'_You_ wrote it, then!' she said, giving me--as it seemed, involuntarily--a look of reproach.

'Yes, I did; but--'

'Then I think you are very horrid,' said Clara, interrupting.

'Charley!' I said, 'you must not leave your sister to think so badly of me! You know why I wrote it--and what I meant.'

'I wish I had written it myself,' he returned. 'I think it splendid.

Anybody might envy you that song.'

'But you know I didn't mean it for a true one.'

'Who knows whether it is true or false?'

'_I_ know,' said Mary: 'I know it is false.'

'And _I_ hope it,' I adjoined.

'Whatever put such horrid things into your head, Wilfrid?' asked Clara.

'Probably the fear lest they should be true. The verses came as I sat in a country church once, not long ago.'

'In a church!' exclaimed Mary.

'Oh! he does go to church sometimes,' said Charley, with a laugh.

'How could you think of it in church?' persisted Mary.

'It's more like the churchyard,' said Clara.

'It was in an old church in a certain desolate sea-forsaken town,' I said. 'The pendulum of the clock--a huge, long, heavy, slow thing--hangs far down into the church, and goes swing, sw.a.n.g over your head, three or four seconds to every swing. When you have heard the _tic_, your heart grows faint every time between--waiting for the _tac_, which seems as if it would never come.'

We were ascending the acclivity, and no one spoke again before we reached the top. There a wide landscape lay stretched before us. The mist was rapidly melting away before the gathering strength of the sun: as we stood and gazed we could see it vanishing. By slow degrees the colours of the Autumn woods dawned out of it. Close under us lay a great wave of gorgeous red--beeches, I think--in the midst of which, here and there, stood up, tall and straight and dark, the unchanging green of a fir-tree. The glow of a hectic death was over the landscape, melting away into the misty fringe of the far horizon. Overhead the sky was blue, with a clear thin blue that told of withdrawing suns and coming frosts.

'For my part,' I said, 'I cannot believe that beyond this loveliness there lies no greater. Who knows, Charley, but death may be the first recognizable step of the progress of which you despair?'

It was then I caught the look from Mary's eye, for the sake of which I have recorded the little incidents of the morning. But the same moment the look faded, and the veil or the mask fell over her face.

'I am afraid,' she said, 'if there has been no progress before, there will be little indeed after.'

Now of all things, I hated the dogmatic theology of the party in which she had been brought up, and I turned from her with silent dislike.

'Really,' said Clara, 'you gentlemen have been very entertaining this morning. One would think Polly and I had come out for a stroll with a couple of undertaker's-men. There's surely time enough to think of such things yet! None of us are at death's door exactly.'

'"Sweet remembrancer!"--Who knows?' said Charley.

'"Now I, to comfort him,"' I followed, quoting Mrs Quickly concerning Sir John Falstaff, '"bid him, 'a should not think of G.o.d: I hoped there was no need to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet."'

'I beg your pardon,' said Mary--'there was no word of Him in the matter.'

'I see,' said Clara: 'you meant that at me, Wilfrid. But I a.s.sure you I am no heathen. I go to church regularly--once a Sunday when I can, and twice when I can't help it. That's more than you do, Mr c.u.mbermede, I suspect.'

'What makes you think so?' I asked.

'I can't imagine you enjoying anything but the burial service.'

'It is to my mind the most consoling of them all,' I answered.

'Well, I haven't reached the point of wanting that consolation yet, thank heaven.'

'Perhaps some of us would rather have the consolation than give thanks that we didn't need it,' I said.

'I can't say I understand you, but I know you mean something disagreeable. Polly, I think we had better go home to breakfast.'

Mary turned, and we all followed. Little was said on the way home. We divided in the hall--the ladies to breakfast, and we to our work.

We had not spoken for an hour, when Charley broke the silence.

'What a brute I am, Wilfrid!' he said. 'Why shouldn't I be as good as Jesus Christ? It seems always as if a man might. But just look at me!

Because I was miserable myself, I went and made my poor little sister twice as miserable as she was before. She'll never get over what I said this morning.'

'It _was_ foolish of you, Charley.'

'It was brutal. I am the most selfish creature in the world--always taken up with myself. I do believe there is a devil, after all. _I_ am _a_ devil. And the universal self is _the_ devil. If there were such a thing as a self always giving itself away--that self would be G.o.d.'

'Something very like the G.o.d of Christianity, I think.'

'If it were so, there would be a chance for us. We might then one day give the finishing blow to the devil in us. But no: _he_ does all for his own glory.'

'It depends on what his glory is. If what the self-seeking self would call glory, then I agree with you--that is not the G.o.d we need. But if his glory should be just the opposite--the perfect giving of himself away--then--Of course I know nothing about it. My uncle used to say things like that.'

He did not reply, and we went on with our work. Neither of the ladies came near us again that day.

Before the end of the week the library was in tolerable order to the eye, though it could not be perfectly arranged until the commencement of a catalogue should be as the dawn of a consciousness in the half-restored ma.s.s.

CHAPTER x.x.xIX.

A STORM.

So many books of rarity and value had revealed themselves, that it was not difficult to make Sir Giles comprehend in some degree the importance of such a possession. He had grown more and more interested as the work went on; and even Lady Brotherton, although she much desired to have, at least, the oldest and most valuable of the books re-bound in red morocco first, was so far satisfied with what she was told concerning the worth of the library, that she determined to invite some of the neighbours to dinner, for the sake of showing it. The main access to it was to be by the armoury; and she had that side of the gallery round the hall which led thither covered with a thick carpet.

Meantime Charley had looked over all the papers in my chest, but, beyond what I have already stated, no fact of special interest had been brought to light.

In sending an invitation to Charley, Lady Brotherton could hardly avoid sending me one as well: I doubt whether I should otherwise have been allowed to enjoy the admiration bestowed on the result of my labours.