Waymark's mood was bitter, but, in spite of himself, it was no
longer cynical. He could not indulge himself in that pessimistic
scepticism which had aided him in bearing his poverty, and the
restless craving of sense and spirit which had accompanied it. His
enthusiasm for art was falling away; as a faith it had failed him in
his hour of need. In its stead another faith had come to him, a
faith which he felt to be all-powerful, and the sole stay of a man's
life amid the shifting shadows of intellectual creeds. And it had
been revealed too late. Led by perverse motives, now no longer
intelligible, he had reached a goal of mere frustration; between him
and the true end of his being there was a great gulf fixed.
To Ida, in the meanwhile, these weeks of early summer were bringing
health of body and cheerfulness of mind. She spent very much of her
time in the open air. Whenever it was possible she and Miss Hurst
took their books out into the garden, and let the shadows of the
rose-bushes mark the hours for them. Ida's natural vigour throve on
the strength-giving properties of sun and breeze the last traces of
unwholesome pallor passed from her face, and exercise sent her home
flushed like the dawn.
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