Life was before him and time of no account.
He could wander, for years if he chose, in unfrequented places, amid strange peoples, where life was led in strange ways.
He did not know what he sought or what his journeys would bring him; but he had a feeling that he would learn something new about life and gain some clue to the mystery that he had solved only to find more mysterious.
And even if he found nothing he would allay the unrest which gnawed at his heart.
But Doctor South was showing him a great kindness, and it seemed ungrateful to refuse his offer for no adequate reason; so in his shy way, trying to appear as matter of fact as possible, he made some attempt to explain why it was so important to him to carry out the plans he had cherished so passionately.
Doctor South listened quietly, and a gentle look came into his shrewd old eyes.
It seemed to Philip an added kindness that he did not press him to accept his offer.
Benevolence is often very peremptory.
He appeared to look upon Philip's reasons as sound.
Dropping the subject, he began to talk of his own youth; he had been in the Royal Navy, and it was his long connection with the sea that, when he retired, had made him settle at Farnley.
He told Philip of old days in the Pacific and of wild adventures in China.
He had taken part in an expedition against the head-hunters of Borneo and had known Samoa when it was still an independent state.
He had touched at coral islands.
Philip listened to him entranced.
Little by little he told Philip about himself.
Doctor South was a widower, his wife had died thirty years before, and his daughter had married a farmer in Rhodesia; he had quarrelled with him, and she had not come to England for ten years.
It was just as if he had never had wife or child.
He was very lonely.
His gruffness was little more than a protection which he wore to hide a complete disillusionment; and to Philip it seemed tragic to see him just waiting for death, not impatiently, but rather with loathing for it, hating old age and unable to resign himself to its limitations, and yet with the feeling that death was the only solution of the bitterness of his life.
Philip crossed his path, and the natural affection which long separation from his daughter had killed—she had taken her husband's part in the quarrel and her children he had never seen—settled itself upon Philip.
At first it made him angry, he told himself it was a sign of dotage; but there was something in Philip that attracted him, and he found himself smiling at him he knew not why.
Philip did not bore him.
Once or twice he put his hand on his shoulder: it was as near a caress as he had got since his daughter left England so many years before.
When the time came for Philip to go Doctor South accompanied him to the station: he found himself unaccountably depressed.
"I've had a ripping time here," said Philip. "You've been awfully kind to me."
"I suppose you're very glad to go?"
"I've enjoyed myself here."
"But you want to get out into the world?
Ah, you have youth." He hesitated a moment. "I want you to remember that if you change your mind my offer still stands."
"That's awfully kind of you."
Philip shook hands with him out of the carriage window, and the train steamed out of the station.
Philip thought of the fortnight he was going to spend in the hop-field: he was happy at the idea of seeing his friends again, and he rejoiced because the day was fine.
But Doctor South walked slowly back to his empty house.
He felt very old and very lonely.
CXVIII
It was late in the evening when Philip arrived at Ferne.
It was Mrs. Athelny's native village, and she had been accustomed from her childhood to pick in the hop-field to which with her husband and her children she still went every year.
Like many Kentish folk her family had gone out regularly, glad to earn a little money, but especially regarding the annual outing, looked forward to for months, as the best of holidays.
The work was not hard, it was done in common, in the open air, and for the children it was a long, delightful picnic; here the young men met the maidens; in the long evenings when work was over they wandered about the lanes, making love; and the hopping season was generally followed by weddings.
They went out in carts with bedding, pots and pans, chairs and tables; and Ferne while the hopping lasted was deserted.
They were very exclusive and would have resented the intrusion of foreigners, as they called the people who came from London; they looked down upon them and feared them too; they were a rough lot, and the respectable country folk did not want to mix with them.
In the old days the hoppers slept in barns, but ten years ago a row of huts had been erected at the side of a meadow; and the Athelnys, like many others, had the same hut every year.
Athelny met Philip at the station in a cart he had borrowed from the public-house at which he had got a room for Philip.
It was a quarter of a mile from the hop-field.
They left his bag there and walked over to the meadow in which were the huts.
They were nothing more than a long, low shed, divided into little rooms about twelve feet square.
In front of each was a fire of sticks, round which a family was grouped, eagerly watching the cooking of supper.
The sea-air and the sun had browned already the faces of Athelny's children.
Mrs. Athelny seemed a different woman in her sun-bonnet: you felt that the long years in the city had made no real difference to her; she was the country woman born and bred, and you could see how much at home she found herself in the country.
She was frying bacon and at the same time keeping an eye on the younger children, but she had a hearty handshake and a jolly smile for Philip.