Watersprings, Arthur Christopher Benson [free novels .txt] 📗

could hear a dove in the high trees near them, crooning a song of peace and infinite content. Mr. Sandys, stung by emulation, related a long story, interspersed with imitations, of his undergraduate days; and Howard was content to sit and seem to listen, and to watch the light pierce downwards into the silent woodland. An old woodman, grey and bent and walking painfully, in great leather gloves and gaiters, carrying a chopper, passed slowly along the ride and touched his hat. Jack insisted on giving him some of the luncheon, and made up a package for him which the old man put away in a pocket, making some remarks about the weather, and adding with a senile pride that he was over seventy, and had worked in the woodland for sixty years and more. He was an almost mediaeval figure, Howard thought--a woodman five centuries ago would have looked and spoken much the same; he knew nothing of the world, or the thoughts and hopes of it; he was almost as much of the soil as the very woods themselves, in his dim mechanical life; was man made for that after all? How did that square with Miss Merry's eager optimism? What was the meaning of so unconscious a figure, so obviously without an ethical programme, and yet so curiously devised by God, patiently nurtured and preserved?

In the infinite peace, while the flies hummed on the shining bracken, and the breeze nestled in the firs like a falling sea, Howard had a spasm of incredulous misery. Could any heart be so heavy, so unquiet as his own?--life suddenly struck so aimless, with but one overmastering desire, which he could not fulfil. He was shocked at his feebleness. A year ago he could have devised no sweeter or more delicious day than this, with such a party, in the high sunlit wood. . . .

The imitations began again.

"I don't believe there's anyone you could not imitate!" said Mr. Sandys rapturously.

"Oh, it's only a knack," said Guthrie, "but some people are easier than others."

Howard bestirred himself to express some interest.

"Why, he can imitate YOU to the life," said Jack.

"Oh, come, nonsense!" said Guthrie, reddening; "that is really low, Jack."

"I confess to a great curiosity about it," said Mr. Sandys.

"Oh, don't mind me," said Howard; "it would amuse me above everything--like catching a glance at oneself in an unexpected mirror!"

Guthrie, after a little more pressing, yielded. He said a few sentences, supposed to be Howard teaching, in a rather soft voice, with what seemed to Howard a horribly affected and priggish emphasis. But the matter displeased him still more. It was facetious, almost jocose; and there was a jerky attempt at academic humour in it, which seemed to him particularly nauseous, as of a well-informed and quite superior person condescending to the mildest of witticisms, to put himself on a level with juvenile minds. Howard had thought himself both unaffected and elastic in his communications with undergraduates, and this was the effect he produced upon them! However, he mastered his irritation; the others laughed a little tentatively; it was felt for a moment that the affair had just passed the limits of conventional civility. Howard contrived to utter a species of laugh, and said, "Well, that's quite a revelation to me. It never occurred to me that there could be anything to imitate in my utterance; but then it is always impossible to believe that anyone can find anything to discuss in one behind one's back--though I suppose no one can escape. I must get a stock of new witticisms, I think; the typical ones seem a little threadbare."

"Oh no, indeed," said Miss Merry, gallantly; "I was just thinking how much I should like to be taught like that!"

The little incident seemed rather to damp the spirits of the party. Guthrie himself seemed deeply annoyed at having consented: and it was a relief to all when Mr. Sandys suddenly pulled out his watch and said, "Well, all pleasant things come to an end--though to be sure there is generally another pleasant thing waiting round the corner. I have to get back, but I am not going to spoil the party. I shall enjoy a bit of a walk."

"Well," said Howard, "I think I will set you on your way. I want a talk about one or two things; but I will come back to chaperon Miss Merry--I suppose I shall find you somewhere about?"

"Yes," said Miss Merry, "I am going to try a sketch--but I must not have anyone looking over my shoulder. I am no good at sketching--but I like to be made to look close at a pretty thing. I am going to try the chalk-pit and thicket near the tower--chalk-pits suit my style, because one can leave so much of the paper white!"

"Very well," said Howard, "I will be back here in an hour."

Howard and Mr. Sandys started off through the wood. Mr. Sandys was full of communications. He began to talk about Guthrie. "Such a good friend for Jack!" he said; "I hope he bears a good character in the college? Jack seems to be very much taken up with him, and says there is no nonsense about him--almost the highest commendation he has in his power to bestow--indeed I have heard him use the same phrase about yourself! Young Guthrie seems such a natural and unaffected fellow--indeed, if I may say so, Howard, it seemed to me a high compliment to yourself, and to speak volumes for your easy relation with young men, that he should have ventured to take you off to your face just now, and that you should have been so sincerely amused. It isn't as if he were a cheeky sort of boy--if I may be allowed such an expression. He treats me with the pleasantest deference and respect--and when I think of his father's wealth and political influence, that seems to me a charming trait! There is nothing uppish about him."

"No, indeed," said Howard; "he is a thoroughly nice fellow!"

"I am delighted to hear you say so," said Mr. Sandys, "and your kindness emboldens me to say something which is quite confidential; but then we are practically relations, are we not? Perhaps it is only a father's partiality; but have you noticed, may I say, anything in his manner to my dear Maud? It may be only a passing fancy, of course. 'In the spring,' you remember, 'a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love'--a beautiful line that, though of course it is not strictly applicable to the end of July. I need hardly say that such a connection would gladden my heart. I am all for marriage, Howard, for early marriage, the simplest and best of human experiences; of course it has more sides than one to it. I should not like it to be supposed that a country parson like myself had in the smallest degree inveigled a young man of the highest prospects into a match--there is nothing of the matchmaker about me; but Maud is in a degree well-connected; and, as you know, she will be what the country people here call 'well-left'--a terse phrase, but expressive! I do not see that she would be in any way unworthy of the position--and I feel that her life here is a little secluded--I should like her to have a little richer material, so to speak, to work in. Well, well, we mustn't be too diplomatic about these things. 'Man proposes'--no humorous suggestion intended--'and God disposes'--but if it should so turn out, without any scheming or management--things which I cordially detest--if it should open out naturally, why, I should be lacking in candour if I pretended it would not please me. I believe in early engagements, and romance, and all that--I fear I am terribly sentimental--and it is just the thing to keep a young man straight. Sir Henry Guthrie might be disposed to view it in that light--what do you think?"

This ingenuous statement had a very distressing effect on Howard. It is one thing to dally with a thought, however seriously, in one's own mind, and something quite different to have it presented in black and white through the frank conjecture of another. He put a severe constraint upon himself and said, "Do you know, Frank, the same thought had occurred to me--I had believed that I saw something of the kind; and I can honestly say that I think Guthrie a very sound fellow indeed in every way--quite apart from his worldly prospects. He is straight, sensible, good-humoured, capable, and, I think, a really unselfish fellow. If I had a daughter of my own I could not imagine a better husband."

"You delight me inexpressibly," said Mr. Sandys. "So you had noticed it? Well, well, I trust your perception far more than my own; and of course I am biassed--you might almost incline to say dazzled--by the prospect: heir to a baronetcy (I could wish it had been of an earlier creation), rich, and, as you say, entirely reliable and straight. Of course I don't in any way wish to force matters on. I could not bear to be thought to have unduly encouraged such an alliance--and Maud may marry any nice fellow she has a fancy to marry; but I think that she is rather drawn to young Guthrie--what do you think? He amuses her, and she is at her best with him--don't you think so?"

"Yes," said Howard, "I had thought so. I think she likes him very much."

"Well, we will leave it at that," said Mr. Sandys in high gusto. "You don't mind my confiding in you thus, Howard? Somehow, if I may say it, I find it very easy to speak confidentially to you. You are so perceptive, so sympathetic! We all feel that it is the secret of your great influence."

They talked of other matters after this as they walked along the crest of the downs; and where the white road began to descend into the valley, with the roofs of Windlow glimmering in the trees a little to the north, Howard left the Vicar and retraced his steps.

He was acutely miserable; the thing had come upon him with a shock, and brought the truth home to him in a desperate way. But he experienced at the same time a certain sensation, for a moment, of grim relief. His fancy, his hope--how absurd and idiotic they had been!--were shattered. How could he ever have dreamed that the girl should come to care for him in that way--an elderly Don of settled habits, who had even mistaken a pompous condescension to the young men of his College for a natural and sympathetic relation--that was what he was. The melancholy truth stared him in the face. He was sharply disillusioned. He had lingered on, clinging pathetically to youth, and with a serene complacency he had overlooked the flight of time. He was a dull, middle-aged man, fond of sentimental relations and trivial confidences, who had done nothing, effected nothing; had even egregiously failed in the one thing he had set himself to do, the retaining his hold on youth. Well, he must face it! He must be content to settle down as a small squire; he must disentangle himself from his Cambridge work gradually--it sickened him to think of it--and he must try to lead a quiet life, and perhaps put together a stupid book or two. That was to be his programme. He must just try to be grateful for a clear line of action. If he had had nothing but Cambridge to depend upon, it would have been still worse. Now he must settle down