was folly to postpone the decisive step; he must dismiss his servants, sell his library, let the dear old home as soon as possible. He tried to write the fateful letter, but his hand dropped. There came a moment when, as he sat by the alien fireside, bitter thoughts were too much for him, and his eyes filled with despairing tears. Percy Marfleet lived thus for a month. Day by day home-sickness ate into his heart; day by day the great, roaring, fog-choked city crushed his soul and became unutterably hateful. In imagination he visited the beloved house, sat in his library, walked about his garden; heard the voices of companionable men and women, above all, the voice of Eveline Cloud; took the chair at the Literary Institute, listened to friendly proposals that he should stand for this or that ward at the next municipal elections. What a Christmas he had passed! And how delightful it always was, the Christmas of old times! And so it came to pass that, on a day, he found himself at the railway station; in one hand a travelling-bag, clasped in the other a ticket for his native town. Why he was going back, he knew not; enough that he was booked and would see his home again this very night.
He reached it at nine o'clock. He rang a merry peal at the front door, and, when the door opened, had much ado not to embrace his honest, smiling housekeeper.
"No, no, Mrs. Robinson; it's all right. I didn't send notice—had to come unexpectedly. And how are you, eh? Cold night—ah, but how good the air tastes! Fire in the study, is there? Splendid! Something to eat—hungry—ha, ha, ha!"
Mrs. Robinson felt a strange suspicion. She had never known her master to exceed becoming limits in the matter of strong drink; but really—— And he had such an unaccountable look; dark eyes; sunken cheeks: utterly unlike himself. At his supper, too, he drank a great deal of bottled beer; after it he called joyously for whisky. And there he sat until long after midnight, singing to himself snatches of old songs.
The next morning—it was frosty and bright—he went forth, walked through the town, greeted cheerily such friends as he chanced to encounter. As though bent on a country walk, he crossed the bridge and passed at his usual brisk pace through the suburb of mean little houses; from the highway beyond he struck into a field path, and by way of a great semicircle drew towards the point he had in mind, which he might have reached in a quarter of the time by starting on another route. He was going to call upon Miss Cloud. With what purpose, he did not try to make clear to himself; he must see Eveline; that was the immediate necessity of a life which had lost all conscious self-direction.
Mr. Cloud's residence, built but a few years ago, stood amid a young plantation, and at this time of the year had a chilly aspect. As he walked up the shrub-bordered drive, Marfleet felt a misgiving, and when his hand was on the bell he asked himself abruptly why he had come; but the speedy opening of the door gave him no time to answer the question. Miss Cloud, as he knew, was at present living alone, unless there happened to be some female relative in the house, for her father had gone to London again after the Parliamentary recess. As a matter of course he was straightway led to the drawing-room, and in a moment Eveline joined him.
"How delightful, Mr. Marfleet! I was just wishing that I could see you, but had no idea you were back again. Will you come into the library? There's a bit of crabbed old law-Latin I can't understand at all——"
For some time Eveline had been making a study of the antiquities of the town, and in her last conversation with Marfleet she had laughingly suggested that they should collaborate on a local history. By good luck (he trembled with apprehension) the man of learning was able to solve this present difficulty, and the feat exhilarated him: his countenance became that of one who had not a care in the world.
"You have been a long time in London," said Eveline, with one of her shy glances. Alone with Marfleet, she always looked rather shy, however spirited her talk.
"Yes—a month or so. And I think I must go back again. In fact, Miss Cloud, I have all but made up my mind to live there altogether."
The announcement startled her so much that she looked at him in silence—looked at him for a moment fixedly. Marfleet was swaying on his feet and twisting his hands together behind him; he talked on with nervous rapidity and vigour.
"The truth is, I'm not getting on so well with my work as I ought to be. For a long time—it 's a shameful confession—I have been shockingly idle. Do you think our climate is just a trifle relaxing? I'm afraid I must take a decided step; really, I'm afraid I must. After all, London is the place for work; don't you think so? In the country one has so many temptations to indolence. I mean——"
He grew confused, and began to swallow his words.
"I can quite understand," said Eveline in a low voice as she stood before him with head bent, "that you feel the need of—of more intellectual society. You must find us very dull."
"No, no, no!" he exclaimed in agitation. "I meant nothing of the kind. The society is delightful. I was thinking of the—the libraries and that kind of thing—the general atmosphere of——"
"I quite understand." Eveline was eager to justify him. "For a serious student the advantages of London are very great. Of course, I am very sorry but——"
A crisis of nervous torture drove the man to plain speech.
"Miss Cloud, the matter is more serious than you could suspect. you remember the paper I wrote—for the review? It was rejected."
The word seemed to echo from every surface of the room, Eveline stood motionless, and durst not raise her eyes.
"You can imagine how that affected me," he rushed on, with hot checks. "It made me aware of my culpable folly. Miss Cloud, you say that I must feel the society of your town dull. Oh, if you will believe me, how gladly I would live here for the rest of my days! This is my home; I love it. London will always be a miserable exile. If you knew how I felt last night on coming back! If I could but stay here, and lead the same quiet, happy life——"
His voice grew thick, and he had to pause. Eveline looked at him with gentle surprise, and her breath came quickly as she spoke.
"You feel it a duty to use your great gifts——"
"I will tell you the whole wretched truth. I cannot stay here. I have been living like a simpleton—spending twice my income. I must go to London to earn a living. There, now, that is what I came this morning to tell you."
And he laughed as if it were an excellent joke.
"Mr. Marfleet——"
Even on those lips his name had never sounded so pleasantly. He gazed at her and waited.
"Don't you think," she proceeded, with diffidence yet with courage, "that it's a great pity for towns like ours to lose all their most capable men? Wouldn't it be much better if—such a man as yourself were to stay, and use his talents in the service of the place he loves and the people he cares for? We are so much in want of a higher type of mind——"
"Ah, if it were possible! I regret bitterly that I did not enter into the life of the town in earnest, years and years ago."
Eveline's smile came from its lurking-place, and made sunny all her sweet countenance.
"You would have been mayor by now. And think bow much better for all of us!"
"I would give years of my life," exclaimed Marfleet, "if that could be!"
"Is it really impossible?"
Their eyes met. Eveline, sister to the rose, trembled as if on the verge of happy laughter. Marfleet, his face radiant yet ashamed, tried vainly to speak.
"Who knows of your difficulties?" she asked softly.
"Not a soul but you."
She did not laugh, but again seemed scarce able to help it. Marfleet's hand stole forth, and was met half-way,
"We will write the history of our town!" broke joyously from his lips.
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