Jane stood with one hand on the low wall, half-turned to him, but her face bent downwards. Regarding her for what seemed a long time, Sidney felt as though the fragrance of the earth and the flowers were mingling with his blood and confusing him with emotions. At the same his tongue was paralysed. Frequently of late he had known a timidity in Jane’s presence, which prevented him from meeting her eyes, and now this tremor came upon him with painful intensity. He knew to what his last words had tended; it was with consciousness of a distinct purpose that he had led the conversation to Clara; but now he was powerless to speak the words his heart prompted. Of a sudden he experienced a kind of shame, the result of comparison between himself and the simple girl who stood before him; she was so young, and the memory of passions from which he had suffered years ago affected him with a sense of unworthiness, almost of impurity. Jane had come to be his ideal of maidenhood, but till this moment he had not understood the full significance of the feeling with which he regarded her. He could not transform with a word their relations to each other. The temptation of the hour had hurried him towards an end which he must approach with more thought, more preparation of himself. It was scarcely for ten heart-beats. Then Jane raised her eyes and said in a voice that trembled: ‘I’ve often wished I could see her again, and thank her for her kindness that night.’ ‘That will help me to think with less pain of things that are long since over and done with,’ Sidney replied, forcing himself to speak firmly. ‘We can’t alter the past, Jane, but we can try to remember only the best part of it. You, I hope, very seldom look back at all.’ ‘Grandfather wishes me never to forget it. He often says that.’ ‘Does he? I think I understand.’ Jane drew down a branch and laid the broad cool leaves against her cheek; releasing it, she moved in the direction of the house. Her companion followed with slow step, his head bent. Before they came to the door Jane drew his attention to a bat that was sweeping duskily above their heads; she began to speak with her wonted cheerfulness. ‘How I should like Pennyloaf to be here! I wonder what she’d think of it?’ At the door they bade each other good-night. Sidney took yet a few turns in the garden before entering. But that it would have seemed to the Pammenters a crazy proceeding, he would have gladly struck away over the fields and walked for hours. CHAPTER XX A VISION OF NOBLE THINGS