And that wistfulness rather strangely enlarged its meaning and area, as the reiterated ting, tang, tong of Deadham’s church bells recalled the object of her walk.  For English church services, of the parochial variety such as awaited her, had but little, she feared, to give.  Little, that is, towards the re-living of those instants of exalted spiritual perception which had been granted to her at distant Avila.

In overstrained and puritanic dread of idolatory, the English Church has gone lamentably far to forfeit its sacramental birthright.  It savours too strongly of the school and class-room, basing its appeal upon words, upon spoken expositions, instructive no doubt, but cold, academic.  It offers no tangible object of worship to sight or sense.  Its so-called altars are empty.  Upon them no sacrifice is offered, no presence abidingly dwells.  In its teaching the communion of saints and forgiveness of sins are phrases rather than living agencies.  Its atmosphere is self-conscious, its would-be solemnity forced.—­This, in any case, was how Damaris saw the whole matter—­though, let us hasten to add, she was modest enough to question whether the fault might not very well be in herself rather than in our national variant of the Christian Faith.  Many sweet, good persons—­dear Aunt Felicia among them—­appeared to find Anglican ministrations altogether sufficient for their religious needs.  But to Damaris those ministrations failed to bring any moment of vision, of complete detachment.  She must be to blame, she supposed—­which was discouraging, a little outcasting and consequently sad.

In a somewhat pensive spirit she therefore, pursued her way, until, where the prospect widened as she reached the village green, a larger sky disclosed itself flaked with light cirrus cloud.  This glory of space, and the daring northerly breeze blowing out from it, sent her fancy flying.  It beckoned to journeyings, to far coasts and unknown seas—­an offshore wind, filling the sails of convoys outward bound.  And, with the thought of ships upon the sea, came the thought of Darcy Faircloth, and that with sharp revolt against the many existing hindrances to his and her intercourse.  Freedom seemed abroad this morning.  Even the leaves declared for liberty, courting individual adventure upon the wings of that daring wind.  And this sense of surrounding activity worked upon Damaris, making her doubly impatient of denials and arbitrary restraints.  She sent her soul after Darcy Faircloth across the waste of waters, fondly, almost fiercely seeking him.  But her soul refused to travel, curiously turning homeward again, as though aware not the prodigious fields of ocean, nor any loud-voiced foreign port of call, held knowledge of him, but rather the immediate scene, the silver-glinting levels of the Haven and lonely stone-built inn.