“Humph!” grunted Sir Oliver, and he went away to tie up a drooping rose.
They walked on in dead silence, which was broken at last by John, who made a remark as to Constable’s growing infirmities.
So the visit came to an end without a word having been said, and John went back to his desolate house, physically rested and able to take up the routine of his working life. Herold in Switzerland wrote letters about snows and glaciers and crystal air. The calm tenor of existence was resumed at the Channel House. Incidentally Stella found an occupation. Old Dr. Ransome, in casual talk, mentioned a case of great poverty and sickness in the village. Stella, followed by Morris bearing baskets of luxuries, presented herself at the poor house in the character of Lady Bountiful. At the sight that met her eyes she wept and went away sorrowful, and then it dawned upon her inexperienced soul that gifts costing her nothing, although they had their use, might be supplemented by something vastly more efficacious. She consulted the hard-worked district nurse, and, visiting the house again, learned how to tend the sick woman and wash the babies and bring cleanliness and air and comfort into the miserable place. And having made in this way the discovery that all through her life she had accepted service from all and sundry and had never done a hand’s-turn for anybody, she plunged with young shame and enthusiasm into the new work. Afraid lest convalescence on the part of the patient would throw her back into idleness, she ingenuously asked the nurse if there were other poor people in Southcliff who needed help. The nurse smiled. Even at Southcliff there was enough work among the poor and needy for every day in the week the whole year round.
“I’m glad,” said Stellamaris. Then she checked herself. “No, I can’t be. I’m dreadfully sorry.” The little lines of complexity knit themselves on her brow. “It’s a confusing world, isn’t it?”
The state of mind of Stellamaris at this period may be best described as one of suspended judgment. It was a confusing world. She could not pronounce a more definite opinion. The Land of Illusion was a lost Atlantis of which not a speck remained. On the other hand, the world was no longer the mere abode of sin and ugliness and horror to which she had gradually awakened. Unity had taught her that. What, then, was this mysterious complication of life in which she found herself involved? It no longer frightened her. It interested her curiously.
“Excellency dear,” she said one day, “are there any books about life?”
He stared at her, covering his non-comprehension with the usual military twirl of his mustache.
“Millions. What kind of life?”
“Life itself. The meaning of it.”
“Religious books? I’m afraid they’re not in my line, my dear.”