After breakfast he devoted a short time to the study of some newspaper cuttings inclosed in Mr. Bodery's letter. Then he suddenly expressed his determination of walking down to the village post office.
“I wish,” he said, “to send a telegram, and to get some newspapers, which have no doubt come by the second post. After that you will be troubled no more about my affairs.”
“Until a telegram comes,” said Hilda quietly, without looking up from a letter she held in her hand. She received one daily from Farrar.
Christian glanced at her with his quick smile.
“Oh,” he said, “I do not expect a telegram. It is not so serious as all that. In fact, it is not worth thinking about.”
“You have a most enviable way of putting aside disagreeable subjects,” persisted Hilda, “for discussion at a vague future period.”
Christian was steadily cheerful that morning, imperturbably practical.
“That,” he said, “is the outcome—not of virtue—but of philosophy. Will you come to the post office with Stanley and me? I am sure there is no possible household duty to prevent you.”
Together they walked through the peaceful fields. Stanley never lingered long beside them; something was for ever attracting him aside or ahead, and he ran restlessly away. Christian could not help noticing the difference in Hilda's manner when they were alone together. The semi-sarcastic badinage to which he had been treated lately was completely dropped, and her earnest nature was allowed to show itself undisguised. Still she was a mystery to him. He was by habit a close observer, but her changing moods and humours were to him unaccountable. At times she would make a remark the direct contradiction of which was shining in her eyes, and at other times she remained silent when mere politeness would seem to demand speech. Who knows? Perhaps at all times and in all things they understood each other. When their lips were exchanging mere nothings—the very lightest and emptiest of conversational chaff—despite averted eyes, despite indifferent manner, their souls may have been drawn together by that silent bond of sympathy which holds through fair and foul, through laughter and tears, through life and beyond death.
Christian was not in the habit of allowing himself to become absorbed by any passing thoughts, however deep they might be. His mind had adapted itself to the work required of it, as the human mind is ever ready to do. No deep meditating was required of it, but a quick grasp and a somewhat superficial treatment. Journalism is superficial, it cannot be otherwise; it must be universal and immediate, and therefore its touch is necessarily light. There is nothing permanent about it except the ceaseless throb of the printing machine and the warm smell of ink. That which a man writes one day may be rendered useless and worthless the next, through no carelessness of his, but by the simple course of events. He must perforce take up his pen again and write against himself. He may be inditing history, and his words may be forgotten in twelve hours. There is no time for deep thought, even if such were required. He who writes for cursory reading is wise if he writes cursorily.