class="c2" id="pgepubid00008">II

RESTLESSNESS

A few days later the term drew to an end, and both dons and undergraduates, whose tempers had been wearing a little thin, got suddenly more genial, like guests when a visit draws to a close, and disposed to think rather better of each other.

Howard had made no plans; he did not wish to stay on at Cambridge, but he did not want to go away: he had no relations to whose houses he naturally drifted; he did not like the thought of a visit; as a rule he went off with an undergraduate or two to some lonely inn, where they fished or walked and did a little work. But just now he had a vague feeling that he wanted to be alone; that he had something to face, some reckoning to cast up, and yet he did not know what it was.

One afternoon—the spring was certainly advancing, and there was a touch of languor in the air, that heavenly languor which is so sweet a thing when one is young and hopeful, so depressing a thing when one is living on the edge of one's nervous force—he paid a call, which was not a thing he often did, on a middle-aged woman who passed for a sort of relation; she was a niece of his aunt's deceased husband, Monica Graves by name. She was a woman of independent means, who had done some educational work for a time, but had now retired, lived in her own little house, and occupied herself with social schemes of various sorts. She was a year or two older than Howard. They did not very often meet, but there was a pleasant camaraderie between them, an almost brotherly and sisterly relation. She was a small, quiet, able woman, whose tranquil manner concealed great clear-headedness and decisiveness. Howard always said that it was a comfort to talk to her, because she always knew what her own opinion was, and did what she intended to do. He found her alone and at tea. She welcomed him drily but warmly. Presently he said, "I want your advice, Monnie; I want you to make up my mind for me. I have a feeling that I need a change. I don't mean a little change, but a big one. I am suddenly aware that I am a little stale, and I wish to be freshened up."

Monica looked at him and said, "Yes, I expect you are right! You know I think we ought all to have one big change in our lives, about your age, I mean. Why don't you put in for a head-mastership? I have often thought you have rather a gift that way."

"I might do that," said Howard vaguely, "but I don't want a change of work so much as a change of mind. I have got suddenly bored, and I am a little vexed with myself. I have always rather held with William Morris that people ought to live in the same place and do the same things; and I had no intention of being bored—I have always thought that very feeble! But I have fallen suddenly into the frame of mind of knowing exactly what all my friends here are going to say and think, and that rather takes the edge off conversation; and I have learned the undergraduate mind too. It's an inconsequent thing, but there's a law in inconsequence, and I seem to have acquired a knowledge of their tangents."

"I must consider," said Monica with a smile, "but one can't do these things offhand—that is worse than doing nothing. I'll tell you what to do NOW. Why not go and stay with Aunt Anne? She would like to see you, I know, and I have always thought it rather lazy of you not to go there—she is rather a remarkable woman, and it's a pretty country. Have you ever been there?"

"No," said Howard, "not to Windlow; I stayed with them once when I was a boy, when Uncle John was alive—but that was at Bristol. What sort of a place is Windlow? I suppose Aunt Anne is pretty well off?"

"I'm not very good at seeing the points of a place," said Monica; "but it's a beautiful old house, though it is rather too low down for my taste; and she lives very comfortably, so I think she must be rich; I don't know about that; but she is an interesting woman—one of the few really religious people I know. I am not very religious myself, but she makes it seem rather interesting to me—she has experiences—I don't quite know what they are; but she is a sort of artist in religion, I think. That's a bad description, because it sounds self-conscious; and she isn't that—she has a sense of humour, and she doesn't rub things in. You know how if one meets a real artist in anything—a writer, a painter, a musician—and finds them at work, it seems almost the only thing worth doing. Well, Aunt Anne gives me the same sort of sense about religion when I am with her; and yet when I come away, and see how badly other people handle it, it seems a very dull business."

"That's interesting," said Howard musingly; "but I am really ashamed to suggest going there. She has asked me so often, and I have sent such idiotic excuses."

"Oh, you needn't mind that," said Monica; "she isn't a huffy person. I know she would like to see you—she said to me once that the idea of coming didn't seem to amuse you, but she seemed disposed to sympathise with you for that. Just write and say you would like to go."

"I think I will," said Howard, "and I have another reason why I should like to go. You know Jack Sandys, your cousin, now my pupil. He is rather a fascinating youth. His father is parson there, isn't he?"

"Yes," said Monica; "there are two hamlets, Windlow and Windlow Malzoy, both in the same parish. The church and vicarage are at Malzoy; but Frank is rather a terror—my word, how that man talks! But I like Jack, though I have only seen him half a dozen times—that reminds me that I must have him to dinner or something—and I like his sister even better. But I am afraid that Jack may turn out a bore too—he is rather charming at present, because he says whatever comes into his head; and it's all quite fresh; but that is what poor Cousin Frank does—only it's not at all fresh! However, there's nothing like living with a bore to teach one the merits of holding one's tongue. Poor old Frank! I thought he would be the death of us all one evening at Windlow. He simply couldn't stop, and he had a pathetic look in his eye, as if he was saying, 'Can't anyone assist me to hold my tongue?'"

Howard laughed and got up. "Well," he said, "I'll take your advice. I don't know anyone like you, Monnie, for making up one's mind. You crystallise things. I shall like to see Aunt Anne, and I shall like to see Jack at home; and meanwhile will you think the matter over, and give me a lead? I don't want to leave Cambridge at all, but I would rather do that than go sour, as some people do!"

"Yes," said Monica, "when you get beneath the surface, Cambridge is rather a sad place. There are a good many disappointed men here—people who wake up suddenly in middle life, and realise that if they had gone out into the world they would have done better; but I like Cambridge; you can do as you like here—and then the rainfall is low."

Howard went back to his rooms and wrote a short note to Mrs. Graves to suggest a visit; he added that he felt ashamed of himself for never coming, "but Monica says that you would like to see me, and Monica is generally right."

That evening Jack came in to say good-bye. He did not look forwards to the vacation at all, he said; "Windlow is simply the limit! I believe it's the dullest place in the kingdom!"

"What would you feel if I told you that we shall probably meet?" said Howard. "I am going to stay with Mrs. Graves—that is, if she will have me. I don't mind saying that the fact that you are close by is a considerable reason why I think of going."

"That's simply splendid!" said Jack; "we will have no end of a time. Do you DO anything in particular—fish, I mean, or shoot? There's some wretched fishing in the river, and there is some rabbit-shooting on the downs. Mrs. Graves has a keeper, a shabby old man who shoots, as they say, for the house. I believe she objects to shooting; but you might persuade her, and we could go out together."

"Yes," said Howard, "I do shoot and fish in a feeble