From Sally’s eager description of the coat and buttons, I concluded
easily that a servant from Vaughan St. Mary had been sent in quest of
me. My father hated showy liveries and loathed hair-powder, but Mr.
Edgar Vaughan returned to the family usages, or rather allowed them to
re-establish themselves; for on such questions he was wholly
indifferent. Now what could be his motive for sending so expressly to
discover me? I knew not, neither cared very greatly, but wrote at once
to Tossil’s Barton, first to return their loving contribution, which
consisted mainly of ancestral relics prized for generations, secondly,
to set free the secret of my address.
Into my own self I returned once more. Somehow I seem to expand
whenever I come in contact with the yeoman’s family, and their lowly
greatness. I am like a worm when it rains, after the drought of summer.
Surely the God, who leaves us to stifle ourselves with the dust of
fashion and convention, has His own gracious times to breathe upon and
scatter it. At intervals we may see through the reek of our own
exuding, and inhale a more bracing air than sleeps in mausoleums. But
instead of being exalted and fed by the open breeze, we shudder at the
draught and replace our respirators.
I returned into myself, and found little comfort there. I do not live
inside myself, as most people live in theirs. True, I am apt to resent
any slight to it offered from the outside. True, I seek its keep and
comfort in a mechanical sort of way. But as for crusting in its bottle,
ripening in its husk, rusting in its watch-case, I have been too long
the toy of wind and weather not to be turned inside out. Never can I
moulder into the fungoid nucleus the British taste admires. And yet
there is about me, if I must not say within me, a stanch cleaving, a
cohesion, a concrete will, which is of genuine Anglo-Saxon fibre. So I
thrust aside all dreams of Tossil’s Barton and Vaughan Park, and certain
wilder sweeter dreams which have begun to flutter and thrill through me,
and in earnest I return to my task of money-making.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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