But perhaps the world will shake off its lethargy when the new century begins, and even now there may be smiling in his cradle the Shakespeare whose breath shall blow the embers again into flame. Surely it is simple, natural kindly souls like Mabella and Lanty who perpetuate fidelity, honour and trust upon the earth; and eager, pure, unselfish souls like Sidney Martin who transmit the glorious impetus of aspiration from one generation to another.
It is hands like theirs which crown the years with enduring chaplets, and brush from the brow of the aging century the dishonouring garland of senile sins which are like toadstools, the efflorescence of decay.
Old Mr. Lansing having become better acquainted with Sidney, had ceased to regard him as “company,” and had relapsed comfortably into his own ways. Reading his weekly paper, gossiping with Nathan Peck (who, being the village carpenter, always knew the latest news), and going to bed when the grey died out of the twilight sky.
Vashti and Sidney were thus left much to themselves.
The “odd” horse having effectually lamed herself by stepping on a nail, driving her was out of the question. To break a team upon any frivolous pretext would have been a scandal in Dole, so Vashti and Sidney were kept busy going errands. They went to the post office twice a week; they made pilgrimages out to the far-away hill pastures, where the young cattle grazed, to count them, and report upon the depth of water in the little brown pool where they drank.
What glorious days these were to Sidney; what rapture to stand upon some little eminence with the wind, “austere and pure,” blowing across the valley upon their faces; with Vashti beside him, her eyes meeting his with sweet serenity, or looking vaguely forth far across the country, as if to seek out some haven remote from lesser mortals. So Sidney translated her thoughts, but in the original there was writ only bitter speculation as to whether _they_ were together—if his arm embraced her, if their lips—Ah! it was of no remote haven that woman dreamed.
They gathered great fragrant bunches of spearmint and tansy, smartweed and pennyroyal for Temperance, searching for the scented herbs as children search for joy; and as the memory of childish pleasure lingers long with us, so the perfume of the aromatic herbs clung about Vashti’s garments and Sidney’s sleeves. Never again could Sidney know the wholesome odour of any of these plants without seeing Vashti, her tall figure in its faded blue gown standing straight and strong against the sunlight, with a huge bunch of greyish-green clasped to her breast, above which her face, fit for Burne-Jones’ most mystic, most beautiful maiden, shone out palely. About her was no mystery of birth or circumstance, no halo of romantic environment, but her whole personality was eloquent of mystery, the sphinx-like riddle of sex presented in a new and strongly individualized type.