Wilcox had known him--who barred himself up,and wrote prophecies,and gave all he had to the poor.While,powdered in between,were the villas of business men,who saw life more steadily,though with the steadiness of the half-closed eye.Over all the sun was streaming,to all the birds were singing,to all the primroses were yellow,and the speedwell blue,and the country,however they interpreted her,was uttering her cry of "now."She did not free Leonard yet,and the knife plunged deeper into his heart as the train drew up at Hilton.But remorse had become beautiful.
Hilton was asleep,or at the earliest,breakfasting.
Leonard noticed the contrast when he stepped out of it into the country.
Here men had been up since dawn.Their hours were ruled,not by a London office,but by the movements of the crops and the sun.That they were men of the finest type only the sentimentalist can declare.
But they kept to the life of daylight.They are England's hope.
Clumsily they carry forward the torch of the sun,until such time as the nation sees fit to take it up.Half clodhopper,half board-school prig,they can still throw back to a nobler stock,and breed yeomen.
At the chalk pit a motor passed him.In it was another type,whom Nature favours--the Imperial.Healthy,ever in motion,it hopes to inherit the earth.It breeds as quickly as the yeoman,and as soundly;strong is the temptation to acclaim it as a super-yeoman,who carries his country's virtue overseas.But the Imperialist is not what he thinks or seems.He is a destroyer.
He prepares the way for cosmopolitanism,and though his ambitions may be fulfilled,the earth that he inherits will be grey.
To Leonard,intent on his private sin,there came the conviction of innate goodness elsewhere.It was not the optimism which he had been taught at school.Again and again must the drums tap,and the goblins stalk over the universe before joy can be purged of the superficial.It was rather paradoxical,and arose from his sorrow.
Death destroys a man,but the idea of death saves him--that is the best account of it that has yet been given.Squalor and tragedy can beckon to all that is great in us,and strengthen the wings of love.They can beckon;it is not certain that they will,for they are not love's servants.
But they can beckon,and the knowledge of this incredible truth comforted him.
As he approached the house all thought stopped.
Contradictory notions stood side by side in his mind.He was terrified but happy,ashamed,but had done no sin.He knew the confession:
"Mrs.Wilcox,I have done wrong,"but sunrise had robbed its meaning,and he felt rather on a supreme adventure.
He entered a garden,steadied himself against a motor-car that he found in it,found a door open and entered a house.
Yes,it would be very easy.From a room to the left he heard voices,Margaret's amongst them.His own name was called aloud,and a man whom he had never seen said,"Oh,is he there?I am not surprised.
I now thrash him within an inch of his life.""Mrs.Wilcox,"said Leonard,"I have done wrong."The man took him by the collar and cried,"Bring me a stick."Women were screaming.A stick,very bright,descended.
It hurt him,not where it descended,but in the heart.Books fell over him in a shower.Nothing had sense.
"Get some water,"commanded Charles,who had all through kept very calm."He's shamming.Of course I only used the blade.Here,carry him out into the air."Thinking that he understood these things,Margaret obeyed him.They laid Leonard,who was dead,on the gravel;Helen poured water over him.
"That's enough,"said Charles.
"Yes,murder's enough,"said Miss Avery,coming out of the house with the sword.
