As they came out a great loutish boy, who had evidently been hanging about waiting for the rector, came up to him, boorishly touched his cap, and then, taking a cardboard box out of his pocket, opened it with infinite caution, something like a tremor of emotion pa.s.sing over his gnarled countenance.
The rector"s eyes glistened.
"Hullo! I say, Irwin, where in the name of fortune did you get that? You lucky fellow! Come in, and let"s look it out!"
And the two plunged back into the Club together, leaving Langham to the philosophic and patient contemplation of the village green, its geese, its donkeys, and its surrounding fringe of houses. He felt that quite indisputably life would have been better worth living if, like Robert, he could have taken a pa.s.sionate interest in rare moths or common ploughboys; but Nature having denied him the possibility, there was small use in grumbling.
Presently the two naturalists came out again, and the boy went off, bearing his treasure with him.
"Lucky dog!" said Robert, turning his friend into a country road leading out of the village, "he"s found one of the rarest moths of the district.
Such a hero he"ll be in the Club to-morrow night. It"s extraordinary what a rational interest has done for that fellow! I nearly fought him in public last winter."
And he turned to his friend with a laugh, and yet with a little quick look of feeling in the gray eyes.
"Magnificent, but not war," said Langham drily. "I wouldn"t have given much for your chances against those shoulders."
"Oh, I don"t know. I should have had a little science on my side, which counts for a great deal. We turned him out of the Club for brutality towards the old grandmother he lives with--turned him out in public.
Such a scene! I shall never forget the boy"s face. It was like a corpse, and the eyes burning out of it. He made for me, but the others closed up round, and we got him put out."
"Hard lines on the grandmother," remarked Langham.
"She thought so--poor old thing! She left her cottage that night, thinking he would murder her, and went to a friend. At the end of a week he came into the friend"s house, where she was alone in bed. She cowered under the bedclothes, she told me, expecting him to strike her. Instead of which he threw his wages down beside her and gruffly invited her to come home. "He wouldn"t do her no mischief." Everybody dissuaded her, but the plucky old thing went. A week or two afterwards she sent for me and I found her crying. She was sure the lad was ill, he spoke to n.o.body at his work. "Lord, sir!" she said, "it do remind me, when he sits glowering at nights, of those folks in the Bible, when the devils inside "em kep" a-tearing "em. But he"s like a new-born babe to me, sir--never does me no "arm. And it do go to my heart, sir, to see how poorly he do take his vittles!" So I made tracks for that lad," said Robert, his eyes kindling, his whole frame dilating. "I found him in the fields one morning. I have seldom lived through so much in half an hour. In the evening I walked him up to the Club, and we re-admitted him, and since then the boy has been like one clothed and in his right mind. If there is any trouble in the Club I set him on, and he generally puts it right.
And when I was laid up with a chill in the spring, and the poor fellow came trudging up every night after his work to ask for me--well, never mind! but it gives one a good glow at one"s heart to think about it."
The speaker threw back his head impulsively, as though defying his own feeling. Langham looked at him curiously. The pastoral temper was a novelty to him, and the strong development of it in the undergraduate of his Oxford recollections had its interest.
"A quarter to six," said Robert, as on their return from their walk they were descending a low-wooded hill above the village, and the church clock rang out. "I must hurry, or I shall be late for my story-telling."
"Story-telling!" said Langham, with a half-exasperated shrug. "What next? You clergy are too inventive by half!"
Robert laughed a trifle bitterly.
"I can"t congratulate you on your epithets," he said, thrusting his hands far into his pockets. "Good heavens, if we _were_--if we were inventive as a body, the Church wouldn"t be where she is in the rural districts! My story-telling is the simplest thing in the world. I began it in the winter with the object of somehow or other getting at the _imagination_ of these rustics. Force them for only half an hour to live some one else"s life--it is the one thing worth doing with them.
That"s what I have been aiming at. I _told_ my stories all the winter--Shakespeare, Don Quixote, Dumas--Heaven knows what! And on the whole it answers best. But now we are reading _The Talisman_. Come and inspect us, unless you"re a purist about your Scott! None other of the immortals have such _longueurs_ as he, and we cut him freely."
"By all means," said Langham; "lead on." And he followed his companion without repugnance. After all, there was something contagious in so much youth and hopefulness.
The story-telling was held in the Inst.i.tute.
A group of men and boys were hanging round the door when they reached it. The two friends made their way through, greeted in the dumb friendly English fashion on all sides, and Langham found himself in a room half-filled with boys and youths, a few grown men, who had just put their pipes out, lounging at the back.
Langham not only endured, but enjoyed the first part of the hour that followed. Robert was an admirable reader, as most enthusiastic imaginative people are. He was a master of all those arts of look and gesture which make a spoken story telling and dramatic, and Langham marvelled with what energy, after his hard day"s work and with another service before him, he was able to throw himself into such a _hors d"oeuvre_ as this. He was reading to-night one of the most perfect scenes that even the Wizard of the North has ever conjured; the scene in the tent of Richard Lion-Heart, when the disguised slave saves the life of the king, and Richard first suspects his ident.i.ty. As he read on, his arms resting on the high desk in front of him, and his eyes, full of infectious enjoyment, travelling from the book to his audience, surrounded by human beings whose confidence he had won, and whose lives he was brightening from day to day, he seemed to Langham the very type and model of a man who had found his _metier_, found his niche in the world, and the best means of filling it. If to attain to an "adequate and masterly expression of one"s self" be the aim of life, Robert was fast achieving it. This parish of twelve hundred souls gave him now all the scope he asked. It was evident that he felt his work to be rather above than below his deserts. He was content--more than content--to spend ability which would have distinguished him in public life, or carried him far to the front in literature, on the civilising of a few hundred of England"s rural poor. The future might bring him worldly success--Langham thought it must and would. Clergymen of Robert"s stamp are rare among us. But if so, it would be in response to no conscious effort of his. Here, in the country living he had so long dreaded and put from him, lest it should tax his young energies too lightly, he was happy--deeply, abundantly happy, at peace with G.o.d, at one with man.
_Happy!_ Langham, sitting at the outer corner of one of the benches, by the open door, gradually ceased to listen, started on other lines of thought by this realisation, warm, stimulating, provocative, of another man"s happiness.
Outside, the shadows lengthened across the green; groups of distant children or animals pa.s.sed in and out of the golden light-s.p.a.ces; the patches of heather left here and there glowed as the sunset touched them. Every now and then his eye travelled vaguely past a cottage garden, gay with the pinks and carmines of the phloxes, into the cool browns and bluish-grays of the raftered room beyond; babies toddled across the road, with stooping mothers in their train; the whole air and scene seemed to be suffused with suggestions of the pathetic expansiveness and helplessness of human existence, which, generation after generation, is still so vulnerable, so confiding, so eager. Life after life flowers out from the darkness and sinks back into it again.
And in the interval what agony, what disillusion! All the apparatus of a universe that men may know what it is to hope and fail, to win and lose!
_Happy!_--in this world, "where men sit and hear each other groan." His friend"s confidence only made Langham as melancholy as Job.
What was it based on? In the first place, on Christianity--"on the pa.s.sionate acceptance of an exquisite fairy tale," said the dreaming spectator to himself, "which at the first honest challenge of the critical sense withers in our grasp! That challenge Elsmere has never given it, and in all probability never will. No! A man sees none the straighter for having a wife he adores, and a profession that suits him, between him and unpleasant facts!"
In the evening Langham, with the usual reaction of his afternoon self against his morning self, felt that wild horses should not take him to Church again, and, with a longing for something purely mundane, he stayed at home with a volume of Montaigne, while apparently all the rest of the household went to evening service.
After a warm day the evening had turned cold and stormy; the west was streaked with jagged strips of angry cloud, the wind was rising in the trees, and the temperature had suddenly fallen so much that when Langham shut himself up in Robert"s study he did what he had been admonished to do in case of need, set a light to the fire, which blazed out merrily into the darkening room. Then he drew the curtains and threw himself down into Robert"s chair with a sigh of Sybaritic satisfaction. "Good!
Now for something that takes the world less navely," he said to himself; "this house is too virtuous for anything."
He opened his Montaigne and read on very happily for half an hour. The house seemed entirely deserted.
"All the servants gone too!" he said presently, looking up and listening. "Anybody who wants the spoons needn"t trouble about me. I don"t leave this fire."
And he plunged back again into his book. At last there was a sound of the swing door which separated Robert"s pa.s.sage from the front hall opening and shutting. Steps came quickly towards the study, the handle was turned, and there on the threshold stood Rose.
He turned quickly round in his chair with a look of astonishment. She also started as she saw him.
"I did not know any one was in," she said awkwardly, the colour spreading over her face. "I came to look for a book."
She made a delicious picture as she stood framed in the darkness of the doorway; her long dress caught up round her in one hand, the other resting on the handle. A gust of some delicate perfume seemed to enter the room with her, and a thrill of pleasure pa.s.sed through Langham"s senses.
"Can I find anything for you?" he said, springing up.
She hesitated a moment, then apparently made up her mind that it would be foolish to retreat, and, coming forward, she said, with an accent as coldly polite as she could make it,--
"Pray don"t disturb yourself. I know exactly where to find it."
She went up to the shelves where Robert kept his novels, and began running her fingers over the books, with slightly knitted brows and a mouth severely shut. Langham, still standing, watched her and presently stepped forward.
"You can"t reach those upper shelves," he said; "please let me."
He was already beside her, and she gave way.
"I want _Charles Auchester_," she said, still forbiddingly. "It ought to be there."
"Oh, that queer musical novel--I know it quite well. No sign of it here," and he ran over the shelves with the practised eye of one accustomed to deal with books.
"Robert must have lent it," said Rose, with a little sigh. "Never mind, please. It doesn"t matter," and she was already moving away.
"Try some other instead," he said, smiling, his arm still upstretched.
"Robert has no lack of choice." His manner had an animation and ease usually quite foreign to it. Rose stopped, and her lips relaxed a little.
"He is very nearly as bad as the novel-reading bishop, who was reduced at last to stealing the servant"s _Family Herald_ out of the kitchen cupboard," she said, a smile dawning.
Langham laughed.
"Has he such an episcopal appet.i.te for them? That accounts for the fact that when he and I begin to talk novels I am always nowhere."
"I shouldn"t have supposed you ever read them," said Rose, obeying an irresistible impulse, and biting her lip the moment afterwards.