He rang for sugar, though the
bowl stood just before his eyes, yet when the girl came in he forgot
completely what he rang for--and inquired instead about the evening
trains to London. And, when the time-table was laid before him, he
examined it without intelligence, then looked up suddenly into the
maid's face with a question about flowers. Were there flowers to be had
in the village anywhere? What kind of flowers? "Oh, a bouquet or a"--he
hesitated, searching for a word that tried to present itself, yet was
not the word _he_ wanted to make use of--"or a wreath--of some sort?" he finished. He took the very word he did not want to take. In several
things he did and said, this hesitancy and miscalculation betrayed
themselves--such trivial things, yet significant in an elusive way that
he disliked. There was sadness, insecurity somewhere in them. And he
resented them, aware of their existence only because they qualified
his joy. There was a whispered "No" floating somewhere in the dusk. Almost--he felt disquiet. He hurried, more and more eager to be off
upon his journey--the final part of it. Moreover, there were other signs of an odd miscalculation--dislocation,
perhaps, properly speaking--in him. Though the inn was familiar from
his boyhood days, kept by the same old couple, too, he volunteered
no information about himself, nor asked a single question about the
village he was bound for. He did not even inquire if the rector--her
father--still were living. And when he left he entirely neglected the
gilt-framed mirror above the mantelpiece of plush, dusty pampas-grass
in waterless vases on either side. It did not matter, apparently,
whether he looked well or ill, tidy or untidy. He forgot that when
his cap was off the absence of thick, accustomed hair must alter him
considerably, forgot also that two fingers were missing from one hand,
the right hand, the hand that she would presently clasp. Nor did it
occur to him that he wore glasses, which must change his expression
and add to the appearance of the years he bore. None of these obvious
and natural things seemed to come into his thoughts at all. He was
in a hurry to be off. He did not think. But, though his mind may not
have noted these slight betrayals with actual sentences, his attitude,
nevertheless, expressed them. This was, it seemed, the _feeling_ in
him: "What could such details matter to her _now_? Why, indeed, should
he give to them a single thought? It was himself she loved and waited
for, not separate items of his external, physical image." As well think
of the fact that she, too, must have altered--outwardly. It never once
occurred to him. Such details were of To-day.... He was only impatient
to come to her quickly, very quickly, instantly, if possible. He
hurried. There was a flood of boyhood's joy in him. He paid for his tea, giving
a tip that was twice the price of the meal, and set out gaily and
impetuously along the winding lane. Charged to the brim with a sweet
picture of a small, white garden gate, the loved face close behind it,
he went forward at a headlong pace, singing "Nancy Lee" as he used to
sing it fifteen years before. With action, then, the negative sensations hid themselves, obliterated
by the positive ones that took command. The former, however, merely lay
concealed; they waited. Thus, perhaps, does vital emotion, overlong
restrained, denied, indeed, of its blossoming altogether, take revenge. Repressed elements in his psychic life asserted themselves, selecting,
as though naturally, a dramatic form. The dusk fell rapidly, mist rose in floating strips along the meadows
by the stream; the old, familiar details beckoned him forwards, then
drove him from behind as he went swiftly past them. He recognised
others rising through the thickening air beyond; they nodded, peered,
and whispered; sometimes they almost sang. And each added to his inner
happiness; each brought its sweet and precious contribution, and built
it into the reconstructed picture of the earlier, long-forgotten
rapture. It was an enticing and enchanted journey that he made,
something impossibly blissful in it, something, too, that seemed
curiously--inevitable. For the scenery had not altered all these years, the details of the
country were unchanged, everything he saw was rich with dear and
precious association, increasing the momentum of the tide that carried
him along. Yonder was the stile over whose broken step he had helped
her yesterday, and there the slippery plank across the stream where
she looked above her shoulder to ask for his support; he saw the
very bramble bushes where she scratched her hand, a-blackberrying,
the day before ... and, finally, the weather-stained signpost, "To
the Rectory." It pointed to the path through the dangerous field
where Farmer Sparrow's bull provided such a sweet excuse for holding,
leading--protecting her. From the entire landscape rose a steam of
recent memory, each incident alive, each little detail brimmed with its
cargo of fond association. He read the rough black lettering on the crooked arm--it was rather
faded, but he knew it too well to miss a single letter--and hurried
forward along the muddy track; he looked about him for a sign of Farmer
Sparrow's bull; he even felt in the misty air for the little hand that
he might take and lead her into safety. The thought of her drew him on
with such irresistible anticipation that it seemed as if the cumulative
drive of vanished and unsated years evoked the tangible phantom almost. He actually felt it, soft and warm and clinging in his own, that was no
longer incomplete and mutilated. Yet it was not he who led and guided now, but, more and more, he who
was being led. The hint had first betrayed its presence at the inn;
it now openly declared itself. It had crossed the frontier into a
positive sensation. Its growth, swiftly increasing all this time, had
accomplished itself; he had ignored, somehow, both its genesis and
quick development; the result he plainly recognised. She was expecting
him, indeed, but it was more than expectation; there was calling in
it--she summoned him. Her thought and longing reached him along that
old, invisible track love builds so easily between true, faithful
hearts. All the forces of her being, her very voice, came towards him
through the deepening autumn twilight. He had not noticed the curious
physical restoration in his hand, but he was vividly aware of this more
magical alteration--that _she_ led and guided him, drawing him ever
more swiftly towards the little, white garden gate where she stood at
this very moment, waiting. Her sweet strength compelled him; there was
this new touch of something irresistible about the familiar journey,
where formerly had been delicious yielding only, shy, tentative
advance. He realised it--inevitable. His footsteps hurried, faster and ever faster; so deep was the
allurement in his blood, he almost ran. He reached the narrow, winding
lane, and raced along it.