“It is you who are mistaken,” said the young rector, warmly. “The rest of us are ghosts; what are we all doing? The good people up there,” and he pointed towards the Heath, “myself, almost everybody I know? living for ourselves—living to get what we like for ourselves, to make ourselves comfortable—to improve ourselves, let us say, which is the best perhaps, yet despicable like all the rest. Self-love, self-comfort, self-importance, self-culture, all of them one more miserable, more petty than the other—even self-culture, which in my time I have considered divine.”
“And it is, I suppose, isn’t it?” said Cicely. “It is what in our humble feminine way is called improving the mind. I have always heard that was one of the best things in existence.”
“Do you practise it?” he asked, almost sharply.
“Mr. Mildmay, you must not be hard upon me—how can I? Yes, I should like to be able to pass an examination and get a—what is it called?—diplôme, the French say. With that one’s chances are so much better,” said Cicely, with a sigh; “but I have so little time.”
How the young man’s heart swelled in the darkness!
“Self-culture,” he said, with a half laugh, “must be disinterested, I fear, to be worthy the name. It must have no motive but the advancement of your mind for your own sake. It is the culture of you for you, not for what you may do with it. It is a state, not a profession.”
“That is harder upon us still,” said Cicely. “Alas! I shall never be rich enough nor have time enough to be disinterested. Good-night, Mr. Mildmay; that is the way to the rectory.”
“Are you tired of me so soon?”
“Tired of you?” said Cicely, startled; “oh no! It is very pleasant to talk a little; but that is your way.”
“I should like to go with you to your door, please,” he said; “this is such an unusual chance. Miss St. John, poor John Wyborn is dying; he has four children and a poor little wife, and he is just my age.”