But even this diversion failed to enliven after awhile, and the _ennui_ became perfectly unbearable.I felt my mind giving way under it.It is not a strong mind, and I thought it would be unwise to tax it too far.So somewhere about the twentieth morning I got up early, had a good breakfast, and walked straight off to Hayfield, at the foot of the Kinder Scout--a pleasant, busy little town, reached through a lovely valley, and with two sweetly pretty women in it.At least they were sweetly pretty then; one passed me on the bridge and, I think, smiled; and the other was standing at an open door, making an unremunerative investment of kisses upon a red-faced baby.But it is years ago, and I dare say they have both grown stout and snappish since that time.Coming back, I saw an old man breaking stones, and it roused such strong longing in me to use my arms that I offered him a drink to let me take his place.He was a kindly old man and he humored me.I went for those stones with the accumulated energy of three weeks, and did more work in half an hour than he had done all day.But it did not make him jealous.
Having taken the plunge, I went further and further into dissipation, going out for a long walk every morning and listening to the band in the pavilion every evening.But the days still passed slowly notwithstanding, and I was heartily glad when the last one came and I was being whirledaway from gouty, consumptive Buxton to London with its stern work and life.I looked out of the carriage as we rushed through Hendon in the evening.The lurid glare overhanging the mighty city seemed to warm my heart, and when, later on, my cab rattled out of St.Pancras' station, the old familiar roar that came swelling up around me sounded the sweetest music I had heard for many a long day.
I certainly did not enjoy that month's idling.I like idling when I ought not to be idling; not when it is the only thing I have to do.That is my pig- headed nature.The time when I like best to stand with my back to the fire, calculating how much I owe, is when my desk is heaped highest with letters that must be answered by the next post.When I like to dawdle longest over my dinner is when I have a heavy evening's work before me.And if, for some urgent reason, I ought to be up particularly early in the morning, it is then, more than at any other time, that I love to lie an extra half-hour in bed.
Ah! how delicious it is to turn over and go to sleep again: "just for five minutes." Is there any human being, I wonder, besides the hero of a Sunday-school "tale for boys," who ever gets up willingly? There are some men to whom getting up at the proper time is an utter impossibility.If eight o'clock happens to be the time that they should turn out, then they lie till half-past.If circumstances change and half-past eight becomes early enough for them, then it is nine before they can rise.They are like the statesman of whom it was said that he was always punctually half an hour late.They try all manner of schemes.They buy alarm-clocks (artful contrivances that go off at the wrong time and alarm the wrong people).They tell Sarah Jane to knock at the door and call them, and Sarah Jane does knock at the door and does call them, and they grunt back "awri" and then go comfortably to sleep again.I knew one man who would actually get out and have a cold bath; and even that was of no use, for afterward he would jump into bed again to warm himself.
