Part 3 (2/2)

Sabre agreed. ”Yes, I think it's a good thing to have an idea of their lives. I can't say I'm glad I went, though. You've no idea how awfully depressed that kind of thing makes me feel.”

She laughed again. ”Depressed! How ever can it? How funny you must be!”

Then she said, ”Yes, I'm glad I've seen for myself. You know, when those sort of people come into your service--the airs they give themselves and the way they demand the best of everything--and then when you see the kind of homes they come from--!”

”Yes, it makes you think, doesn't it?”

”It _does_!”

But what it made Sabre think was entirely different from what it made Mabel think.

VII

”Puzzlehead” they had called him at his preparatory school,--Old Puzzlehead Sabre, the chap who always wrinkled up his nut over things and came out with the most extraordinary ideas. He had remained, and increasingly become, the puzzler. And precisely as he ceased to share a room with Mabel and carried himself with satisfaction to his own apartment, so, by this fifth year of his married life, he had come to know well that he shared no thoughts with her: he carried them, with increasing absorption in their interest, to the processes of his own mind.

An incident of those early school days had always remained with him, in its exact words. The exact words of a selectly famous professor of philosophy who, living the few years of his retirement in the neighbourhood of the preparatory school, had given--for pure love of seeing young things and feeling the freshness of young minds--a weekly ”talk on things” to the small schoolboys. And whatever the subject of his talk, he almost invariably would work off his familiar counsel:

”And a very good thing (he used to say), an excellent thing, the very best of practices, is to write a little every day. Just a little sc.r.a.p, but cultivate the habit of doing it every day. I don't mean what is called keeping a diary, you know. Don't write what you do. There's no benefit in that. We do things for all kinds of reasons and it's the reasons, not the things, that matter. Let your little daily sc.r.a.p be something you've thought. What you've done belongs partly to some one else; often you're made to do it. But what you think is you yourself: you write it down and there it is, a tiny little bit of you that you can look at and say, 'Well, really!' You see, a little bit like that, written every day, is a mirror in which you can see your real self and correct your real self. A looking-gla.s.s shows you your face is dirty or your hair rumpled, and you go and polish up. But it's ever so much more important to have a mirror that shows you how your real self, your mind, your spirit, is looking. Just see if you can't do it. A little sc.r.a.p.

It's very steadying; very steadying....”

And his small hearers, desiring, like young colts in a field, nothing so little as anything steadying, paid as much attention to this ”jaw” as to any precept not supported by cane or imposition. They made of it, indeed, a popular school joke, ”Oh, go and write a little every day and boil yourself, you a.s.s!” But it appealed, dimly, to the reflective quality in the child Sabre's mind. He contracted the habit of writing, in a ”bagged” exercise book, sentences beginning laboriously with ”I thought to-day--.” It remained with him, as he grew up, in the practice of writing sometimes ideas that occurred to him, as in the case of his feelings about his books and--much more strongly--in deliberately thinking out ideas.

”You yourself. The real you.”

In the increasing solitariness of his married life, it came to be something into which he could retire, as into a private chamber; which he could put on, as a garment: and in the privacy of the chamber, or within the sleeves of the garment, he received a sense of detachment from normal life in which, vaguely, he pondered things.

VIII

Vaguely,--without solution of most of the problems that puzzled him, and without even definite knowledge of the line along which solution might lie. Here, in these cloisters of another world--his own world--he paced among his ideas as a man might pace around the dismantled and scattered intricacies of an intricate machine, knowing the parts could be put together and the thing worked usefully, not knowing how on earth it could be done.... ”This goes in there, and that goes in there, but how on earth--?” Here, into these cloisters, he dragged the parts of all the puzzles that perplexed him; his relations with Mabel; his sense, in a hundred ways as they came up, of the odd business that life was; his strong interest in the social and industrial problems, and in the political questions from time to time before the public attention.

He could be imagined a.s.sembling the parts, dragging them in, checking them over, slamming the door, and--”How on earth? What on earth?” There was a key to all these problems. There was a definite way of coordinating the parts of each. But what?

He began to have the feeling that in all the puzzles, not only, though particularly, of his own life as he had come to live it, but of life in general as it is lived, some mysterious part was missing.

That was as far as he could get. He was like a man groping with his hand through a hole in a great door for a key lying on the other side.

Nothing was to be seen through the hole, and only the arm to the elbow could get through it. Not the shape of the key nor its position was known.

But he was absolutely certain it was there.

One day he might put his hand on it.

CHAPTER IV

I

<script>