The yellow book, an illustrated quarterly. Vol. 2, July 1894
General
The yellow book, an illustrated quarterly. Vol. 2, July 1894
English literature -- 19th century -- Periodicals; Great Britain -- Periodicals; Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals
It made me, to begin with, very restless--made me, instead of going
straight to the station, fidget a little about that many-coloured
Common which gives Wimbledon horizons. There was a worry for me to
work off, or rather keep at a distance, for I declined even to admit
to myself that I had, in Miss Anvoy's phrase, been saddled with it.
What could have been clearer indeed than the attitude of recognising
perfectly what a world of trouble the Coxon Fund would in future save
us, and of yet liking better to face a continuance of that trouble
than see, and in fact contribute to, a deviation from attainable bliss
in the life of two other persons in whom I was deeply interested?
Suddenly, at the end of twenty minutes, there was projected across
this clearness the image of a massive, middle-aged man seated on a
bench, under a tree, with sad, far-wandering eyes and plump white
hands folded on the head of a stick--a stick I recognised, a stout
gold-headed staff that I had given him in throbbing days. I stopped
short as he turned his face to me, and it happened that for some
reason or other I took in as I had perhaps never done before the
beauty of his rich blank gaze. It was charged with experience as the
sky is charged with light, and I felt on the instant as if we had been
overspanned and conjoined by the great arch of a bridge or the great
dome of a temple. Doubtless I was rendered peculiarly sensitive to it
by something in the way I had been giving him up and sinking him.
While I met it I stood there smitten, and I felt myself responding to
it with a sort of guilty grimace. This brought back his attention in a
smile which expressed for me a cheerful, weary patience, a bruised
noble gentleness. I had told Miss Anvoy that he had no dignity, but
what did he seem to me, all unbuttoned and fatigued as he waited for
me to come up, if he didn't seem unconcerned with small things, didn't
seem in short majestic? There was majesty in his mere unconsciousness
of our little conferences and puzzlements over his maintenance and his
reward.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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