. I don't think I told you that I have had a
commission to copy Rembrandt's old Jew. I must set to work on that next
week."
"But you have given me your palette and brushes!" she laughed.
"You must be generous enough to lend them to me," he said, smiling. "By
the way, I intend to give you my books, all of them. Some day I must
show them to you; I especially value my philosophical books, they have
been my faithful companions through many years. I believe you do not
read Greek. That is a pity, because you would surely enjoy Aristotle. I
think I must teach you Greek; it would be an agreeable legacy to leave
you when I pass away into the Great Silence."
"I should like to learn," she said, wondering to hear him speak so
unreservedly. It seemed as if some great barrier had been rolled aside,
and as if she were getting to know him better, having been allowed to
glance into his past life, to sympathize with his past mistakes, and
with the failure of his ambitions, and with the deadening of his heart.
"You must read AEschylus," he continued enthusiastically, "and if I
mistake not, the 'Agamemnon' will mark an epoch in your life. You will
find that all these studies will serve to ennoble your art, and you will
be able to put mind into your work, and not merely form and color. Do
you know, I feel so well that I believe I shall not only live to finish
Andrea del Sarto, but also to smoke another pipe?"
"You have been too rash to-day," she laughed, "giving away your pipe and
pouch, your palette and brushes in this reckless manner! I must get you
a new pipe to-morrow. I wonder you did not part with your venerable
Lucretius."
"That reminds me," he said, fumbling in his pocket, "I think I have
dropped my Lucretius. I fancy I left it somewhere in the Poet's Corner.
It would grieve me to lose that book."
"Let me go and look for it," she said, and she advanced a few steps and
then came back to him.
"You have been saying many kind words to me," she said, as she put her
hand on his arm, "and I have not told you that I value your friendship
and am grateful to you for letting me be more than a mere stranger to
you. I have been very lonely in my life, for I am not one to make
friends easily, and it has been a great privilege to me to talk with
you. I want you to know this; for if I have been anything to you, you
have been a great deal to me. You see, although I am young, I have long
since learned somewhat of sorrow. I have had hard times and hard words,
and have never met with much sympathy from those of my own age. I have
found them narrow and unyielding, and they found me dull and
uninteresting. They had passed through few experiences and knew nothing
about failure or success, and some of them did not even understand the
earnestness of endeavor, and laughed at me when I spoke of a high ideal.
So I withdrew into myself, and should probably have grown still more
isolated than I was before, but that I met you, and as time went on we
became friends. I shall always remember your teaching, and, though all
the world may laugh, I will try to keep to a high ideal of life and art,
and I will not let despair creep into my heart, and I will not lose my
faith in humanity."
As she spoke, a lingering ray of sunshine fit up her face and gently
caressed her soft brown hair; slight though her form, and somber her
clothes, and unlovely her features, she seemed a gracious presence,
beautiful and gladdening, because of her earnestness.
"Now," she said, "you rest here until I come back with your Lucretius,
and then I think I must be getting on my way home. But you must fix a
time for our first Greek lesson; for we must begin to-morrow."
When she had gone he walked in the Cloisters, holding his hat in his
hand and his stick under his arm. There was a quiet smile on his face,
which was called forth by pleasant thoughts in his mind, and he did not
look quite so shrunken and shriveled as usual. His eyes were fixed on
the ground; but he raised them and observed a white cat creeping toward
him. It came and rubbed itself against his foot, and purring with all
its might, seemed determined to win some kind of notice from him. The
old man stooped down to stroke it, and was just touching its sleek coat,
when he suddenly withdrew his hand and groaned deeply. He struggled to
the recess and sank back. The stick fell on the stone with a clatter,
and the battered hat rolled down beside it, and the white cat fled away
in terror; but realizing that there was no cause for alarm, it came back
and crouched near the silent figure of the old man, watching him
intently. Then it stretched out its paw and played with his hand, doing
its utmost to coax him into a little fun; but he would not be coaxed,
and the cat lost all patience with him, and left him to himself.
Meanwhile Helen Stanley was looking for the lost Lucretius in the Poet's
Corner. She found it lying near Chaucer's tomb, and was just going to
take it to her friend when she saw the workman to whom they had spoken
in Trafalgar Square. He recognized her at once and came toward her.
"I've been having a quiet half-hour here," he said. "It does me a sight
of good to sit in the Abbey."
"You should go into the Cloisters," she said kindly. "I have been
sitting there with my friend. He will be interested to hear that you
love this beautiful Abbey."
"I should like to see him again," said the workman. "He had a kind way
about him, and that pipe he gave me is an uncommon good one; still, I am
sorry I smashed the little clay pipe. I'd grown used to it. I'd smoked
it ever since my little girl died and left me alone in the world. I
used to bring my little girl here, and now I come alone; but it isn't
the same thing."
"No, it could not be the same thing," said Helen gently; "but you find
some little comfort here?"
"Some little comfort," he answered. "One can't expect much."
They went together into the Cloisters, and as they came near the recess
where the old man rested, Helen said:
"Why, he has fallen asleep! He must have been very tired. And he has
dropped his hat and stick. Thank you, if you will put them down there I
will watch by his side-until he wakes up. I don't suppose he will sleep
for long."
The workman stooped down to pick up the hat and stick, and glanced at
the sleeper. Something in the sleeper's countenance arrested his
attention. He turned to the girl and saw that she was watching him.
"What is it?" she asked anxiously. "What is the matter with you?"
He tried to speak, but his voice failed him, and all he could do was to
point with trembling hand to the old man.
Helen looked, and a loud cry broke from her lips. The old man was dead.
THE END.