od's sake, woman, speak out what's in your
mind; tell me what you think of me and my daughter. Never mind my
cloth!' But he could no more say it than the woman could tell him what
was in her mind. And with a "Good morning" he passed on. No man or
woman would tell him anything, unless, perhaps, they were drunk. He came
to a public house, and for a moment even hesitated before it, but the
thought of insult aimed at Noel stopped him, and he passed that too. And
then reality made itself known to him. Though he had come out to hear
what they were thinking, he did not really want to hear it, could not
endure it if he did. He had been too long immune from criticism, too
long in the position of one who may tell others what he thinks of them.
And standing there in the crowded street, he was attacked by that longing
for the country which had always come on him when he was hard pressed.
He looked at his memoranda. By stupendous luck it was almost a blank
day. An omnibus passed close by which would take him far out. He
climbed on to it, and travelled as far as Hendon; then getting down, set
forth on foot. It was bright and hot, and the May blossom in full foam.
He walked fast along the perfectly straight road till he came to the top
of Elstree Hill. There for a few moments he stood gazing at the school
chapel, the cricket-field, the wide land beyond. All was very quiet, for
it was lunch-time. A horse was tethered there, and a strolling cat, as
though struck by the tall black incongruity of his figure, paused in her
progress, then, slithering under the wicket gate, arched her back and
rubbed herself against his leg, crinkling and waving the tip of her tail.
Pierson bent down and stroked the creature's head; but uttering a faint
miaou, the cat stepped daintily across the road, Pierson too stepped on,
past the village, and down over the stile, into a field path. At the
edge of the young clover, under a bank of hawthorn, he lay down on his
back, with his hat beside him and his arms crossed over his chest, like
the effigy of some crusader one may see carved on an old tomb. Though he
lay quiet as that old knight, his eyes were not closed, but fixed on the
blue, where a lark was singing. Its song refreshed his spirit; its
passionate light-heartedness stirred all the love of beauty in him, awoke
revolt against a world so murderous and uncharitable. Oh! to pass up
with that song into a land of bright spirits, where was nothing