No More Learning

He often read there and watched the spiders
in the corners.

At dinner he was preoccupied.

'Mother,' he said, 'would you much mind if we went away from this? '

'I have often told you,' she answered, 'I do not like one place better
than another. I like them all equally little. '

After dinner he went again into the tool-house. This time he did not
sort seeds--only watched the spiders.


III

Towards evening he went out. The pale sunshine of winter flickered
on his path. The wind blew the straws about. He grew more and more
melancholy. A dog of his acquaintance was chasing rabbits in a field.
He had never been known to catch one, and since his youth had never
seen one, for he was almost wholly blind. They were his form of the
eternal chimera. The dog left the field and followed with a friendly
sniff.

They came together to the rectory. Mary Carton was not in. There was a
children's practice in the school-house. They went thither.

A child of four or five with a swelling on its face was sitting
under a wall opposite the school door, waiting to make faces at the
Protestant children as they came out. Catching sight of the dog she
seemed to debate in her mind whether to throw a stone at it or call
it to her. She threw the stone and made it run. In after times he
remembered all these things as though they were of importance.

He opened the latched green door and went in. About twenty children
were singing in shrill voices, standing in a row at the further end. At
the harmonium he recognised Mary Carton, who nodded to him and went on
with her playing. The whitewashed walls were covered with glazed prints
of animals; at the further end was a large map of Europe; by a fire at
the near end was a table with the remains of tea. This tea was an idea
of Mary's. They had tea and cake first, afterwards the singing. The
floor was covered with crumbs. The fire was burning brightly. Sherman
sat down beside it. A child with a great deal of oil in her hair was
sitting on the end of a form at the other side.

'Look,' she whispered, 'I have been sent away. At any rate they are
further from the fire. They have to be near the harmonium. I would not
sing. Do you like hymns? I don't. Will you have a cup of tea? I can
make it quite well. See, I did not spill a drop. Have you enough milk? '
It was a cup full of milk--children's tea. 'Look, there is a mouse
carrying away a crumb. Hush! '

They sat there, the child watching the mouse, Sherman pondering on his
letter, until the music ceased and the children came tramping down the
room. The mouse having fled, Sherman's self-appointed hostess got up
with a sigh and went out with the others.

Mary Carton closed the harmonium and came towards Sherman. Her face and
all her movements showed a gentle decision of character. Her glance was
serene, her features regular, her figure at the same time ample and
beautifully moulded; her dress plain yet not without a certain air of
distinction. In a different society she would have had many suitors.
But she was of a type that in country towns does not get married
at all. Its beauty is too lacking in pink and white, its nature in
that small assertiveness admired for character by the uninstructed.
Elsewhere she would have known her own beauty--as it is right that all
the beautiful should--and have learnt how to display it, to add gesture
to her calm and more of mirth and smiles to her grave cheerfulness. As
it was, her manner was much older than herself.

She sat down by Sherman with the air of an old friend. They had long
been accustomed to consult together on every matter. They were such
good friends they had never fallen in love with each other. Perfect
love and perfect friendship are indeed incompatible; for the one is a
battlefield where shadows war beside the combatants, and the other a
placid country where Consultation has her dwelling.

These two were such good friends that the most gossiping townspeople
had given them up with a sigh. The doctor's wife, a faded beauty and
devoted romance reader, said one day, as they passed, 'They are such
cold creatures'; the old maid who kept the Berlin-wool shop remarked,
'They are not of the marrying sort'; and now their comings and goings
were no longed noticed. Nothing had ever come to break in on their
quiet companionship and give obscurity as a dwelling-place for the
needed illusions. Had one been weak and the other strong, one plain and
the other handsome, one guide and the other guided, one wise and the
other foolish, love might have found them out in a moment, for love is
based on inequality as friendship is on equality.

'John,' said Mary Carton, warming her hands at the fire, 'I have had a
troublesome day. Did you come to help me teach the children to sing? It
was good of you: you were just too late. '

'No,' he answered, 'I have come to be your pupil. I am always your
pupil. '

'Yes, and a most disobedient one. '

'Well, advise me this time at any rate. My uncle has written, offering
me a hundred pounds a year to begin with in his London office. Am I to
go? '

'You know quite well my answer,' she said.

'Indeed I do not. Why should I go? I am contented here. I am now making
my garden ready for spring. Later on there will be trout fishing and
saunters by the edge of the river in the evening when the bats are
flickering about. In July there will be races. I enjoy the bustle. I
enjoy life here. When anything annoys me I keep away from it, that is
all. You know I am always busy. I have occupation and friends and am
quite contented. '

'It is a great loss to many of us, but you must go, John,' she said.
'For you know you will be old some day, and perhaps when the vitality
of youth is gone you will feel that your life is empty and find that
you are too old to change it; and you will give up, perhaps, trying
to be happy and likeable and become as the rest are. I think I can
see you,' she said, with a laugh, 'a hypochondriac, like Gorman, the
retired excise officer, or with a red nose like Dr. Stephens, or
growing like Peters, the elderly cattle merchant, who starves his
horse. '

'They were bad material to begin with,' he answered, 'and, besides, I
cannot take my mother away with me at her age, and I cannot leave her
alone. '

'What annoyance it may be,' she answered, 'will soon be forgotten. You
will be able to give her many more comforts. We women--we all like to
be dressed well and have pleasant rooms to sit in, and a young man at
your age should not be idle. You must go away from this little backward
place. We shall miss you, but you are clever and must go and work with
other men and have your talents admitted. '

'How emulous you would have me! Perhaps I shall be well-to-do some day;
meanwhile I only wish to stay here with my friends. '

She went over to the window and looked out with her face turned from
him. The evening light cast a long shadow behind her on the floor.
After some moments, she said, 'I see people ploughing on the slope of
the hill. There are people working on a house to the right. Everywhere
there are people busy,' and with a slight tremble in her voice she
added, 'and, John, nowhere are there any doing what they wish. One has
to think of so many things--of duty and God. '

'Mary, I didn't know you were so religious. '

Coming towards him with a smile, she said, 'No more did I, perhaps.
But sometimes the self in one is very strong. One has to think a great
deal and reason with it. Yet I try hard to lose myself in things about
me. These children now--I often lie awake thinking about them. That
child who was talking to you is often on my mind. I do not know what
will happen to her. She makes me unhappy. I am afraid she is not a good
child at all. I am afraid she is not taught well at home. I try hard to
be gentle and patient with her. I am a little displeased with myself
to-day, so I have lectured you. There! I have made my confession. But,'
she added, taking one of his hands in both hers and reddening, 'you
must go away. You must not be idle. You will gain everything. '

As she stood there with bright eyes, the light of evening about her,
Sherman for perhaps the first time saw how beautiful she was, and was
flattered by her interest. For the first time also her presence did not
make him at peace with the world.

'Will you be an obedient pupil? '

'You know so much more than I do,' he answered, 'and are so much wiser.
I will write to my uncle and agree to his offer. '

'Now you must go home,' she said. 'You must not keep your mother
waiting for her tea. There! I have raked the fire out. We must not
forget to lock the door behind us. '

As they stood on the doorstep the wind blew a whirl of dead leaves
about them.

'They are my old thoughts,' he said; 'see, they are all withered. '

They walked together silently. At the vicarage he left her and went
homeward.

The deserted flour-store at the corner of two roads, the house that
had been burnt hollow ten years before and still lifted its blackened
beams, the straggling and leafless fruit-trees rising above garden
walls, the church where he was christened--these foster-mothers of his
infancy seemed to nod and shake their heads over him.

'Mother,' he said, hurriedly entering the room, 'we are going to
London. '

'As you wish. I always knew you would be a rolling stone,' she
answered, and went out to tell the servant that as soon as she had
finished the week's washing they must pack up everything, for they were
going to London.

'Yes, we must pack up,' said the old peasant; she did not stop peeling
the onion in her hand--she had not comprehended. In the middle of the
night she suddenly started up in bed with a pale face and a prayer to
the Virgin whose image hung over her head--she had now comprehended.


IV

On January the 5th, about two in the afternoon, Sherman sat on the
deck of the steamer _Lavinia_ enjoying a period of sunshine between
two showers. The steamer _Lavinia_ was a cattle-boat. It had been his
wish to travel by some more expensive route, but his mother, with
her old-fashioned ideas of duty, would not hear of it, and now, as
he foresaw, was extremely uncomfortable below, while he, who was a
good sailor, was pretty happy on deck, and would have been quite so
if the pigs would only tire of their continual squealing. With the
exception of a very dirty old woman sitting by a crate of geese, all
the passengers but himself were below. This old woman made the journey
monthly with geese for the Liverpool market.

Sherman was dreaming. He began to feel very desolate, and commenced
a letter to Mary Carton in his notebook to state this fact. He was
a laborious and unpractised writer, and found it helped him to make
a pencil copy. Sometimes he stopped and watched the puffin sleeping
on the waves. Each one of them had its head tucked in in a somewhat
different way. 'That is because their characters are different,' he
thought.

Gradually he began to notice a great many corks floating by, one after
the other. The old woman saw them too, and said, waking out of a half
sleep: 'Misther John Sherman, we will be in the Mersey before evening.
Why are ye goin' among them savages in London, Misther John? Why don't
ye stay among your own people--for what have we in this life but a
mouthful of air? '


SECOND PART

MARGARET LELAND


I

Sherman and his mother rented a small house on the north side of St.
Peter's Square, Hammersmith. The front windows looked out on to the
old rank and green square, the windows behind on to a little patch
of garden round which the houses gathered and pressed as though they
already longed to trample it out. In this garden was a single tall pear
tree that never bore fruit.

Three years passed by without any notable event. Sherman went every day
to his office in Tower Hill Street, abused his work a great deal, and
was not unhappy perhaps. He was probably a bad clerk, but then nobody
was very exacting with the nephew of the head of the firm.

The firm of Sherman and Saunders, ship-brokers, was a long-established,
old-fashioned house. Saunders had been dead some years and old Michael
Sherman ruled alone--an old bachelor full of family pride and pride
in his wealth. He lived, for all that, in a very simple fashion. His
mahogany furniture was a little solider than other people's perhaps.
He did not understand display. Display finds its excuse in some taste
good or bad, and in a long industrious life Michael Sherman had never
found leisure to form one. He seemed to live only from habit. Year by
year he grew more silent, gradually ceasing to regard anything but his
family and his ships. His family were represented by his nephew and his
nephew's mother. He did not feel much affection for them. He believed
in his family--that was all. To remind him of the other goal of his
thoughts hung round his private office pictures with such inscriptions
as 'S. S. _Indus_ at the Cape of Good Hope,' 'The barque _Mary_ in the
Mozambique Channel,' 'The barque _Livingstone_ at Port Said,' and
many more. Every rope was drawn accurately with a ruler, and here and
there were added distant vessels sailing proudly by with all that
indifference to perspective peculiar to the drawings of sailors. On
every ship was the flag of the firm spread out to show the letters.

No man cared for old Michael Sherman. Every one liked John. Both were
silent, but the young man had sometimes a talkative fit. The old man
lived for his ledger, the young man for his dreams.

In spite of all these differences, the uncle was on the whole pleased
with the nephew. He noticed a certain stolidity that was of the family.
It sometimes irritated others. It pleased him. He saw a hundred
indications besides that made him say, 'He is a true Sherman. We
Shermans begin that way and give up frivolity as we grow old. We are
all the same in the end. '

* * * * *

Mrs. Sherman and her son had but a small round of acquaintances--a few
rich people, clients of the house of Sherman and Saunders for the most
part. Among these was a Miss Margaret Leland who lived with her mother,
the widow of the late Henry Leland, ship-broker, on the eastern side
of St. Peter's Square. Their house was larger than the Shermans', and
noticeable among its fellows by the newly-painted hall-door. Within
on every side were bronzes and china vases and heavy curtains. In all
were displayed the curious and vagrant taste of Margaret Leland: the
rich Italian and mediaeval draperies of pre-Raphaelite taste jostling
the brightest and vulgarest products of more native and Saxon
schools; vases of the most artistic shape and colour side by side
with artificial flowers and stuffed birds. This house belonged to the
Lelands. They had bought it in less prosperous days, and having altered
it according to their taste and the need of their growing welfare could
not decide to leave it.

Sherman was an occasional caller at the Lelands, and had certainly a
liking, though not a very deep one, for Margaret.
As yet he knew little
more about her than that she wore the most fascinating hats, that the
late Lord Lytton was her favourite author, and that she hated frogs. It
is clear that she did not know that a French writer on magic says the
luxurious and extravagant hate frogs because they are cold, solitary,
and dreary. Had she done so, she would have been more cautious about
revealing her tastes.

For the rest, John Sherman was forgetting the town of Ballah. He
corresponded indeed with Mary Carton, but his laborious letter-writing
made his letters fewer and fewer. Sometimes, too, he heard from Howard,
who had a curacy at Glasgow and was on indifferent terms with his
parishioners. They objected to his way of conducting the services.
His letters were full of it. He would not give in, he said, whatever
happened. His conscience was involved.


II

One afternoon Mrs. Leland called on Mrs. Sherman. She very often
called--this fat, sentimental woman, moving in the midst of a cloud
of scent. The day was warm, and she carried her too elaborate and
heavy dress as a large caddis-fly drags its case with much labour and
patience. She sat down on the sofa with obvious relief, leaning so
heavily among the cushions that a clothes-moth fluttered out of an
antimacassar, to be knocked down and crushed by Mrs. Sherman, who was
very quick in her movements.

As soon as she found her breath, Mrs. Leland began a long history of
her sorrows. Her daughter Margaret had been jilted and was in despair,
had taken to her bed with every resolution to die, and was growing
paler and paler. The hard-hearted man, though she knew he had heard,
did not relent. She knew he had heard because her daughter had told his
sister all about it, and his sister had no heart, because she said it
was temper that ailed Margaret, and she was a little vixen, and that
if she had not flirted with everybody the engagement would never have
been broken off. But Mr. Sims had no heart clearly, as Miss Marriot and
Mrs. Eliza Taylor, her daughter's friends, said, when they heard, and
Lock, the butler, said the same too, and Mary Young, the housemaid,
said so too--and she knew all about it, for Margaret used to read his
letters to her often when having her hair brushed.

'She must have been very fond of him,' said Mrs. Sherman.

'She is so romantic, my dear,' answered Mrs. Leland, with a sigh. 'I am
afraid she takes after an uncle on her father's side, who wrote poetry
and wore a velvet jacket and ran away with an Italian countess who used
to get drunk. When I married Mr. Leland people said he was not worthy
of me, and that I was throwing myself away--and he in business, too!
But Margaret is so romantic. There was Mr. Walters, a gentleman-farmer,
and Simpson who had a jeweller's shop--I never approved of him! --and
Mr. Samuelson, and the Hon. William Scott. She tired of them all except
the Hon. William Scott, who tired of her because someone told him she
put belladonna in her eyes--and it is not true; and now there is Mr.
Sims! ' She then cried a little, and allowed herself to be consoled by
Mrs. Sherman.

'You talk so intelligently and are so well informed,' she said at
parting. 'I have made a very pleasant call,' and the caddis-worm toiled
upon its way, arriving in time at other cups of tea.


III

The day after Mrs. Leland's call upon his mother, John Sherman,
returning home after his not very lengthy day in the office, saw
Margaret coming towards him. She had a lawn-tennis racket under her
arm, and was walking slowly on the shady side of the road. She was a
pretty girl with quite irregular features, who though not really more
than pretty, had so much manner, so much of an air, that every one
called her a beauty: a trefoil with the fragrance of a rose.

'Mr. Sherman,' she cried, coming smiling to meet him, 'I have been ill,
but could not stand the house any longer. I am going to the Square to
play tennis. Will you come with me? '

'I am a bad player,' he said.

'Of course you are,' she answered; 'but you are the only person under a
hundred to be found this afternoon. How dull life is! ' she continued,
with a sigh. 'You heard how ill I have been? What do you do all day? '

'I sit at a desk, sometimes writing, and sometimes, when I get lazy,
looking up at the flies. There are fourteen on the plaster of the
ceiling over my head. They died two winters ago. I sometimes think to
have them brushed off, but they have been there so long now I hardly
like to. '

'Ah! you like them,' she said, 'because you are accustomed to them. In
most cases there is not much more to be said for our family affections,
I think. '

'In a room close at hand,' he went on, 'there is, you know, Uncle
Michael, who never speaks. '

'Precisely. You have an uncle who never speaks; I have a mother who
never is silent. She went to see Mrs. Sherman the other day. What did
she say to her? '

'Nothing. '

'Really! What a dull thing existence is! '--this with a great sigh.
'When the Fates are weaving our web of life some mischievous goblin
always runs off with the dye-pot. Everything is dull and grey. Am I
looking a little pale? I have been so very ill. '

'A little bit pale, perhaps,' he said, doubtfully.

The Square gate brought them to a stop. It was locked, but she had the
key. The lock was stiff, but turned easily for John Sherman.

'How strong you are,' she said.

It was an iridescent evening of spring. The leaves of the bushes had
still their faint green. As Margaret darted about at the tennis, a red
feather in her cap seemed to rejoice with its wearer. Everything was at
once gay and tranquil. The whole world had that unreal air it assumes
at beautiful moments, as though it might vanish at a touch like an
iridescent soap-bubble.

After a little Margaret said she was tired, and, sitting on a
garden-seat among the bushes, began telling him the plots of novels
lately read by her. Suddenly she cried: 'The novel-writers were all
serious people like you. They are so hard on people like me. They
always make us come to a bad end. They _say_ we are always acting,
acting, acting; and what else do you serious people do? You act before
the world. I think, do you know, _we_ act before ourselves. All the
old foolish kings and queens in history were like us. They laughed and
beckoned and went to the block for no very good purpose. I daresay the
headsmen were like you. '

'We would never cut off so pretty a head. '

'Oh, yes, you would--you would cut off mine to-morrow. ' All this she
said vehemently, piercing him with her bright eyes. 'You would cut off
my head to-morrow,' she repeated, almost fiercely; 'I tell you you
would. '

Her departure was always unexpected, her moods changed with so much
rapidity. 'Look! ' she said, pointing where the clock on St. Peter's
church showed above the bushes. 'Five minutes to five. In five minutes
my mother's tea-hour. It is like growing old. I go to gossip. Good-bye. '

The red feather shone for a moment among the bushes and was gone.


IV

The next day and the day after, Sherman was followed by those bright
eyes. When he opened a letter at his desk they seemed to gaze at him
from the open paper, and to watch him from the flies upon the ceiling.
He was even a worse clerk than usual.

One evening he said to his mother, 'Miss Leland has beautiful eyes. '

'My dear, she puts belladonna in them. '

'What a thing to say! '

'I know she does, though her mother denies it. '

'Well, she is certainly beautiful,' he answered.

'My dear, if she has an attraction for you, I don't want to discourage
it. She is rich as girls go nowadays; and one woman has one fault,
another another: one's untidy, one fights with her servants, one fights
with her friends, another has a crabbed tongue when she talks of them. '

Sherman became again silent, finding no fragment of romance in such a
discourse.

In the next week or two he saw much of Miss Leland. He met her almost
every evening on his return from the office, walking slowly, her racket
under her arm. They played tennis much and talked more. Sherman began
to play tennis in his dreams. Miss Leland told him all about herself,
her friends, her inmost feelings; and yet every day he knew less about
her. It was not merely that saying everything she said nothing, but
that continually there came through her wild words the sound of the
mysterious flutes and viols of that unconscious nature which dwells
so much nearer to woman than to man. How often do we not endow the
beautiful and candid with depth and mystery not their own? We do not
know that we but hear in their voices those flutes and viols playing to
us of the alluring secret of the world.

Sherman had never known in early life what is called first love, and
now, when he had passed thirty, it came to him--that love more of the
imagination than of either the senses or affections: it was mainly the
eyes that followed him.

It is not to be denied that as this love grew serious it grew
mercenary. Now active, now latent, the notion had long been in
Sherman's mind, as we know, that he should marry money. A born
lounger, riches tempted him greatly. When those eyes haunted him from
the fourteen flies on the ceiling, he would say, 'I should be rich;
I should have a house in the country; I should hunt and shoot, and
have a garden and three gardeners; I should leave this abominable
office. ' Then the eyes became even more beautiful. It was a new kind of
belladonna.

He shrank a little, however, from choosing even this pleasant pathway.
He had planned many futures for himself and learnt to love them all. It
was this that had made him linger on at Ballah for so long, and it was
this that now kept him undecided. He would have to give up the universe
for a garden and three gardeners. How sad it was to make substantial
even the best of his dreams. How hard it was to submit to that
decree which compels every step we take in life to be a death in the
imagination. How difficult it was to be so enwrapped in this one new
hope as not to hear the lamentations that were going on in dim corners
of his mind.

One day he resolved to propose. He examined himself in the glass in
the morning; and for the first time in his life smiled to see how
good-looking he was. In the evening before leaving the office he
peered at himself in the mirror over the mantlepiece in the room where
customers were received. The sun was blazing through the window full on
his face. He did not look so well. Immediately all courage left him.

That evening he went out after his mother had gone to bed and walked
far along the towing-path of the Thames. A faint mist half covered
away the houses and factory chimneys on the further side; beside him
a band of osiers swayed softly, the deserted and full river lapping
their stems. He looked on all these things with foreign eyes. He had no
sense of possession. Indeed it seemed to him that everything in London
was owned by too many to be owned by anyone. Another river that he
did seem to possess flowed through his memory with all its familiar
sights--boys riding in the stream to the saddle-girths, fish leaping,
water-flies raising their small ripples, a swan asleep, the wallflowers
growing on the red brick of the margin. He grew very sad. Suddenly
a shooting star, fiery and vagabond, leaped from the darkness. It
brought his mind again in a moment to Margaret Leland. To marry her, he
thought, was to separate himself from the old life he loved so well.

Crossing the river at Putney, he hurried homewards among the
market-gardens. Nearing home, the streets were deserted, the shops
closed. Where King Street joins the Broadway, entirely alone with
itself, in the very centre of the road a little black cat was leaping
after its shadow.

'Ah! ' he thought, 'it would be a good thing to be a little black cat.
To leap about in the moonlight and sleep in the sunlight, and catch
flies, to have no hard tasks to do or hard decisions to come to, to be
simple and full of animal spirits. '

At the corner of Bridge Road was a coffee-stall, the only sign of human
life. He bought some cold meat and flung it to the little black cat.


V

Some more days went by. At last, one day, arriving at the Square
somewhat earlier than usual, and sitting down to wait for Margaret on
the seat among the bushes, he noticed the pieces of a torn-up letter
lying about. Beside him on the seat was a pencil, as though someone had
been writing there and left it behind them. The pencil-lead was worn
very short. The letter had been torn up, perhaps in a fit of impatience.

In a half-mechanical way he glanced over the scraps. On one of them
he read: 'MY DEAR ELIZA,--What an incurable gossip my mother is. You
heard of my misfortune. I nearly died----' Here he had to search among
the scraps; at last he found one that seemed to follow. 'Perhaps you
will hear news from me soon. There is a handsome young man who pays me
attention, and----' Here another piece had to be found. 'I would take
him though he had a face like the man in the moon, and limped like the
devil at the theatre. Perhaps I am a little in love. Oh! friend of
my heart--' Here it broke off again. He was interested, and searched
the grass and the bushes for fragments. Some had been blown to quite
a distance. He got together several sentences now. 'I will not spend
another winter with my mother for anything. All this is, of course, a
secret. I had to tell somebody; secrets are bad for my health. Perhaps
it will all come to nothing. ' Then the letter went off into dress, the
last novel the writer had read, and so forth. A Miss Sims, too, was
mentioned, who had said some unkind thing of the writer.

Sherman was greatly amused. It did not seem to him wrong to read--we do
not mind spying on one of the crowd, any more than on the personages of
literature. It never occurred to him that he, or any friend of his, was
concerned in these pencil scribblings.

Suddenly he saw this sentence: 'Heigho! your poor Margaret is falling
in love again; condole with her, my dear. '

He started.