At first, after he had come to his decision, a feeling of infinite
rest and satisfaction had taken possession of him. The struggle of
life was over for him. No longer would he be obliged to think, and
contrive, and toil; henceforth his days would slope gently down
towards the inevitable end. Trouble lay in the past, now rest and rest
alone awaited him, rest that would gradually grow deeper and deeper as
the swift years rolled by, till it was swallowed up in that almighty
Peace to which, being a simple and religious man, he had looked
forward from childhood as the end and object of his life.
Foolish man and vain imagining! Here, while we draw breath, there is
no rest. We must go on continually, on from strength to strength, or
weakness to weakness; we must always be troubled about this or that,
and must ever have this desire or that to regret. It is an inevitable
law within whose attraction all must fall; yes, even the purest souls,
cradled in their hope of heaven; and the most swinish, wallowing in
the mud of their gratified desires.
And so our hero had already begun to find out. Here, before he had
been forty-eight hours in Honham, a fresh cause of troubles had
arisen. He had seen Ida de la Molle again, and after an interval of
between five and six years had found her face yet more charming than
it was before.
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