“No，mother。”Isaid。
Ipromisedcarelessly。Hereyeswerefixeduponme。IwaswonderingwhetherIcouldbyanymeansbeginLatinthatnight。
Somethingtouchedherheartthen，somethought，somememory；
perhapssomepremonition。Thesolitaryporterbeganslammingcarriagedoors。
“George“shesaidhastily，almostshamefully，“kissme！”
Isteppedupintohercompartmentasshebentdownward。
Shecaughtmeinherarmsquiteeagerly，shepressedmetoher——astrangethingforhertodo。Iperceivedhereyeswereextraordinarilybright，andthenthisbrightnessburstalongthelowerlidsandrolleddownhercheeks。
ForthefirstandlasttimeinmylifeIsawmymother’stears。
Thenshehadgone，leavingmediscomfortedandperplexed，forgettingforatimeeventhatIwastolearnLatin，thinkingofmymotherasofsomethingnewandstrange。
ThethingrecurredthoughIsoughttodismissit，itstuckitselfintomymemoryagainstthedayoffullerunderstanding。Poor，proud，habitual，sternlynarrowsoul！poordifficultandmisunderstandingson！itwasthefirsttimethateveritdawneduponmethatmymotheralsomightperhapsfeel。
Mymotherdiedsuddenlyand，itwasthoughtbyLadyDrew，inconsiderately，thefollowingspring。HerladyshipinstantlyfledtoFolkestonewithMissSomervilleandFison，untilthefuneralshouldbeoverandmymother’ssuccessorinstalled。
Myuncletookmeovertothefuneral。Iremembertherewasasortofprolongedcrisisinthedaysprecedingthisbecause，directlyheheardofmyloss，hehadsentapairofchecktrouserstotheJudkinspeopleinLondontobedyedblack，andtheydidnotcomebackintime。Hebecameveryexcitedonthethirdday，andsentanumberofincreasinglyfierytelegramswithoutanyresultwhatever，andsuccumbednextmorningwithaveryillgracetomyauntSusan’sinsistenceupontheresourcesofhisdress-suit。Inmymemorythoseblacklegsofhis，inaparticularlythinandshinyblackcloth——forevidentlyhisdress-suitdatedfromadolescentandslendererdays——straddleliketheColossusofRhodesovermyapproachtomymother’sfuneral。Moreover，Iwasinconveniencedanddistractedbyasilkhathehadboughtme，myfirstsilkhat，muchennobled，ashiswasalso，byadeepmourningband。
Iremember，butratherindistinctly，mymother’swhitepaneledhousekeeper’sroomandthetouchofoddnessaboutitthatshewasnotthere，andthevariousfamiliarfacesmadestrangebyblack，andIseemtorecalltheexaggeratedself-consciousnessthataroseoutoftheirfocussedattention。Nodoubtthesenseofthenewsilkhatcameandwentandcameagaininmyemotionalchaos。
Thensomethingcomesoutclearandsorrowful，risesoutclearandsheerfromamongalltheseratherbaseandinconsequentthings，andonceagainIwalkbeforealltheothermournersclosebehindhercoffinasitiscarriedalongthechurchyardpathtohergrave，withtheoldvicar’sslowvoicesayingregretfullyandunconvincinglyaboveme，triumphantsolemnthings。
“Iamtheresurrectionandthelife，saiththeLord；hethatbelievethinme，thoughheweredead，yetshallhelive：andwhosoeverlivethandbelievethinmeshallneverdie。”
Neverdie！Thedaywasahighandgloriousmorninginspring，andallthetreeswerebuddingandburstingintogreen。
Everywheretherewereblossomsandflowers；thepeartreesandcherrytreesinthesexton’sgardenweresunlitsnow，therewerenoddingdaffodilsandearlytulipsinthegraveyardbeds，greatmultitudesofdaisies，andeverywherethebirdsseemedsinging。
Andinthemiddlewasthebrowncoffinend，tiltingonmen’sshouldersandhalfoccludedbythevicar’sOxfordhood。
Andsowecametomymother’swaitinggrave。
ForatimeIwasveryobservant，watchingthecoffinlowered，hearingthewordsoftheritual。Itseemedaverycuriousbusinessaltogether。
Suddenlyastheservicedrewtoitsend，Ifeltsomethinghadstilltobesaidwhichhadnotbeensaid，realisedthatshehadwithdrawninsilence，neitherforgivingmenorhearingfromme——thosenowlostassurances。SuddenlyIknewIhadnotunderstood。SuddenlyIsawhertenderly；rememberednotsomuchtenderorkindlythingsofherashercrossedwishesandthewaysinwhichIhadthwartedher。SurprisinglyIrealisedthatbehindallherhardnessandseverityshehadlovedme，thatIwastheonlythingshehadeverlovedandthatuntilthismomentI
hadneverlovedher。Andnowshewasthereanddeafandblindtome，pitifullydefeatedinherdesignsforme，coveredfrommesothatshecouldnotknow。
Idugmynailsintothepalmsofmyhands，Isetmyteeth，buttearsblindedme，sobswouldhavechokedmehadspeechbeenrequiredofme。Theoldvicarreadon，therecameamumbledresponse——andsoontotheend。Iweptasitwereinternally，andonlywhenwehadcomeoutofthechurchyardcouldIthinkandspeakcalmlyagain。
StampedacrossthismemoryarethelittleblackfiguresofmyuncleandRabbits，tellingAvebury，thesextonandundertaker，that“ithadallpassedoffverywell——verywellindeed。”
ThatisthelastIshalltellofBladesover。Thedropscenefallsonthat，anditcomesnomoreasanactualpresenceintothisnovel。Ididindeedgobackthereonceagain，butundercircumstancesquiteimmaterialtomystory。ButinasenseBladesoverhasneverleftme；itis，asIsaidattheoutset，oneofthosedominantexplanatoryimpressionsthatmaketheframeworkofmymind。BladesoverilluminatesEngland；ithasbecomeallthatisspacious，dignifiedpretentious，andtrulyconservativeinEnglishlife。Itismysocialdatum。ThatiswhyIhavedrawnithereonsolargeascale。
WhenIcamebackatlasttotherealBladesoveronaninconsequentvisit，everythingwasfarsmallerthanIcouldhavesupposedpossible。ItwasasthougheverythinghadshiveredandshrivelledalittleattheLichtensteintouch。Theharpwasstillinthesaloon，buttherewasadifferentgrandpianowithapaintedlidandametrostylepianola，andanextraordinaryquantityofartisticlitterandbric-a-bracscatteredabout。
TherewasthetrailoftheBondStreetshowroomoveritall。Thefurniturewasstillunderchintz，butitwasn’tthesamesortofchintzalthoughitpretendedtobe，andthelustre-danglingchandeliershadpassedaway。LadyLichtenstein’sbooksreplacedthebrownvolumesIhadbrowsedamong——theyweremostlypresentationcopiesofcontemporarynovelsandtheNationalReviewandtheEmpireReview，andtheNineteenthCenturyandafterjostledcurrentbooksonthetables——Englishnewbooksingaudycatchpenny“artistic“covers，FrenchandItaliannovelsinyellow，Germanarthandbooksofalmostincredibleugliness。
TherewereabundantevidencesthatherladyshipwasplayingwiththeKelticrenascence，andagreatnumberofuglycatsmadeofchina——she“collected“chinaandstonewarecats——stoodabouteverywhere——inallcolours，inallkindsofdeliberatelycomic，highlyglazeddistortion。
Itisnonsensetopretendthatfinancemakesanybetteraristocratsthanrent。Nothingcanmakeanaristocratbutpride，knowledge，training，andthesword。ThesepeoplewerenoimprovementontheDrews，nonewhatever。Therewasnoeffectofabeneficialreplacementofpassiveunintelligentpeoplebyactiveintelligentones。Onefeltthatasmallerbutmoreenterprisingandintenselyundignifiedvarietyofstupidityhadreplacedthelargedullnessoftheoldgentry，andthatwasall。
Bladesover，Ithought，hadundergonejustthesamechangebetweentheseventiesandthenewcenturythathadovertakenthedearoldTimes，andheavenknowshowmuchmoreofthedecorousBritishfabric。TheseLichtensteinsandtheirlikeseemtohavenopromiseinthematallofanyfreshvitalityforthekingdom。I
donotbelieveintheirintelligenceortheirpower——theyhavenothingnewaboutthematall，nothingcreativenorrejuvenescent，nomorethanadisorderlyinstinctofacquisition；
andtheprevalenceofthemandtheirkindisbutaphaseinthebroadslowdecayofthegreatsocialorganismofEngland。TheycouldnothavemadeBladesovertheycannotreplaceit；theyjusthappentobreakoutoverit——saprophytically。
Well——thatwasmylastimpressionofBladesover。
SofarasIcanremembernow，exceptforthatoneemotionalphasebythegraveside，Ipassedthroughalltheseexperiencesrathercallously。Ihadalready，withthefacilityofyouth，changedmyworld，ceasedtothinkatalloftheoldschoolroutineandputBladesoverasidefordigestionatalatterstage。ItookupmynewworldinWimblehurstwiththechemist’sshopasitshub，settoworkatLatinandmateriamedica，andconcentrateduponthepresentwithallmyheart。WimblehurstisanexceptionallyquietandgreySussextownrareamongsouthofEnglandtownsinbeinglargelybuiltofstone。Ifoundsomethingveryagreeableandpicturesqueinitscleancobbledstreets，itsoddturningsandabruptcorners；andinthepleasantparkthatcrowdsuponesideofthetown。ThewholeplaceisundertheEastrydominionanditwastheEastryinfluenceanddignitythatkeptitsrailwaystationamileandthree-quartersaway。EastryHouseissoclosethatitdominatesthewhole；onegoesacrossthemarketplace(withitsoldlock-upandstocks)，pastthegreatpre-reformationchurch，afinegreyshell，likesomeemptyskullfromwhichthelifehasfled，andthereatoncearethehugewrought-irongates，andonepeepsthroughthemtoseethefacadeofthisplace，verywhiteandlargeandfine，downalongavenueofyews。EastrywasfargreaterthanBladesoverandanaltogethercompleterexampleoftheeighteenthcenturysystem。
Itrulednottwovillages，butaborough，thathadsentitssonsandcousinstoparliamentalmostasamatterofrightsolongasitsfranchiseendured。Everyonewasinthesystem，everyone——exceptmyuncle。Hestoodoutandcomplained。
MyunclewasthefirstrealbreachIfoundinthegreatfrontofBladesovertheworldhadpresentedme，forChathamwasnotsomuchabreachasaconfirmation。ButmyunclehadnorespectforBladesoverandEastry——nonewhatever。Hedidnotbelieveinthem。Hewasblindeventowhattheywere。Hepropoundedstrangephrasesaboutthem，heexfoliatedandwaggedaboutnovelandincredibleideas。
“Thisplace。”saidmyuncle，surveyingitfromhisopendoorwayinthedignifiedstillnessofasummerafternoon，“wantsWakingUp！”
Iwassortinguppatentmedicinesinthecorner。
