When Sidney opened his eyes next day it was upon a transfigured world that he looked. A world golden with imaginings of happiness across whose vistas shone a white path, like the milky way in the heavens, marking the life road to be trodden by Vashti and himself. Cradled in a happy trance his heart knew no apprehensions. At such a time retrospect shares the mind almost equally with anticipation. The glorious present is made still more glorious by comparison. As Sidney dwelt upon his past it was borne in upon him with peculiar force that it had been but a curtain raiser to the real drama of his life. He had been a popular man as a student and afterwards also, but it seemed strange even to himself how few real ties he would have to sever in adopting this new life—so radically different in vocation from any he ever dreamed of before. The fact was that in all his friendships he had given more than he had received. He had given liberally of that intangible vital capital called sympathy, and he had received but little in return. Although he had not realized it his friendships had been only so many drains upon his vitality. He had thought of, and for, his friends continually; they had accorded him the tribute of uncomprehending admiration which bears the same relation to real sympathy as bran does to the full, rich wheat. Thus it was that in separating himself from these friendships he felt no wrench. Separate from them he must. He knew that the keeping of his promise to Vashti was utterly incompatible with his old life; he must “come out and be separate” from all his old associates and associations. He felt, however, that this would be possible; possible without sacrilege. His attitude towards religion had always been defensive rather than offensive. He felt deeply the pathos of the Christ drama. The figure of the Man of Sorrows was a familiar one in the gallery of mental portraits to which this idealist had turned in time of trial for strength.
There was one man whose verdict upon his action he longed to know, yet dreaded to ask. A strong soul, untamed by sect, unshackled by formulated belief. A man whose magnificent active human organism was hallowed by the silver thread of mysticism. A man whose splendid logical mind was transcended by a subtle sense of premonition, intuition, which led him far beyond where his reason or his scanty learning could bear him company. A man whose eyes looked out wistfully yet eagerly from beneath penthouse eyebrows. A man whose toil-roughened fingers turned reverently the pages of books he could not read; French or German books beyond his ken. A man in whose proper person Sidney had always felt there was symbolled forth the half blind, half perceptive struggle of the human to comprehend the infinite.
What would this man think of his new vows? This man who would have died for what the world called his disbeliefs.
Well, Sidney told himself that his first devoir was to Vashti and the promise made to her. He would not delay. These thoughts bore him company till he was in the hall. He did not know the hour, but suddenly he was aware of a subtle, penetrating freshness in the air. He looked out of the hall door: the garden was dim with autumnal dew. Was it indeed so very early?
He heard voices in the kitchen. He found there only Mr. Lansing and Miss Tribbey.
“Is it so early?” he asked, smiling.
“For the land’s sakes! Mr. Martin!” said Temperance. “Is that you?”
Sidney laughed aloud; there was a ring in his voice which made Temperance regard him.
“I have been awake for ages,” he said; “so here I am.”
Temperance remembered certain days in the past when she had been wont to awaken ere the first bird sang in the dark. These were the days when Nathan, a hobbledehoy, too bashful to woo her in daylight, used to waylay her in the lane when she took the cows back to the field, and stand with his arm about her in the dusk.