carried to some higher pitch, in which facts were transformed
by the more vivid light in which they were seen.
He seemed to see things more profoundly through the
grave eyes of those dead noblemen of Castile; and
the gestures of the saints, which at first had seemed
wild and distorted, appeared to have some mysterious
significance. But he could not tell what that
significance was. It was like a message which
it was very important for him to receive, but it was
given him in an unknown tongue, and he could not understand.
He was always seeking for a meaning in life, and here
it seemed to him that a meaning was offered; but it
was obscure and vague. He was profoundly troubled.
He saw what looked like the truth as by flashes of
lightning on a dark, stormy night you might see a mountain
range. He seemed to see that a man need not leave
his life to chance, but that his will was powerful;
he seemed to see that self-control might be as passionate
and as active as the surrender to passion; he seemed
to see that the inward life might be as manifold,
as varied, as rich with experience, as the life of
one who conquered realms and explored unknown lands.
LXXXIX
The conversation between Philip and Athelny was broken
into by a clatter up the stairs. Athelny opened
the door for the children coming back from Sunday
school, and with laughter and shouting they came in.
Gaily he asked them what they had learned. Sally
appeared for a moment, with instructions from her
mother that father was to amuse the children while
she got tea ready; and Athelny began to tell them
one of Hans Andersen’s stories. They were
not shy children, and they quickly came to the conclusion
that Philip was not formidable. Jane came and
stood by him and presently settled herself on his
knees. It was the first time that Philip in his
lonely life had been present in a family circle:
his eyes smiled as they rested on the fair children
engrossed in the fairy tale. The life of his new
friend, eccentric as it appeared at first glance,
seemed now to have the beauty of perfect naturalness.
Sally came in once more.
“Now then, children, tea’s ready,”
she said.
Jane slipped off Philip’s knees, and they all
went back to the kitchen. Sally began to lay
the cloth on the long Spanish table.
“Mother says, shall she come and have tea with
you?” she asked. “I can give the
children their tea.”
“Tell your mother that we shall be proud and
honoured if she will favour us with her company,”
said Athelny.
It seemed to Philip that he could never say anything
without an oratorical flourish.
“Then I’ll lay for her,” said Sally.
She came back again in a moment with a tray on which
were a cottage loaf, a slab of butter, and a jar of
strawberry jam. While she placed the things on
the table her father chaffed her. He said it was
quite time she was walking out; he told Philip that
she was very proud, and would have nothing to do with
aspirants to that honour who lined up at the door,
two by two, outside the Sunday school and craved the
honour of escorting her home.
