Part 8 (1/2)

”How?” looking at her keenly.

”It wouldn't be easy to describe. It is just different, that's all,”

and she gazed a little wistfully toward the mountains.

”I expect you are getting too thoughtful,” he said.

”You ought to go away somewhere, and see something of the world outside these mountains.”

”I am very fond of the mountains,” she told him simply. ”I don't want to go away. I do not think any place could be as lovely as this.”

”That is where you are wrong. I acknowledge the scenery among these mountains is very beautiful, but there are heaps of equally and indeed more beautiful places in the world.

”The only thing is one gets tired,” relapsing into a languid manner, that Eileen could not but see had gained upon him during his absence.

”I'd give something not to have seen, nor heard, nor learned, more than you have. To have it all before me, instead of all behind.”

”But surely,”--leaning forward with ill-concealed eagerness--”the future is just br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with interest and possibilities for you.”

”Why for me particularly?”

”I was thinking of your brains, and your money, and your position--why you have everything to make life interesting.”

He shrugged his shoulders, and the expression on his thin cynical mouth was not pleasant.

”Oh, I don't know about that. It's too much bother altogether. I've seen behind the scenes too much to care; it's all rather rotten at the core, you know--everything is.”

Eileen looked pained, and gazed away to her beloved mountains. ”I am sorry you feel like that,” she said simply; ”it is all so beautiful to me.”

”Just at present perhaps--but by and by--”

”I hope it will be, by and by also. Anyhow, I shall still have my mountains.”

”And after all they're nothing in the world but indentations and corrosions on the crust of a planet, that is one in millions.”

There was a pause, then she asked slowly: ”Is that how you look upon human beings?”

”Yes, more or less. You can't deny we are only like midges, coming from nowhere, and vanis.h.i.+ng nowhere; or at best, ants hurrying and scurrying over an ant-hill. 'Life is a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.'”

”Ah, no! no!” she cried, turning to him with a beseeching look in her eyes. ”If that were so, where would be the use of all its sacrifices, and conquests, and n.o.bleness?”

”Where is the use of them?” in callous tones.

She looked at him blankly a moment, then got up and walked to the water's edge, feeling almost as if he had struck her.

After a moment he followed, and stood beside her, idly tossing pebbles into the water.

”Take my advice, Eileen,” he said, ”and don't get into the way of caring too much about things. It's a mistake. Later on, your feelings will only turn, and hit you in the face.”

”And what is it your favourite poet, Browning, says?” she repeated half to herself--

”One who never turned his back, but marched breast forward, Never doubted clouds would break, Never dreamed though right were worsted, wrong would triumph, Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, Sleep to wake.”