The morning, whose afternoon was thus stormy, had been fine, and the curate went out for awalk. Had it been just as stormy, however, he would have gone all the same. Not that he was a greatwalker, or, indeed, fond of exercise of any sort, and his walking, as an Irishman might say, was halfsitting-on stiles and stones and fallen trees. He was not in bad health, he was not lazy, or given toself-preservation, but he had little impulse to activity of any sort. The springs in his well of life didnot seem to flow quite fast ...
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The morning, whose afternoon was thus stormy, had been fine, and the curate went out for awalk. Had it been just as stormy, however, he would have gone all the same. Not that he was a greatwalker, or, indeed, fond of exercise of any sort, and his walking, as an Irishman might say, was halfsitting-on stiles and stones and fallen trees. He was not in bad health, he was not lazy, or given toself-preservation, but he had little impulse to activity of any sort. The springs in his well of life didnot seem to flow quite fast enough.He strolled through Osterfield park, and down the deep descent to the river, where, chilly as itwas, he seated himself upon a large stone on the bank, and knew that he was there, and that he hadto answer to Thomas Wingfold; but why he was there, and why he was not called something else, hedid not know. On each side of the stream rose a steeply-sloping bank, on which grew many fernbushes, now half withered, and the sunlight upon them, this November morning, seemed as cold asthe wind that blew about their golden and green fronds. Over a rocky bottom the stream went-talking rather than singing-down the valley towards the town, where it seemed to linger a momentto embrace the old abbey church, before it set out on its leisurely slide through the low level to thesea. Its talk was chilly, and its ripples, which came half from the obstructions in its channel below, and half from the wind that ruffled it above, were not smiles, but wrinkles rather-even in thesunshine. Thomas felt cold himself, but the cold was of the sort that comes from the look ratherthan the feel of things. He did not, however, much care how he felt-not enough, certainly, to havemade him put on a great-coat: he was not deeply interested in himself. With his stick, a very ordinarybit of oak, he kept knocking pebbles into the water, and listlessly watching them splash. The windblew, the sun shone, the water ran, the ferns waved, the clouds went drifting over his head, but henever looked up, or took any notice of the doings of Mother Nature at her house-work: everythingseemed to him to be doing only what it had got to do, because it had got it to do, and not because itcared about it, or had any end in doing it. For he, like every other man, could read nature only by hisown lamp, and this was very much how he had hitherto responded to the demands made upon him.His life had not been a very interesting one, although early passages in it had been painful. He haddone fairly well at Oxford: it had been expected of him, and he had answered expectation; he hadnot distinguished himself, nor cared to do so. He had known from the first that he was intended forthe church, and had not objected, but received it as his destiny-had even, in dim obedience, keptbefore his mental vision the necessity of yielding to the heights and hollows of the mould into whichhe was being thrust. But he had taken no great interest in the matter
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