He Knew He Was Right

heart was ever singing⁠—what were to be its pleasures? To press a hand, to kiss a lip, to clasp a waist, to hear even the low voice of the vanquished, confessing loved one as she hides her blushing cheek upon your shoulder⁠—what is it all but to have reached the once mysterious valley of your far-off mountain, and to have found that it is as other valleys⁠—rocks and stones, with a little grass, and a thin stream of running water? But beyond that pressure of the hand, and that kissing of the lips⁠—beyond that short-lived pressure of the plumage which is common to birds and men⁠—what could love do beyond that? There were children with dirty faces, and household bills, and a wife who must, perhaps, always darn the stockings⁠—and be sometimes cross. Was love to lead only to this⁠—a dull life, with a woman who had lost the beauty from her cheeks, and the gloss from her hair, and the music from her voice, and the fire from her eye, and the grace from her step, and whose waist an arm should no longer be able to span? Did the love of the poets lead to that, and that only? Then, through the cloud of smoke, there came upon him some dim idea of self-abnegation⁠—that the mysterious valley among the mountains, the far-off prospect of which was so charming to him⁠—which made the poetry of his life, was, in fact, the capacity of caring more for other human beings than for himself. The beauty of it all was not so much in the thing loved as in the loving. “Were she a cripple, hunchbacked, eyeless,” he said to himself, “it might be the same. Only she must be a woman.” Then he blew off a great cloud of smoke, and went into bed lost amidst poetry, philosophy, love, and tobacco.

It had been arranged overnight that he was to start the next morning at half-past seven, and Priscilla had promised to give him his breakfast before he went. Priscilla, of course, kept her word. She was one of those women who would take a grim pleasure in coming down to make the tea at any possible hour⁠—at five, at four, if it were needed⁠—and who would never want to go to bed again when the ceremony was performed. But when Nora made her appearance⁠—Nora, who had been called dainty⁠—both Priscilla and Hugh were surprised. They could not say why she was there⁠—nor could Nora tell herself. She had not forgiven him. She had no thought of being gentle and loving to him. She declared to herself that she had no wish of saying goodbye to him once again. But yet she was in the room, waiting for him, when he came down to his breakfast. She had been unable to sleep, and had reasoned with herself as to the absurdity of lying in bed awake, when she preferred to be up and out of the house. It was true that she had not been out of her bed at seven any morning since she had been at Nuncombe Putney; but that was no reason why she should not be more active on this special morning. There was a noise in the house, and she never could sleep when there was a noise. She was quite sure that she was not going down because she wished to see Hugh Stanbury, but she was equally sure that it would be a disgrace to her to be deterred from going down, simply because the man was there. So she descended to the parlour, and was standing near the open window when Stanbury bustled into the room, some quarter of an hour after the proper time. Priscilla was there also, guessing something of the truth, and speculating whether these two young people, should they love each other, would be the better or the worse for such love. There must be marriages⁠—if only that the world might go on in accordance with the Creator’s purpose. But, as far as Priscilla could see, blessed were they who were not called upon to assist in the scheme. To her eyes all days seemed to be days of wrath, and all times, times of tribulation. And it was all mere vanity and vexation of spirit. To go on and bear it till one was dead⁠—helping others to bear it, if such help might be of avail⁠—that was her theory of life. To make it pleasant by eating, and drinking, and dancing, or even by falling in love, was, to her mind, a vain crunching of ashes between the teeth. Not to have ill things said of her and of hers, not to be disgraced, not to be rendered incapable of some human effort, not to have actually to starve⁠—such was the extent of her ambition in this world. And for the next⁠—she felt so assured of the goodness of God that she could not bring herself to doubt of happiness in a world that was to be eternal. Her doubt was this, whether it was really the next world which would be eternal. Of eternity she did not doubt;⁠—but might there not be many worlds? These things, however, she kept almost entirely to herself. “You down!” Priscilla had said.

“Well, yes; I could not sleep when I heard you all moving. And the morning is so fine, and I thought that perhaps you would go out and walk after your brother has gone.” Priscilla promised that she would walk, and then the tea was made.

“Your sister and I are going out for an early walk,” said Nora, when she was greeted by Stanbury. Priscilla said nothing, but thought she understood it all.

“I wish I were going with you,” said Hugh. Nora, remembering how very little he had made of his opportunity on the evening before, did not believe him.

The eggs and fried bacon were eaten in a hurry, and very little was said. Then there came the moment for