THE BARROW ON THE HEATH 55 



Beaulieu. Evening by evening for many and many 

 a century they had looked to that point, towards the 

 black wood on the horizon, where there were people 

 and sounds of human life. Day by day for centuries 

 they had listened with wonder and fear to the Abbey 

 bells, and to the distant chanting of the monks. And 

 the Abbey has been in ruins for centuries, open to 

 the sky and overgrown with ivy; but still towards 

 that point they look with apprehension, since men 

 still dwell there, strangers to them, the little busy 

 eager people, hateful in their artificial indoor lives, 

 who do not know and who care nothing for them, who 

 worship not and fear not the dead that are under- 

 ground, but dig up their sacred places and scatter their 

 bones and ashes, and despise and mock them because 

 they are dead and powerless. 



It is not strange that they fear and hate. I look 

 at them their dark, pale, furious faces and think 

 that if they could be visible thus in the daylight, all 

 who came to that spot or passed near it would turn 

 and fly with a terrifying image in their mind which 

 would last to the end of life. But they do not resent 

 my presence, and would not resent it were I permitted 

 to come at last to dwell with them for ever. Perhaps 

 they know me for one of their tribe, know that what 

 they feel I feel, would hate what they hate. 



Has it not been said that love itself is an argument 

 in favour of immortality ? All love the love of men 

 and women, of a mother for her child, of a friend 



