But he wandered less than he had done
from London, finding, in his remote but fragrant corner of the earth,
that peace which twenty years of a strenuous manhood had taught him to
value more than downright happiness.
Its roses were not the only merit of this ideal retreat, though in the
summer months they made it difficult for one with eyes and nostrils to
appreciate the others. There was a delightful room running right through
the cottage; and it was here that Langholm worked, ate, smoked, read,
and had his daily being; his bath was in the room adjoining, and his bed
in another adjoining that. Of the upper floor he made no use; it was
filled with the neglected furniture of a more substantial establishment,
and Langholm seldom so much as set foot upon the stairs. The lower rooms
were very simply furnished. There was a really old oak bureau, and some
solid, comfortable chairs. The pictures were chiefly photographs of
other writers. There were better pictures deep in dust upstairs.
An artist in temperament, if not in attainment, Langholm had of late
years found the ups and downs of his own work supply all the excitement
that was necessary to his life; it was only when the work was done that
his solitude had oppressed him; but neither the one nor the other had
been the case of late weeks.
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