A POINT OF VIEW
“OF course,” said John to himself, “I see her point of view.”
It was, be it stated, at least the fiftieth time in the course of
the last four and twenty hours that he had assured himself of the
perspicacity of his vision. Also, it must be observed, it was because
his own point of view was so diametrically opposed to hers that he
found the assurance necessary. It emphasized, in a measure, his own
broadness of mind, his ability to perceive another’s standpoint even
while he disagreed with it _in toto_. You will doubtless have observed
this attitude of mind in such persons as are fully determined to adhere
to their own opinions.
Of course he realized Lady Mary’s point of view, her quixotic
determination to recognize the interloper as one of the family, now
that his claim to recognition had been fully established. Of course
it was noble, chivalrous, Christian to a very fine degree of nicety;
but it was, to John’s way of thinking, ultra-quixotic, unnecessary,
save to aspirers after saintship. And John, from a delightfully human
standpoint, saw no reason to imagine Lady Mary as an aspirer to this
exalted degree of perfection. Therefore, from a human standpoint, her
determination was tinged, distinctly tinged, with absurdity.
It was one thing, argued John, to bear a treacherous dog’s bite with
courage and equanimity, it was quite another to welcome and caress
the dog that has bitten you. There was treachery, unfairness, in the
whole business as far as the interloper was concerned; that fact made
John’s point of view the justifiable, and, indeed, the only sane one.
He saw precisely how he would have acted in the matter. He would
have given a dignified refusal to permit the interloper to put so
much as his nose inside the Castle, till such time as he himself and
his belongings had made a dignified exit from it. There was dignity
enough in John’s attitude, you may be sure. In fact it was a dignity
which, for the time being, entirely overrode his quite abundant
sense of humour. Therefore, you perceive, that the dignity was
coloured by a very decided sense of ill-temper. This last quality and
self-appreciation--and I believe our John was modest enough--alone are
capable of subordinating such humour.
“Of course,” said John again, “I see her point of view, but it’s such a
confoundedly quixotic one. It isn’t level; it isn’t sane; it--it won’t
work.” And then John frowned fiercely, and gazed glumly before him.
He was sitting in the shadow of a haystack, the afternoon being
intensely hot. The sleepy air was curiously still. Had John not been
entirely engrossed in his own reflections, it is possible he might have
read something ominous in this stillness. It is certain that he would
have done so had he looked past the haystack behind him, and seen the
purple-black clouds gradually massing up on the distant horizon. Before
him, however, all was serene, sunny, and drowsy; therefore he continued
to dream.
His thoughts leaving, for a time at least, a subject at once unfruitful
and irritating, they rambled over the incidents of the last few days.
Undercurrently, as a kind of connecting link to the scattered beads of
incident, was a half-wondering reflection on the inscrutable leadings
of Fate, Providence,--call it what you will. And if it wasn’t Fate
which had led him here, it was Providence, and if it was Providence
there was no gainsaying the plan, and so--and so-- He broke off.
Oh, he’d follow up the leading fast enough. It was his one whole and
sole desire. Hadn’t he had this desire for months past? Hadn’t it been
his one dream since five minutes to four precisely one windy March
afternoon? He’d follow hot afoot fast enough. The whole question was,
Would she come the merest fraction of a step towards him? Would she
even pause to await his coming? Or would he come to the end of the
pathway to find that she had eluded him,--a locked gate the end of his
quest? And there must be no stumbling, no clumsy blundering on that
pathway. Despite his desire for swiftness, he must walk warily. And
then his thoughts came to a halt, overcome, I fancy, by some suspicion
of their presumption. For a moment he staggered mentally, yet but for
a moment. Courage called high-handed to his heart. “On, man, and take
the risk,” she cried. “Cowardice and false modesty never yet led to a
fair goal.”
Now his thoughts went back slowly step by step, dwelling with interest
on each little incident that had brought him to his present vantage
point. It being a vantage point, this method of thought had its
fascination. It was pleasant enough to give mental fingering to each
little bead of incident, to marvel at their connection with each other.
Truly there are times when such a process brings pain, when each bead
will hold a tiny poisoned prick. But why think of such times? To John,
each bead was carved in happiness.
And then, suddenly, he was aware that the physical sunshine around him
had dimmed. Glancing upwards he saw the edge of a dark cloud. He got to
his feet and came out from the shelter of the haystack.
Rolling up from the westward, thunderous, leaden, were great massive
clouds. The air below was extraordinarily still; he was aware now of
something electric in its stillness. Overhead there was unquestionably
wind, since the clouds rolled up and spread with rapidity.
“We’re in for a deluge,” said John, making for the high road.
It led downhill, straight, dusty, and very white, flanked on either
side by high hedges, dust-sprinkled. John made his way down it at a
fine pace. A thin flannel suit would be poor enough protection against
the torrent that was at hand.
Nearing the bottom of the hill, he heard the sharp ting of a bicycle
bell behind him. The next instant the bicycle and its rider flashed
past.
“Crass idiot to ride at that pace,” ejaculated John against the hedge.
The machine had been within a couple of inches of his arm.
And then came the first drops of rain, splashing down, splotching dark
spots on the dusty road. White a moment agone, in a second it was
brown. The rain hissed down upon the earth. Truly there was the sound
of its abundance.
John took to his heels and ran. As he turned at the bottom of the hill,
he came to a sudden halt. By the roadside, half sitting, half lying,
was a man; a bicycle, wheels in the air, reposed disconsolately in a
ditch.
“Hurt?” demanded John as he came abreast of him.
“Twisted my ankle,” was the laconic response.
John glanced along the road. A hundred yards or so ahead, through the
downpour, he could see the White Cottage.
“I can give you an arm to shelter if you can manage to hobble,” he
announced, indicating the house.
The man scrambled to his feet with a grimace of pain. Together, in
halting fashion, they made their way towards the cottage. Conversation
there was none. John expressed a consolatory remark or two at
intervals, to which his companion replied, “All right. Not much. Brake
broke,” as the case might be.
Even in these few words there was something in the inflexion of his
voice which perplexed John. Undercurrently he found himself demanding
what it was, but the exigencies of the moment disallowed of the query
coming uppermost. Also, at the moment, John happened to be suffering
from one of those lapses into obtuseness to which even the most
intelligent of us are liable on occasions.
It was with a sigh of relief that he pushed open the door of his
sitting-room.