“People in that house!”—you little simpleton—“Who? It is the most monstrous thing I ever heard.”
“Well—there you have the whole story. The poor girl’s distress and dependence were most moving. I have a very great respect for her character and esteem for her personality—and of course I am pledged.”
“I see,” said Miriam narrowly regarding him. Do you want to be saved—ought I to save you—why should I save you—it is a solution of the whole thing and a use for your money—you won’t marry her when you know how ill she is.
“It is of course the immediate future that causes me anxiety and disquietude. It is there I need your advice and help.”
“I see. Is Miss Dear going to Bournemouth?”
“Well; that is just it. Now that the opportunity is there she seems disinclined to avail herself of it. I hope that you will support me in trying to persuade her.”
“Of course. She must go.”
“I am glad you think so. It is obvious that definite plans must be postponed until she is well and strong.”
“You would be able to go down and see her.”
“Occasionally, as my duties permit, oh yes. It is a very pleasant place and I have friends in Bournemouth who would visit her.”
“She ought to be longing to go,” said Miriam on her strange sudden smile. It had come from somewhere; the atmosphere was easier; suddenly in the room with her was the sense of bluebells, a wood blue with bluebells, and dim roofs, roofs in a town … sur les toits … and books; people reading books under them.
Mr. Taunton smiled too.
“Unfortunately that is not so,” he said leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs comfortably.
“You know,” he said turning his blue gaze from the fire to Miriam’s face, “I have never been so worried in my life as I have during the last ten days. It’s upsetting my winter’s work. It is altogether too difficult and impossible. I cannot see any possible adjustment. You see I cannot possibly be continually interrupted and in such—strange ways. She came here yesterday afternoon with a list of complaints about her landlady. I really cannot attend to these things. She sends me telegrams. Only this morning there was a telegram. Come at once. Difficulty with chemist. Of course it was impossible for me to leave my work at a moment’s notice. This afternoon I called. It seems that she was under the impression that there had been some insolence … it absorbs so much time to enter into long explanations with regard to all these people. I cannot do it. That is what it comes to. I cannot do it.”
Ah. You’ve lost your temper; like anyone else. You want to shelve it. Anyone would. But being a man you want to shelve it on to a woman. You don’t care who hears the long tales as long as you don’t. …
“Have you seen her doctor?”
“No. I think just now he is out of town.”
“Really? Are you sure?”
“You think I should see him.”
“Certainly.”
“I will do so on the first opportunity. That is the next step. Meantime I will write provisionally to Bournemouth.”
“Oh, she must go to Bournemouth anyhow; that’s settled.”
“Perhaps her medical man may help there.”
“He won’t make her do anything she doesn’t mean to do.”
“I see you are a reader of character.”
“I don’t think I am. I always begin by idealising people.”
“Do you indeed?”
“Yes, always; and then they grow smaller and smaller.”
“Is that your invariable experience of humanity?”
“I don’t think I’m an altruist.”
“I think one must have one’s heroes.”
“In life or in books?”
“In both perhaps—one has them certainly in books—in records. Do you know this book?”
Miriam sceptically accepted the bulky volume he took down from the book-crowded mantelshelf.
“Oh how interesting,” she said insincerely when she had read Great Thoughts from Great Lives on the cover. … I ought to have said I don’t like extracts. “Lives of great men all remind us. We can make our lives sublime,” she read aloud under her breath from the first page. … I ought to go. I can’t enter into this. … I hate “great men” I think. …
“That book has been a treasure-house to me—for many years. I know it now almost by heart. If it interests you, you will allow me I hope to present it to you.”
“Oh you must not let me deprive you of it—oh no. It is very kind of you; but you really mustn’t.” She looked up and returned quickly to the fascinating pages. Sentences shone out striking at her heart and brain … names in italics; Marcus Aurelius … Lao-Tse. Confucius … Clement of Alexandria … Jacob Boehme. “It’s full of the most fascinating things. Oh no; I couldn’t think of taking it. You must keep it. Who is Jacob Boehme? That name always fascinates me. I must have read something, somewhere, a long time ago. I can’t remember. But it is such a wonderful name.”
“Jacob Boehme was a German visionary. You will find of course all shades of opinion there.”
“All contradicting each other; that’s the worst of it. Still, I suppose all roads lead to Rome.”
“I see you have thought a great deal.”
“Well,” said Miriam feverishly, “there’s always science, always all that awful business of science, and no getting rid of it.”
“I think—in that matter—one must not allow one’s mind to be
