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shoulders on the place where the weight has pressed.

      The other six are placing the pads on their shoulders, when a girl comes up with a jug and a blue pot. The squire drinks first, and fills for the rest. Meanwhile the girl stands back under the hedge, away from the coffin which smells of new elm-wood. In imagination she pictures the man shut up there in close darkness, while the sunlight flows all outside, and she catches her breast with terror. She must turn and rustle among the leaves of the violets for the flowers she does not see. Then, trembling, she comes to herself, and plucks a few flowers and breathes them hungrily into her soul, for comfort. The men put down the pots beside her, with thanks, and the squire gives the word. The bearers lift up the burden again, and the elm-boughs rattle along the hollow white wood, and the pitiful red clusters of elm-flowers sweep along it as if they whispered in sympathy —“We are so sorry, so sorry —”; always the compassionate buds in their fulness of life bend down to comfort the dark man shut up there. “Perhaps,” the girl thinks, “he hears them, and goes softly to sleep.” She shakes the tears out of her eyes on to the ground, and, taking up her pots, goes slowly down, over the brooks.

      In a while, I too got up and went down to the mill, which lay red and peaceful, with the blue smoke rising as winsomely and carelessly as ever. On the other side of the valley I could see a pair of horses nod slowly across the fallow. A man’s voice called to him now and again with a resonance that filled me with longing to follow my horses over the fallow, in the still, lonely valley, full of sunshine and eternal forgetfulness. The day had already forgotten. The water was blue and white and dark-burnished with shadows; two swans sailed across the reflected trees with perfect blithe grace. The gloom that had passed across was gone. I watched the swan with his ruffled wings swell onwards; I watched his slim consort go peeping into corners and under bushes; I saw him steer clear of the bushes, to keep full in view, turning his head to me imperiously, till I longed to pelt him with the empty husks of last year’s flowers, knap-weed and scabious. I was too indolent, and I turned instead to the orchard.

      There the daffodils were lifting their heads and throwing back their yellow curls. At the foot of each sloping, grey old tree stood a family of flowers, some bursten with golden fulness, some lifting their heads slightly, to show a modest, sweet countenance, others still hiding their faces, leaning forward pensively from the jaunty grey-green spears; I wished I had their language, to talk to them distinctly.

      Overhead, the trees, with lifted fingers shook out their hair to the sun, decking themselves with buds as white and cool as a water-nymph’s breasts.

      I began to be very glad. The colts-foot discs glowed and laughed in a merry company down the path; I stroked the velvet faces, and laughed also, and I smelled the scent of black-currant leaves, which is full of childish memories.

      The house was quiet and complacent; it was peopled with ghosts again; but the ghosts had only come to enjoy the warm place once more, carrying sunshine in their arms and scattering it through the dusk of gloomy rooms.

      Chapter 3

       The Irony of Inspired Moments

       Table of Contents

      It happened, the next day after the funeral, I came upon reproductions of Aubrey Beardsley’s Atalanta, and of the tailpiece to Salome, and others. I sat and looked and my soul leaped out upon the new thing. I was bewildered, wondering, grudging, fascinated. I looked a long time, but my mind, or my soul, would come to no state of coherence. I was fascinated and overcome, but yet full of stubbornness and resistance.

      Lettie was out, so, although it was dinner-time, even because it was dinner-time, I took the book and went down to the mill.

      The dinner was over; there was the fragrance of cooked rhubarb in the room. I went straight to Emily, who was leaning back in her chair, and put the Salome before her.

      “Look,” said I, “look here!”

      She looked; she was short-sighted, and peered close. I was impatient for her to speak. She turned slowly at last and looked at me, shrinking, with questioning.

      “Well?” I said.

      “Isn’t it — fearful!” she replied softly.

      “No! — why is it?”

      “It makes you feel — Why have you brought it?”

      “I wanted you to see it.”

      Already I felt relieved, seeing that she too was caught in the spell.

      George came and bent over my shoulder. I could feel the heavy warmth of him.

      “Good Lord!” he drawled, half amused. The children came crowding to see, and Emily closed the book.

      “I shall be late — Hurry up, Dave!” and she went to wash her hands before going to school.

      “Give it me, will you?” George asked, putting out his hand for the book. I gave it him, and he sat down to look at the drawings. When Mollie crept near to look, he angrily shouted to her to get away. She pulled a mouth, and got her hat over her wild brown curls. Emily came in ready for school.

      “I’m going — good-bye,” she said, and she waited hesitatingly. I moved to get my cap. He looked up with a new expression in his eyes, and said:

      “Are you going? — wait a bit — I’m coming.”

      I waited.

      “Oh, very well — good-bye,” said Emily bitterly, and she departed.

      When he had looked long enough he got up and we went out. He kept his finger between the pages of the book as he carried it. We went towards the fallow land without speaking. There he sat down on a bank, leaning his back against a holly tree, and saying, very calmly:

      “There’s no need to be in any hurry now —” whereupon he proceeded to study the illustrations.

      “You know,” he said at last, “I do want her.”

      I started at the irrelevance of this remark, and said, “Who?”

      “Lettie. We’ve got notice, did you know?”

      I started to my feet this time with amazement.

      “Notice to leave? — What for?”

      “Rabbits I expect. I wish she’d have me, Cyril.”

      “To leave Strelley Mill!” I repeated.

      “That’s it — and I’m rather glad. But do you think she might have me, Cyril?”

      “What a shame! Where will you go? And you lie there joking —!”

      “I don’t. Never mind about the damned notice. I want her more than anything. — And the more I look at these naked lines, the more I want her. It’s a sort of fine sharp feeling, like these curved lines. I don’t know what I’m saying — but do you think she’d have me? Has she seen these pictures?”

      “No.”

      “If she did perhaps she’d want me — I mean she’d feel it clear and sharp coming through her.”

      “I’ll show her and see.”

      “I’d been sort of thinking about it — since Father had that notice. It seemed as if the ground was pulled from under our feet. I never felt so lost. Then I began to think of her, if she’d have me — but not clear, till you showed me those pictures. I must have her if I can — and I must have something. It’s rather ghostish to have the road suddenly smudged out, and all the world anywhere, nowhere for you to go. I must get something sure soon, or else I feel as if I should fall from somewhere and hurt myself. I’ll ask her.”

      I looked at him as he lay there under the holly tree, his face all dreamy and boyish, very unusual.

      “You’ll ask Lettie?” said I. “When — how?”

      “I

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