He gave a kind of unconscious despairing gesture. Was there some devil in his soul whom he was bound to wrestle with by fasting and prayer, and conquer in the end? Or was it an angel that had entered there, before whose heavenly aspect he must kneel and succumb? Why this new and appalling loneliness which had struck himself and his home-surroundings as with an earthquake shock, shaking the foundations of all that had seemed so safe and secure? Why this feverish restlessness in his mind, which forbade him to occupy himself with any of the work waiting for him to do, and which made him unhappy and ill at ease for no visible or reasonable cause?
He walked slowly across the lawn to his favourite seat under the apple-tree,—and there, beneath the scented fruiting boughs, with the evening dews gathering on the grass at his feet, he tried manfully to face the problem that troubled his own inner consciousness.
"Let me brave it out!" he said—"Let me realise and master the thoughts that seek to master ME, otherwise I am no man, but merely a straw to be caught by the idle wind of an emotion. Why should I shirk the analysis of what I feel to be true of myself? For, after all, it is only a weakness of nature,—a sense of regret and loss,— a knowledge of something I have missed in life,—all surely pardonable if quelled in the beginning. She,—Maryllia Vancourt—is only at woman,—I am only a man. There is more than at first seems apparent in that simple qualification 'only'! She, the woman, has charm, and is instinctively conscious of her power, as why should she not be?—she has tried it, and found it no doubt in every case effectual. I, the man, am long past the fervours and frenzies of life,—and charm, whether it be hers or that of any other of her sex, should have, or ought to have, no effect upon me, particularly in my vocation, and with my settled habits. If I am so easily moved as to be conscious of a certain strange glamour and fascination in this girl,—for she is a girl to me, nay almost a child,—that is not her fault, but mine. As well expect the sun not to shine or a bird not to sing, as expect Maryllia Vancourt not to smile and look sweet! Walking with her in her rose-garden, where she took me with such a pretty air of confiding grace, to show me her border of old French damask roses, I listened to her half-serious, sometimes playful talk as in a dream, and answered her kindly questions concerning some of the sick and poor in the village as best I could, though I fear I must occasionally have spoken at random. Oh, those old French damask roses! I have known them growing in that border for years,—yet I never saw them as I saw them to-day,—never looked they so darkly red and glowing!—so large and open-hearted! I fancy I shall smell their fragrance all my life! 'Are they doing well, do you think?'—she said, and the little white chin perked up from under the pink ribbon which tied her hat, and the dark blue eyes gleamed drowsily from beneath their drooping lids,—and the lips parted, smiling—and then—then came the devil and tempted me! I was no longer middle-aged John Walden, the quiet parson of a country 'cure,'—I was a man unknown to myself,—possessed as it were, by the ghost of a dead youth, clamouring for youthful joy! I longed to touch that delicate little pink-and-white creature, so like a rose herself!—I was moved by an insane desire—yes!—it was insane, and fortunately quite momentary,—such impulses are not uncommon"—and here, as he unravelled, to his own satisfaction, the tangled web of his impressions, his brow cleared, and he smiled gravely,—"I was, I say, moved by an insane desire to draw that dainty small bundle of frippery and prettiness into my arms—yes,—it was so, and why should I not confess it to myself? Why should I be ashamed? Other men have felt the same, though perhaps they do not count so many years of life as I do. At any rate with me the feeling was momentary,—and passed. Then,—some moments later,—under the cedar- tree she dropped a rose from the cluster she had gathered,—and in giving it back to her I touched her hand—and our eyes met."
Here his thoughts became disconnected, and wandered beyond his control. He let them go,—and listened, instead of thinking, to the notes of the nightingale singing in his garden. It was now being answered by others at a distance, with incessant repetitions of a flute-like warble,—and then came the long sobbing trill and cry of love, piercing the night with insistant passion.
"The Bird of Life is singing on the bough,
His two eternal notes of 'I and Thou'—
O hearken well, for soon the song sings through,
And would we hear it, we must hear it Now."
A faint tremor shook him as the lines quoted by Cicely Bourne rang back upon his memory. He rose to go indoors.
"I am a fool!"—he said—"I must not trouble my head any more about a summer day's fancy. It was a kind of 'old moonlight in the blood,' as Hafiz says,—an aching sense of loss,—or rather a touch of the spring affecting a decaying tree!" He sighed. "I shall not suffer from it again, because I will not. Brent's letter has arrived opportunely,—though I think—nay, I am sure, he has been misinformed. However, Miss Vancourt's affairs have nothing to do with me,—nor need I interest myself in what is not my concern. My business is with those who depend on my care,—I must not forget myself—I must attend to my work."
He went into the house,—and there was confronted in his own hall by a big burly figure clad in rough corduroys,—that of Farmer Thorpe, who doffed his cap and pulled his forelock respectfully at the sight of him.
"'Evenin', Passon!" he said—"I thought as 'ow I'd make bold to coom an' tell ye my red cow's took the turn an' doin' wonderful! Seems a special mussy of th' A'mighty, an' if there's anythin' me an' my darter can do fur ye, ye'll let us know, Passon, for I'm darn grateful, an' feels as 'ow the beast pulled round arter I'd spoke t'ye about 'er. An' though as ye told me, 'tain't the thing to say no prayers for beasties which is worldly goods, I makes a venture to arsk ye if ye'll step round to the farm to-morrer, jest to please Mattie my darter, an' take a look at the finest litter o' pigs as ever was seen in this county, barrin' none! A litter as clean an' sweet as daisies in new-mown hay, an' now's the time for ye to look at 'em, Passon, an' choose yer own suckin' beast for bilin' or roastin' which ye please, for both's as good as t'other,—an' there ain't no man about 'ere what desarves a sweet suckin' pig more'n you do, an' that I say an' swear to. It's a real prize litter I do assure you!—an' Mattie my darter, she be that proud, an' all ye wants to do is just to coom along an' choose your own!"
"Thank you, Mr. Thorpe!" said Walden with his usual patient courtesy—"Thank you very much! I will certainly come. Glad to hear the cow is better. And is Miss Thorpe well?"