“What’s your opinion, Fingal,” remarked Mr. Traherne, peering anxiously into the pansied jug, “about the art of making life endurable?”
Dr. Raughty surveyed him with a placid and equable smile. “Courage and gaiety,” he said, “are the only recipe, and I don’t mind sprinkling these, in spite of our modern philosophers, with a little milk of human kindness.”
The priest nodded over what was left of his ale. “De fructu operum tuorum, Domine, satiabitur terra: ut educas panem de terra, et vinum lætificet cor hominis; ut exhilaret faciem in oleo, et panis cor hominis confirmet,” he muttered, stretching out his long legs under the table and tilting back his chair.
“What the devil does all that mean?” asked the Doctor a little peevishly. “Can’t you praise God in simple English? Nance and I couldn’t catch a word except ‘wine’ and ‘bread’ and ‘oil.’”
Mr. Traherne looked unspeakably ashamed. “I’m sorry, Nance,” he murmured, sitting up very straight and pulling himself together. “It was out of place. It was rude. I’m not sure that it wasn’t profane. I’m sorry, Fingal!”
“It’s a beautiful afternoon,” said Nance, keeping her eyes on the little street, whose very pavements reflected the soft opalescent light which was spreading itself over Rodmoor.
“Ah!” cried Dr. Raughty, “we left that out in our summary of the compensations of life. You left that out, too, Hamish, from your ‘fructu’ and ‘panem’ and ‘vinum’ and the rest. But, after all, that is what we come back to in the end. The sky, the earth, the sea,—the great cool spaces of night—the sun, like a huge splendid god; the moon, like a sweet passionate nun; and the admirable stars, like gems in some great world-peacock’s tail—yes, my darlings, we come back to these in the end!”
He rose from his seat and with shining eyes surveyed his guests.
“By the body of Mistress Bacbuc,” he cried, in a loud voice, “we do wrong to sit here any longer! Let’s go down to the sands and cool our heads. Here, Maggie! Madge! Marjorie! Where the deuce has that girl gone? There she is! Get me the bill, will you, and bring me a finger-bowl.”
Mr. Traherne laid his hand gently on the doctor’s arm. “I’m afraid we’ve been behaving badly, Fingal,” he whispered. “We’ve been drinking ale and forgetting our good manners. Do I look all right? I mean, do I look as if I’d been drinking mahogany-coloured Burton? Do I look as usual?”