Chapter III

“To have the sense of the Eternal in life is a short flight to
the Soul; to have had it is the Soul’s vitality.”

—GEORGE MEREDITH.

The stillness and sweetness of the April world broke upon Daphne like a discovered continent. The country had been silent to her before. She had passed from house-party to house-party all through the golden summers of her life, and nature had seemed a picturesque setting—a background for well-dressed humanity; she wondered now how she had dared to point out “views” as if they were Academy pictures, and patronize roses by arranging them in vases. She realized, as the bustling Paddington train took her through mile after mile of fields and woods and hills, that nature is an element, not a convenience. They stopped at last at a little wayside station, a spot of flowers and trees; this was her destination, and as she stepped off on to the platform, she caught her breath in a strange sense of loneliness and vastness. She was within hail of nothing that was customary or usual. The bucolic blue-eyed youth who stood in heavy uncertainty over her trunks had nothing of the friendly alertness she expected from porters. As far as she could see there were neither houses nor signs of life. It was a silent world of green, and she had not even her maid to fall back upon! Before she had made up her mind to accost the youth, who evidently expected though he had not asked for her ticket, she was relieved by the sound of wheels, and in a few moments the kindly anxious face of Mr. Fordington was looking down at her.

“I can’t doubt that you are Daphne,” he said smiling, “because there is no one else to choose from. That is the beauty of country life, it individualizes. Dora, this is your cousin.”

“I should choose you anyhow,” said Dora, “’cause I like your face.” Daphne laughed.

“If that is a country compliment,” she said, “it is a very pretty one.” The groom and the bucolic boy, who, it seemed, was in charge of the station while the station master was having his tea, bore away the trunks between them. The drive to the vicarage was a silent one, sunset lit up the sky, but the steep hills and cold spring leaves struck Daphne with a sense of cheerless beauty. There seemed something almost stern in the chilly loveliness of her surroundings. There was much that must be explained and considered between her uncle and herself, but Dora’s presence gave them an excuse for putting it off. Daphne felt, in the silence that was between them, a sense of friendliness and trust that was grateful to her. She was sure she should be happy with him, and she meant to be different—oh, quite different—from what she had ever been before.

Her uncle watched her thoughtfully. He knew little about her as a young lady, though he had loved her dearly as a child, when he had stayed with his brother on his occasional visits to London. He recognized now that she was what people would call exceedingly pretty, though that struck him as mattering very little, even if it were more obvious than her other qualities. He reflected that his wife had never seen her, and wondered how much she would permit her mind to be regulated by her aunt.

“Emma will probably bring the Vicar of Aslington back to dinner,” said her uncle after tea, “to talk over parish matters, and I expect my curate, Mitchell. I thought I would just tell you. He is what they call a high churchman, and your aunt does not quite approve of him.”

“And what are you, uncle?” said Daphne, to whom religion, and especially its various forms, was an interesting topic. Her uncle smiled.

“I don’t think I am a party man,” he said, “I have never considered my position from that standpoint. To me form is beautiful as an interpreter of Spirit. All that leads one to the height of great realities, humility, and truth, and love, and thanksgiving, are surely doors into the infinite; and all that helps us to realize them, whether it is in the simplicity of a village church, or the magnificent solemnity of a cathedral, lead us to those doors. Form without Spirit is idolatry, and Spirit without form is very vague for human hearts to accept, so truth is given us in parable, and grace in sacraments.”

“I meant something a little more definite than that,” said Daphne in a puzzled tone.

“Bread and butter is definite,” said her uncle, “but it is bread and butter. You must be content to believe mysteries without explanations, it often seems to me, a refuge of the superficial, to require things to be quite clear. It’s a shallow pool you can see the bottom of, and more often than not an unhealthy one.”

“I like good music,” said Daphne doubtfully.

“So do I,” said her uncle, “and I hope you will play to me to-night.”

“She is not awake yet,” thought her uncle as she went to her room, “and so many things happen when people wake up.”