CHAPTER III. HOLIDAY
Jasper's favourite walk led him to a spot distant perhaps a mile
and a half from home. From a tract of common he turned into a
short lane which crossed the Great Western railway, and thence by
a stile into certain meadows forming a compact little valley. One
recommendation of this retreat was that it lay sheltered from all
winds; to Jasper a wind was objectionable. Along the bottom ran
a clear, shallow stream, overhung with elder and hawthorn bushes; and close by the wooden bridge which spanned it was a great ash tree, making shadow for cows and sheep when the sun lay hot upon the open field. It was rare for anyone to come along this path, save farm labourers morning and evening.
But to-day—the afternoon that followed his visit to John Yule's
house—he saw from a distance that his lounging-place on the
wooden bridge was occupied. Someone else had discovered the
pleasure there was in watching the sun-flecked sparkle of the
water as it flowed over the clean sand and stones. A girl in a
yellow-straw hat; yes, and precisely the person he had hoped, at
the first glance, that it might be. He made no haste as he drew
nearer on the descending path. At length his footstep was heard; Marian Yule turned her head and clearly recognised him.
She assumed an upright position, letting one of her hands rest
upon the rail. After the exchange of ordinary greetings, Jasper
leaned back against the same support and showed himself disposed
for talk.
'When I was here late in the spring,' he said, 'this ash was only
just budding, though everything else seemed in full leaf.'
'An ash, is it?' murmured Marian. 'I didn't know. I think an oak
is the only tree I can distinguish. Yet,' she added quickly, 'I
knew that the ash was late; some lines of Tennyson come to my
memory.'
'Which are those?'
'Delaying, as the tender ash delays
To clothe herself when all the woods are green,
somewhere in the "Idylls."'
'I don't remember; so I won't pretend to—though I should do so
as a rule.'
She looked at him oddly, and seemed about to laugh, yet did not.
'You have had little experience of the country?' Jasper
continued.
'Very little. You, I think, have known it from childhood?'
'In a sort of way. I was born in Wattleborough, and my people
have always lived here. But I am not very rural in temperament. I
have really no friends here; either they have lost interest in
me, or I in them. What do you think of the girls, my sisters?'
The question, though put with perfect simplicity, was
embarrassing.
'They are tolerably intellectual,' Jasper went on, when he saw
that it would be difficult for her to answer. 'I want to persuade
them to try their hands at literary work of some kind or other. They give lessons, and both hate it.'
'Would literary work be less—burdensome?' said Marian, without
looking at him.
'Rather more so, you think?'
She hesitated.
'It depends, of course, on—on several things.'
'To be sure,' Jasper agreed. 'I don't think they have any marked
faculty for such work; but as they certainly haven't for
teaching, that doesn't matter. It's a question of learning a
business. I am going through my apprenticeship, and find it a
long affair. Money would shorten it, and, unfortunately, I have
none.'
'Yes,' said Marian, turning her eyes upon the stream, 'money is a
help in everything.'
'Without it, one spends the best part of one's life in toiling
for that first foothold which money could at once purchase. To
have money is becoming of more and more importance in a literary
career; principally because to have money is to have friends. Year by year, such influence grows of more account. A lucky man will still occasionally succeed by dint of his own honest perseverance, but the chances are dead against anyone who can't make private interest with influential people; his work is simply overwhelmed by that of the men who have better opportunities.'