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Neot's brain as much as or even more than of his own. The Dean never got the credit of having ideas at all, first because he did not look like it, being short, stout, ruddy, and apparently very fond of his dinner, secondly because he never talked of his ideas to women. Mrs. Baxter did not care about ideas and possibly the Dean generalised rashly.
Lady Mildmay found him thus occupied when she came to give him a cup of milk. Weston Marchmont, punctilious to the verge of fastidiousness, or even over it, in his conduct towards the world and his friends, allowed himself easily enough a liberty of speculative opinion which the Dean of St. Neot's would have hesitated about and the Dean's wife decidedly veiled by a reference to Providence.
Of his five children, three were already dead. Kenelm, his eldest son, had fallen at St. Neot's, in 1648, fighting for the King. It was his remaining son John who sanctioned the publication of his father's receipts. Sir Kenelm Digby has been recognised as the type of the great amateur, but always with a shaking of the head. Why this scorn of accomplished amateurs?
The telegram had not shaken that faith in her, nor altered that despair. A knotty point of casuistry was engaging the thoughts of the Dean of St. Neot's.
"Scald have I been since I could sing, and nought have I heard like this." "Some day," Neot said; "it is enough now that you should know what you have heard." So ended that strange song strife on Neot's quiet hillside. The sun set, and the fleecy mists came up from the little river below, and we sat silent till Alfred rose and said farewell, and we went to the guest house in the village.
From so stern a code human nature revolts, and the storm of volubility went on in spite of the silence of the Dean of St. Neot's. Even this silence was imperfect in so far as the Dean said a word or two in private to Morewood when he visited him in his studio, and the pair were looking at Quisanté's picture.
Neot's, Temsford, and Biggleswade, until at last, soon after dusk, the fiery glow of the horizon announced the neighbourhood of the big city. On being told that they were about to enter London, Clare became much excited; but there was time for the excitement to cool, for more than two hours elapsed before the heavy coach rumbled from the soft high road up to the hard-paved streets.
There were other faces, not so usual; for far away, in a purposely chosen obscurity, May saw Weston Marchmont and the Dean of St. Neot's. The Mildmays themselves could not be present, but these two had come over from Moors End and sat there now, the Dean beaming in anticipation of a treat, Marchmont with a rather supercilious smile and an air of weariness.
There is little therein that one may not be wiser in remembering." "There is nought wiser; it is Odin's wisdom," said Harek. Now the old hermit, Guerir, Neot's friend, sat on the stone bench beside the king, and he said: "Hear the words of the bards, the wondrous 'triads' of old time." And he chanted them in a strange melody, unlike aught I had ever heard.
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