Watersprings Part 7

"You have hit it," said the Vicar, "and I do not think you could have said anything which could please me more. He is independent; it is my own temperament over again! You will forgive a touch of vanity, Howard, but that is me all over. And that simplifies our plan of action very considerably, you know!"

"Yes," said Howard, "it undoubtedly does. I have no doubt from what Jack told me that he intends to make money. It isn't, in him, just the vague desire to have the command of money, which most young men have. I have to talk over their careers with a good many young men, and it generally ends in their saying they would like a secretaryship, which would give them interesting work and long holidays and the command of much of their time, and lead on to something better, with a prospect of early retirement on a pension."

The Vicar laughed loudly at this. "Excellent!" he said, "a very human view; that's a real bit of human nature."

"But Jack," said Howard, "isn't like that. He enjoys his life and gets what fun out of it he can; but he thinks Cambridge a waste of time. I don't know any young man who is so perfectly clear that he wants real work. He is not idle as many young men are idle, prolonging the easy days as long as they can. He is an extraordinary mixture; he enjoys himself like a schoolboy, and yet he wants to get to work."

"Well, I think that a very encouraging picture!" said the Vicar; "there is something very sensible about that. I confess I have mostly seen the schoolboy side of Jack, and it delights one to know that there is a serious side! Let us hear what Maud thinks; this kind of talk is really very enjoyable."

"Yes," said Maud, looking up. "I am sure that Mr. Kennedy is quite right. I believe that Jack would like to go into an office to-morrow."

"There," said the Vicar, "you see she agrees with you. It is really a pleasure to find oneself mistaken. I confess I had not discerned this quality in Jack; he had seemed to me much set on amus.e.m.e.nt."

"Oh yes," said Howard, "he likes his fun, and he is active enough; but it is all pa.s.sing the time."

"Well, this is really most satisfactory," said the Vicar. "So you really think he is cut out for business; something commercial? Well, I confess I had rather hankered after something more definitely academic and scholastic--something more intellectual! But I bow to your superior knowledge, Howard, and we must think of possible openings. Well, I shall enjoy that. My own money, what there is of it, was made by my grandfather in trade--the manufacture of cloth, I believe. Would cloth now, the manufacture of cloth, appear to provide the requisite opening?

I have some cousins still in the firm."

"I think it would do as well as anything else," said Howard, "and if you have any interest in a particular business, it would be worth while to make inquiries."

"Before I go to bed to-night," said the Vicar, "I will send a statement of the case to my cousin; that will set the ball rolling."

"Won't you have a talk with Jack first?" said Howard. "You may depend upon it he will have some views."

"The very thing," said the Vicar. "I will put aside all my other work, and talk to Jack after tea; if any difficulty should arise, I may look to you for further counsel. This is really most satisfactory. This matter has been in my mind in a nebulous way for a long time; and you enter the scene with your intellectual grip, and your psychological penetration--if that is not too intricate a word--and the situation is clear at once. Well, I am most grateful to you."

The talk then became general, or rather pa.s.sed into the Vicar's hands.

"I have ventured," he said, "to indicate to Maud what Cousin Anne was good enough to tell me last night--she laid no embargo on the news--and a few particulars about your inheritance will not be lacking in interest--and on our walk this afternoon, to which I am greatly looking forward, we will explore your domains."

This simple compliment produced a curious effect on Howard. He realised as he had not done before the singular change in his position that his aunt's announcement had produced: a country squire, a proprietor--he could not think of himself in that light--it was like a curious dream.

After luncheon, Mr. Sandys excused himself for a few minutes; he had to step over and speak to the s.e.xton. Maud would take Howard round the garden, show him her room, "just our simple background--we want you to realise that!"

As soon as they were alone together, Howard said to Maud, "We seem to have settled Jack's affairs very summarily. I hope you do agree with me?"

"Yes," said Maud, "I do indeed. It is wonderful to me that you should know so much about him, with all your other pupils to know. He isn't a boy who talks much about himself, though he seems to; and I don't think my father understood what he was feeling. Jack doesn't like being interfered with, and he was getting to resent programmes being drawn up. Papa is so tremendously keen about anything he takes up that he carries one away; and then you come and smooth out all the difficulties. It isn't always easy--" she broke off suddenly, and added, "That is what Jack wants, what he calls something REAL. He is bored with the life here, and yet he is always good about it."

"Do you like the life here?" said Howard. "I can't tell you what an effect it all produces on me; it all seems so simple and beautiful. But I know that one mustn't trust first impressions. People in picturesque surroundings don't always feel picturesque. It is very pleasant to make a drama out of one's life and to feel romantic--but one can't keep it up--at least I can't. That must come of itself."

Howard felt that the girl was watching him with a look of almost startled interest. She said in a moment, "Yes, that's quite true, and it IS a difficulty. I should like to be able to talk to you about those things--I hear so much about you, you know, from Jack, that you are not like a stranger at all. Now papa has got the gift of romance; every bit of his life is interesting and exciting to him--it's perfectly splendid--but Jack has not got that at all. I seem to understand them both, and yet I can't explain them to each other. I don't mean they don't get on, but neither can quite see what the other is aiming at.

And I have felt that I ought to be able to do something. I can't understand how you have cleared it up; but I am very glad and grateful about it: it has been a trouble to me. Cousin Anne is wonderful about it, but she seems able to let things alone in a way I can't dare to."

"Oh, one learns that as one gets older," said Howard. "One can't argue things straight. One can only go on hoping and wishing, and if possible understanding. I used to make a great mess of it with my pupils at one time, by thinking one could talk them round; but one can't persuade people of things, one can only just suggest, and let it be; and after all no one ever resents finding himself interesting to some one else; only it has got to be interest, and not a sense of duty."

"That is what Cousin Anne says," said Maud, "and when I am with her, I think so too; and then something tiresome happens and I meddle, I meddle! Jack says I like ruling lines, but that it is no good, because people won't write on them."

X

WITH MAUD ALONE

They were suddenly interrupted by the inrush of the Vicar. "Maud," he said with immense zest, "I find old Mrs. Darby very ill--she had a kind of faint while I was there. I have sent off Bob post haste for Dr.

Grierson." The Vicar was evidently in the highest spirits, like a general on the eve of a great battle. "There isn't a moment to be lost," he continued, his eye blazing with energy. "Howard, my dear fellow, I fear our walk must be put off. I must go back at once. There she lies, flat on her back, just where I laid her! I believe," said the Vicar, "it's a touch of syncope. She is blue, decidedly blue! I charged them to do nothing, but if I don't get back, there's no knowing what they won't pour down her throat--decoction of pennyroyal, I dare say; and if the woman coughs, she is lost. This is the sort of thing I enjoy--of course it is very sad--but it is a tussle with death. I know a good deal about medicine, and Grierson has more than once complimented me on my diagnosis--he said it was masterly--forgive a touch of vanity! But you mustn't lose your walk. Maud, dear, you take Howard out--I am sure he won't mind for once. You could walk round the village, or you could go and find Jack. Now then, back to my post! You must forgive me, Howard, but my flock are paramount."

"But won't you want me, papa?" said Maud. "Couldn't I be of use?"

"Certainly not," said the Vicar; "there's nothing whatever to be done till Grierson arrives--just to ward off the ministrations of the relatives. There she must lie--I feel no doubt it is syncope; every symptom points to syncope--poor soul! A very interesting case."

He fled from the room like a whirlwind, and they heard him run down the garden. The two looked at each other and smiled. "Poor Mrs. Darby!"

said Maud, "she is such a nice old woman; but papa will do everything that can be done for her; he really knows all about it, and he is splendid in illness--he never loses his head, and he is very gentle; he has saved several lives in the village by knowing what to do. Would you really like to go out with me? I'll be ready in a minute."

"Let us go up on the downs," said Howard, "I should like that very much. I daresay we shall hear Jack shooting somewhere."

Maud was back in a moment; in a rough cloak and cap she looked enchanting to Howard's eyes. She walked lightly and quickly beside him.

"You must take your own pace," said Howard, "I'll try to keep up--one gets very lazy at Cambridge about exercise--won't you go on with what you were saying? I know your father has told you about my aunt's plan.

I can't realise it yet; but I want to feel at home here now--indeed I do feel that already--and I like to know how things stand. We are all relations together, and I must try to make up for lost time. I seem to know my aunt so well already. She has a great gift for letting one see into her mind and heart--and I know your father too, and Jack, and I want to know you; we must be a family party, and talk quite simply and freely about all our concerns."

"Oh, yes, indeed I will," said Maud--"and I find myself wondering how easy it is to talk to you. You do seem like a relation; as if you had always been here, indeed; but I must not talk too much about myself--I do chatter very freely to Cousin Anne; but I don't think it is good for one to talk about oneself, do you? It makes one feel so important!"

"It depends who one talks to," said Howard, "but I don't believe in holding one's tongue too much, if one trusts people. It seems to me the simplest thing to do; I only found it out a few years ago--how much one gained by talking freely and directly. It seems to me an uncivilised, almost a savage thing to be afraid of giving oneself away. I don't mind who knows about my own concerns, if he is sufficiently interested. I will tell you anything you like about myself, because I should like you to realise how I live. In fact, I shall want you all to come and see me at Cambridge; and then you will be able to understand how we live there, while I shall know what is going on here. And I am really a very safe person to talk to. One gets to know a lot of young men, year by year--and I'm a mine of small secrets. Don't you know the t.i.tle so common in the old Methodist tracts--'The life and death and Christian sufferings of the Rev. Mr. Pennefather.' That's what I want to know about people--Christian sufferings and all."

Maud smiled at him and said, "I am afraid there are not many Christian sufferings in my life; but I shall be glad to talk about many things here. You know my mother died more than ten years ago--when I was quite a little girl--and I don't remember her very well; I have always said just what I thought to Jack, and he to me--till quite lately; and that is what troubles me a little. Jack seems to be rather drifting away from me. He gets to know so many new people, and he doesn't like explaining; and then his mind seems full of new ideas. I suppose it is bound to happen; and of course I have very little to do here; papa likes doing everything, and doing it in his own way. He can't bear to let anything out of his hands; so I just go about and talk to the people. But I am not a very contented person. I want something, I think, and I don't know what it is. It is difficult to take up anything serious, when one is all alone. I should like to go to Newnham, but I can't leave father by himself; books don't seem much use, though I read a great deal. I want something real to do, like Jack! Papa is so energetic; he manages the house and pays all the bills; and there doesn't seem any use for me--though if I were of use, I should find plenty of things to do, I believe."

"Yes," said Howard, "I quite understand, and I am glad you have told me. You know I am a sort of doctor in these matters, and I have often heard undergraduates say the same sort of thing. They are restless, they want to go out into life, they want to work; and when they begin to work all that disquiet disappears. It's a great mercy to have things to do, whether one likes it or not. Work is an odd thing! There is hardly a morning at Cambridge when, if someone came to me and offered me the choice of doing my ordinary work or doing nothing for a day, I shouldn't choose to do nothing. And yet I enjoy my work, and wouldn't give it up for anything. It is odd that it takes one so long to learn to like work, and longer still to learn that one doesn't like idleness.

And yet it is to win the power of being idle that makes most people work. Idleness seems so much grander and more dignified."

"It IS curious," said Maud, "but I seem to have inherited papa's taste for occupation, without his energy. I wish you would advise me what to do. Can't one find something?"

"What does my aunt say?" said Howard.

"Oh, she smiles in that mysterious way she has," said Maud, "and says we have to learn to take things as they come. She knows somehow how to do without things, how to wait; but I can't do that without getting dreary."

"Do you ever try to write?" said Howard.

"Yes," said Maud, laughing, "I have tried to write a story--how did you guess that? I showed it to Cousin Anne, and she said it was very nice; and when I showed it to Jack, and told him what she had said, he read a little, and said that that was exactly what it was."

"Yes," said Howard, smiling, "I admit that it was not very encouraging!

But I wish you would try something more simple. You say you know the people here and talk to them. Can't you write down the sort of things they say, the talks you have with them, the way they look at things? I read a book once like that, called Country Conversations, and I wondered that so few people ever tried it. Why should one try to write improbable stories, even NICE stories, when the thing itself is so interesting? One doesn't understand these country people. They have an idea of life as definite as a dog or a cat, and it is not in the least like ours. Why not take a family here; describe their house and possessions, what they look like, what they do, what their history has been, and then describe some talks with them? I can't imagine anything more interesting. Perhaps you could not publish them at present; but they wouldn't be quite wasted, because you might show them to me, and I want to know all about the people here. You mustn't pa.s.s over things because they seem homely and familiar--those are just the interesting things--what they eat and drink and wear, and all that. How does that strike you?"

"I like the idea very much indeed," said Maud. "I will try--I will begin at once. And even if nothing comes of it, it will be nice to think it may be of use to you, to know about the people."

"Very well," said Howard, "that is a bargain. It is exactly what I want. Do begin at once, and let me have the first instalment of the Chronicles of Windlow."

They had arrived by this time at a point high on the downs. The rough white road, full of flints, had taken them up by deep-hedged cuttings, through coverts where the spring flowers were just beginning to show in the undergrowth, and out on to the smooth turf of the downs. They were near the top now, and they could see right down into Windlow Malzoy, lying like a map beneath them; the top of the Church tower, its leaden roof, the roofs of the Vicarage, the little straggling street among its orchards and gardens; farther off, up the valley, they could see the Manor in its gardens; beyond the opposite ridge, a far-off view of great richness spread itself in a belt of dark-blue colour. It was a still day; on the left hand there was a great smooth valley-head, with a wood of beeches, and ploughed fields in the bottom. They directed their steps to an old turfed barrow, with a few gnarled thorn trees, wind-swept and stunted round it.

"I love this place," said Maud; "it has a nice name, the 'Isle of Thorns.' I suppose it is a burial-place--some old chief, papa says--and he is always threatening to have him dug up; but I don't want to disturb him! He must have had a reason for being buried here, and I suppose there were people who missed him, and were sorry to lay him here, and wondered where he had gone. I am sure there is a sad old story about it; and yet it makes one happy in a curious way to think about it all."