“Oh!  Look, Frank!  A grave!”

By the side of the road, where the track from the top of the common crossed it at right angles and ran through a gate past the narrow wood, was a thin mound of turf, six feet by one, with a moorstone to the west, and on it someone had thrown a blackthorn spray and a handful of bluebells.  Ashurst looked, and the poet in him moved.  At cross-roads—­a suicide’s grave!  Poor mortals with their superstitions!  Whoever lay there, though, had the best of it, no clammy sepulchre among other hideous graves carved with futilities—­just a rough stone, the wide sky, and wayside blessings!  And, without comment, for he had learned not to be a philosopher in the bosom of his family, he strode away up on to the common, dropped the luncheon basket under a wall, spread a rug for his wife to sit on—­she would turn up from her sketching when she was hungry—­and took from his pocket Murray’s translation of the “Hippolytus.”  He had soon finished reading of “The Cyprian” and her revenge, and looked at the sky instead.  And watching the white clouds so bright against the intense blue, Ashurst, on his silver-wedding day, longed for—­he knew not what.  Maladjusted to life—­man’s organism!  One’s mode of life might be high and scrupulous, but there was always an, undercurrent of greediness, a hankering, and sense of waste.  Did women have it too?  Who could tell?  And yet, men who gave vent to their appetites for novelty, their riotous longings for new adventures, new risks, new pleasures, these suffered, no doubt, from the reverse side of starvation, from surfeit.  No getting out of it—­a maladjusted animal, civilised man!  There could be no garden of his choosing, of “the Apple-tree, the singing, and the gold,” in the words of that lovely Greek chorus, no achievable elysium in life, or lasting haven of happiness for any man with a sense of beauty—­nothing which could compare with the captured loveliness in a work of art, set down for ever, so that to look on it or read was always to have the same precious sense of exaltation and restful inebriety.  Life no doubt had moments with that quality of beauty, of unbidden flying rapture, but the trouble was, they lasted no longer than the span of a cloud’s flight over the sun; impossible to keep them with you, as Art caught beauty and held it fast.  They were fleeting as one of the glimmering or golden visions one had of the soul in nature, glimpses of its remote and brooding spirit.  Here, with the sun hot on his face, a cuckoo calling from a thorn tree, and in the air the honey savour of gorse—­here among the little fronds of the young fern, the starry blackthorn, while the bright clouds drifted by high above the hills and dreamy valleys here and now was such a glimpse.  But in a moment it would pass—­as the face of Pan, which looks round the corner of a rock, vanishes at your stare.  And suddenly he sat up.  Surely there was something familiar about this view, this bit of common, that ribbon of