Gabriel unbosomed to her. “The place is like a stagnant pool to me,” he said, “covered with the scum of custom. To doubt, according to our neighbors, is a sin. He who weighs the problems of life is held to be an infidel. We are expected to receive Mr. Mince’s dogmas as the only exposition of all truth and knowledge. To experiment is infamous. We are hedged in with endless axioms as with thorns.” Judith sighed and looked out over the sea. “I fear you will find no rest in Saltire,” she said to him. “Rest! No. Could it be possible? The place cramps and crushes my soul. There is no generosity, no hope, no idealism here. It is as a burial-ground for souls.” “Escape from it.” “Impossible.” “And why?” “What of Ophelia?” They were both silent awhile, as though searching each other’s hearts. The wind tumbled the dead leaves at their feet; the clouds were gray and morose in the winter sky. “Ah, Gabriel, it might have been otherwise.” The man frowned and did not answer her. “What of politics?” she asked him anon. “I have pondered the question.” “You would escape into a wider world—a world of endeavor and strong purpose.” “Better than Saltire.” “Better than mouldering here amid a decaying generation.” “It is the fog of the place that chokes me.” They had passed to the dull green of the meadows and skirted a ragged hedge where dead branches shook in the wind. A path curled from the wood above them, crossed the road that ran by the hedge, and threaded on through ploughed fields towards a thicket of pines. Gabriel and Judith had halted to gaze over the sea. As they turned again towards the west a girl in a green cloak and russet skirt came out from the wood and followed the path that descended towards the lane. She carried her hat in her hand and walked bareheaded in the wind. Passing close to the pair, she glanced at Judith, then at Gabriel, halted a moment, and then hastened on with kindling cheeks over the meadows. It was thus that Gabriel and Joan Gildersedge met once more on the hills above the sea. Judith had glanced unconsciously at her brother’s face. Its expression startled her. His eyes were full of a peculiar brightness, his cheeks afire, his lips parted. The face reminded her of some painting of Dante—Dante gazing upon Beatrice gliding athwart the path of life. “Gabriel.” The man darted a look at her and grew pale suddenly. “What ails you?” she asked, with her hand on his arm. “Nothing.” “Are you ill?” “No.” “The wind is cold; let us go home.” “Yes, let us go home.” XVII