There was no topic on which Sidney was more desirous of speaking with Jane than this which now occupied both their minds.  How far she understood Clara’s story, and his part in it, he had no knowledge; for between Snowdon and himself there had long been absolute silence on that matter.  It was not improbable that Jane had been instructed in the truth; he hoped she had not been left to gather what she could from Clem Peckover’s gossip.  Yet the difficulty with which be found himself beset, now that an obvious opportunity offered for frank speech, was so great that, after a few struggles, he fell back on the reflection with which he was wont to soothe himself:  Jane was still so young, and the progress of time, by confirming her knowledge of him, would make it all the simpler to explain the miserable past.  Had he, in fact, any right to relate this story, to seek her sympathy in that direct way?  It was one aspect of a very grave question which occupied more and more of Sidney’s thought.

With an effort, he turned the dialogue into quite a new direction, and Jane, though a little absent for some minutes, seemed at length to forget the abruptness of the change.  Sidney had of late been resuming his old interest in pencil. work; two or three of his drawings hung on these walls, and he spoke of making new sketches when he next went into the country.  Years ago, one of his favourite excursions—­of the longer ones which he now and then allowed himself—­was to Danbury Hill, some five miles to the east of Chelmsford, one of the few pieces of rising ground in Essex, famous for its view over Maldon and the estuary of the Blackwater.  Thither Snowdon and Jane accompanied him during the last summer but one, and the former found so much pleasure in the place that he took lodgings with certain old friends of Sidney’s, and gave his granddaughter a week of healthful holiday.  In the summer that followed, the lodgings were again taken for a week, and this year the same expedition was in view.  Sidney had as good as promised that he would join his friends for the whole time of their absence, and now he talked with Jane of memories and anticipations.  Neither was sensible how the quarters and the half-hours went by in such chatting.  Sidney abandoned himself to the enjoyment of peace such as he had never known save m this room, to a delicious restfulness such as was always inspired in him by the girl’s gentle voice, by her laughter, by her occasional quiet movements.  The same influence was affecting his whole life.  To Jane he owed the gradual transition from tumultuous politics and social bitterness to the mood which could find pleasure as of old in nature and art.  This was his truer self, emancipated from the distorting effect of the evil amid which he perforce lived.  He was recovering somewhat of his spontaneous boyhood; at the same time, reaching after a new ideal of existence which only ripened manhood could appreciate.

Snowdon returned at eleven; it alarmed Sidney to find how late he had allowed himself to remain, and he began shaping apologies.  But the old man had nothing but the familiar smile and friendly words.