“To have the sense of the Eternal in life is a short flight to
the Soul; to have had it is the Soul’s vitality.”
—GEORGE MEREDITH.
The stillness and sweetness of the April world broke upon Daphne like a
discovered continent. The country had been silent to her before. She had
passed from house-party to house-party all through the golden summers of
her life, and nature had seemed a picturesque setting—a background for
well-dressed humanity; she wondered now how she had dared to point out
“views” as if they were Academy pictures, and patronize roses by
arranging them in vases. She realized, as the bustling Paddington train
took her through mile after mile of fields and woods and hills, that
nature is an element, not a convenience. They stopped at last at a
little wayside station, a spot of flowers and trees; this was her
destination, and as she stepped off on to the platform, she caught her
breath in a strange sense of loneliness and vastness. She was within
hail of nothing that was customary or usual. The bucolic blue-eyed youth
who stood in heavy uncertainty over her trunks had nothing of the
friendly alertness she expected from porters. As far as she could see
there were neither houses nor signs of life. It was a silent world of
green, and she had not even her maid to fall back upon! Before she had
made up her mind to accost the youth, who evidently expected though he
had not asked for her ticket, she was relieved by the sound of wheels,
and in a few moments the kindly anxious face of Mr. Fordington was
looking down at her.
“I can’t doubt that you are Daphne,” he said smiling, “because there is
no one else to choose from. That is the beauty of country life, it
individualizes. Dora, this is your cousin.”
“I should choose you anyhow,” said Dora, “’cause I like your face.”
Daphne laughed.
“If that is a country compliment,” she said, “it is a very pretty one.”
The groom and the bucolic boy, who, it seemed, was in charge of the
station while the station master was having his tea, bore away the
trunks between them. The drive to the vicarage was a silent one, sunset
lit up the sky, but the steep hills and cold spring leaves struck Daphne
with a sense of cheerless beauty. There seemed something almost stern in
the chilly loveliness of her surroundings. There was much that must be
explained and considered between her uncle and herself, but Dora’s
presence gave them an excuse for putting it off. Daphne felt, in the
silence that was between them, a sense of friendliness and trust that
was grateful to her. She was sure she should be happy with him, and she
meant to be different—oh, quite different—from what she had ever been
before.
Her uncle watched her thoughtfully. He knew little about her as a young
lady, though he had loved her dearly as a child, when he had stayed with
his brother on his occasional visits to London. He recognized now that
she was what people would call exceedingly pretty, though that struck
him as mattering very little, even if it were more obvious than her
other qualities. He reflected that his wife had never seen her, and
wondered how much she would permit her mind to be regulated by her aunt.
“Emma will probably bring the Vicar of Aslington back to dinner,” said
her uncle after tea, “to talk over parish matters, and I expect my
curate, Mitchell. I thought I would just tell you. He is what they call
a high churchman, and your aunt does not quite approve of him.”
“And what are you, uncle?” said Daphne, to whom religion, and especially
its various forms, was an interesting topic. Her uncle smiled.
“I don’t think I am a party man,” he said, “I have never considered my
position from that standpoint. To me form is beautiful as an interpreter
of Spirit. All that leads one to the height of great realities,
humility, and truth, and love, and thanksgiving, are surely doors into
the infinite; and all that helps us to realize them, whether it is in
the simplicity of a village church, or the magnificent solemnity of a
cathedral, lead us to those doors. Form without Spirit is idolatry, and
Spirit without form is very vague for human hearts to accept, so truth
is given us in parable, and grace in sacraments.”
“I meant something a little more definite than that,” said Daphne in a
puzzled tone.
“Bread and butter is definite,” said her uncle, “but it is bread and
butter. You must be content to believe mysteries without explanations,
it often seems to me, a refuge of the superficial, to require things to
be quite clear. It’s a shallow pool you can see the bottom of, and more
often than not an unhealthy one.”
“I like good music,” said Daphne doubtfully.
“So do I,” said her uncle, “and I hope you will play to me to-night.”
“She is not awake yet,” thought her uncle as she went to her room, “and
so many things happen when people wake up.”