“Certainly,” said Kenelm, with an emphasis
which startled the merchant. “That is an
admirable maxim of yours: it seems a commonplace,
yet how often, when it is put into our heads, it strikes
as a novelty! A duty may be a very difficult thing,
a very disagreeable thing, and, what is strange, it
is often a very invisible thing. It is present,—close
before us, and yet we don’t see it; somebody
shouts its name in our ears, ‘Duty,’ and
straight it towers before us a grim giant. Pardon
me if I leave you: I can’t stay to dine.
Duty summons me elsewhere. Make my excuses to
Mrs. Braefield.”
Before Mr. Braefield could recover his self-possession,
Kenelm had vaulted over a stile and was gone.
KENELM walked into the shop kept by the Somerses,
and found Jessie still at the counter. “Give
me back my knap sack. Thank you,” he said,
flinging the knapsack across his shoulders. “Now,
do me a favour. A portmanteau of mine ought to
be at the station. Send for it, and keep it till
I give further directions. I think of going to
Oxford for a day or two. Mrs. Somers, one more
word with you. Think, answer frankly, are you,
as you said this morning, thoroughly happy, and yet
married to the man you loved?”
“Oh, so happy!”
“And wish for nothing beyond? Do not wish
Will to be other than he is?”
“God forbid! You frighten me, sir.”
“Frighten you! Be it so. Everyone
who is happy should be frightened lest happiness fly
away. Do your best to chain it, and you will,
for you attach Duty to Happiness; and,” muttered
Kenelm, as he turned from the shop, “Duty is
sometimes not a rose-coloured tie, but a heavy iron-hued
clog.”
He strode on through the street towards the sign-post
with “To Oxford” inscribed thereon.
And whether he spoke literally of the knapsack, or
metaphorically of duty, he murmured, as he strode,—
“A pedlar’s pack that bows the bearer
down.”
KENELM might have reached Oxford that night, for he
was a rapid and untirable pedestrian; but he halted
a little after the moon rose, and laid himself down
to rest beneath a new-mown haystack, not very far
from the high road.
He did not sleep. Meditatingly propped on his
elbow, he said to himself,—
“It is long since I have wondered at nothing.
I wonder now: can this be love,—really
love,—unmistakably love? Pooh! it is
impossible; the very last person in the world to be
in love with. Let us reason upon it,—you,
myself, and I. To begin with,—face!
What is face? In a few years the most beautiful
face may be very plain. Take the Venus at Florence.
Animate her; see her ten years after; a chignon, front
teeth (blue or artificially white), mottled complexion,
double chin,—all that sort of plump prettiness
goes into double chin. Face, bah! What man
