Meadow
and copse, the yellow rank of new-reaped sheaves, brown roofs of
farm and cottage amid shadowing elms, the grassy borders of the
road, hedges with their flowered creepers and promise of wild fruit
--these things brought him comfort. Mile after mile he wandered,
losing himself in simplest enjoyment, forgetting to ask why he was
alone. When he felt hungry, an inn supplied him with a meal. Again
he rambled on, and in a leafy corner found a spot where he could
idle for an hour or two, until it was time to think of the railway
station.
He had tired himself; his mind slipped from the beautiful things
around him, and fell into the old reverie. He murmured the haunting
name--Irene. As well as for her who bore it, he loved the name for
its meaning. Peace! As a child he had been taught that no word was
more beautiful, more solemn; at this moment, he could hear it in his
father's voice, sounding as a note of music, with a tremor of deep
feeling. Peace! Every year that passed gave him a fuller
understanding of his father's devotion to that word in all its
significance; he himself knew something of the same fervour, and was
glad to foster it in his heart. Peace! What better could a man
pursue? From of old the desire of wisdom, the prayer of the aspiring
soul.
And what else was this Love for which he anguished? Irene herself,
the beloved, sought with passion and with worship, what more could
she give him, when all was given, than content, repose, peace?
He had been too ambitious.
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