He demanded of
life the joy natural to his years; revolted against the barrenness
of his lot. A terror fell upon him lest he should be fated never to
know the supreme delight of which he was capable, and for which
alone he lived. Even now was he not passing his prime, losing the
keener faculties of youth? He trembled at the risks of every day;
what was his assurance against the common ill-hap which might
afflict him with disease, blight his life with accident, so that no
woman's eye could ever be tempted to rest upon him? He cursed the
restrictions which held him on a straight path of routine, of narrow
custom, when a world of possibilities spread about him on either
hand, the mirage of his imprisoned spirit. Adventurous projects
succeeded each other in his thoughts. He turned to the lands where
life was freer, where perchance his happiness awaited him, had he
but the courage to set forth. What brought him to London, this
squalid blot on the map of the round world? Why did he consume the
irrecoverable hours amid its hostile tumult, its menacing gloom?
On the first Sunday in September he aroused himself to travel by an
early train, which bore him far into the country. He had taken a
ticket at hazard for a place with a pleasant-sounding name, and
before village bells had begun to ring he was wandering in deep
lanes amid the weald of Sussex. All about him lay the perfect
loveliness of that rural landscape which is the old England, the
true England, the England dear to the best of her children.
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