Never in the Honourable Hilary’s long, laborious, and preeminently model existence had he realized that happiness is harmony.  It would not be true to assert that, on this wonderful June day, a glimmering of this truth dawned upon him.  Such a statement would be open to the charge of exaggeration, and his frame of mind was pessimistic.  But he had got so far as to ask himself the question,—­Cui bono? and repeated it several times on his drive, until a verse of Scripture came, unbidden, to his lips.  “For what hate man of all his labour, and of the vexation of his heart, wherein he hath laboured under the sun?” and “there is one event unto all.”  Austen’s saying, that he had never learned how to enjoy life, he remembered, too.  What had Austen meant by that?

Hitherto Hilary Vane had never failed of self-justification in any event which had befallen him; and while this consciousness of the rectitude of his own attitude had not made him happier, there had been a certain grim pleasure in it.  To the fact that he had ruined, by sheer over-righteousness, the last years of the sunny life of Sarah Austen he had been oblivious—­until to-day.  The strange, retrospective mood which had come over him this afternoon led his thoughts into strange paths, and he found himself wondering if, after all, it had not been in his power to make her happier.  Her dryad-like face, with its sweet, elusive smile, seemed to peer at him now wistfully out of the forest, and suddenly a new and startling thought rose up within him—­after six and thirty years.  Perhaps she had belonged in the forest!  Perhaps, because he had sought to cage her, she had pined and died!  The thought gave Hilary unwonted pain, and he strove to put it away from him; but memories such as these, once aroused, are not easily set at rest, and he bent his head as he recalled (with a new and significant pathos) those hopeless and pitiful flights into the wilds she loved.

Now Austen had gone.  Was there a Law behind these actions of mother and son which he had persisted in denouncing as vagaries?  Austen was a man:  a man, Hilary could not but see, who had the respect of his fellows, whose judgment and talents were becoming recognized.  Was it possible that he, Hilary Vane, could have been one of those referred to by the Preacher?  During the week which had passed since Austen’s departure the house in Hanover Street had been haunted for Hilary.  The going of his son had not left a mere void,—­that would have been pain enough.  Ghosts were there, ghosts which he could but dimly feel and see, and more than once, in the long evenings, he had taken to the streets to avoid them.

In that week Hilary’s fear of meeting his son in the street or in the passages of the building had been equalled by a yearning to see him.  Every morning, at the hour Austen was wont to drive Pepper to the Ripton House stables across the square, Hilary had contrived to be standing near his windows—­a little back, and out of sight.  And—­stranger still!—­he had turned from these glimpses to the reports of the Honourable Brush Bascom and his associates with a distaste he had never felt before.