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If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The wiser folly - -Author: Leslie Moore - -Release Date: November 7, 2022 [eBook #69310] - -Language: English - -Produced by: D A Alexander and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team - at https://www.pgdp.net (Scans were provided by yhe New - York Public Library's Digital Collections) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WISER FOLLY *** - - - - - - _By Leslie Moore_ - - The Peacock Feather - The Jester - The Wiser Folly - - - - -[Illustration: “FOR ALL HIS OUTWARD CALM, FOR ALL HIS LEVEL, EASY, -CARELESS VOICE, HIS HEART WAS IN A TUMULT.” - -Drawn by D. C. Hutchison - - (_See Page 179_)] - - - - - THE WISER FOLLY - - BY - - LESLIE MOORE - - AUTHOR OF “THE PEACOCK FEATHER,” ETC. - - G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS - NEW YORK AND LONDON - The Knickerbocker Press - 1916 - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1916 - BY - LESLIE MOORE - - -The Knickerbocker Press, New York - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - PROLOGUE 1 - - CHAPTER - - I.--CONCERNING THE VILLAGE OF - MALFORD 5 - II.--A RUMOUR 17 - III.--A MEETING 20 - IV.--A BLACK AND WHITE GOAT 25 - V.--MURAL PAINTINGS 39 - VI.--MRS. TRIMWELL 46 - VII.--FLIGHTS OF FANCY 56 - VIII.--AN OLD PRIEST 61 - IX.--AN OLD-TIME TRAGEDY 74 - X.--CORIN THEORIZES 85 - XI.--IN AN OLD CHURCH 92 - XII.--THE WICKEDNESS OF MOLLY - BIDDULPH 105 - XIII.--AT DELANCEY CASTLE 113 - XIV.--A POINT OF VIEW 121 - XV.--JOHN PLAYS THE SAMARITAN 128 - XVI.--CORIN DISCOURSES ON KARMA 138 - XVII.--A RARE ABSURDITY 143 - XVIII.--IN FATHER MALONEY’S GARDEN 145 - XIX.--A BEWITCHING 152 - XX.--A VITAL QUESTION 156 - XXI.--A REQUEST 161 - XXII.--THE WONDERFUL WOMAN 162 - XXIII.--THE CACHE 167 - XXIV.--DAVID DINES AT THE CASTLE 181 - XXV.--JOHN MAKES A DISCOVERY 187 - XXVI.--A FUNNY WORLD 192 - XXVII.--THE OLD OAK 199 - XXVIII.--ON THE TERRACE 207 - XXIX.--AN UNEXPECTED LETTER 216 - XXX.--ELIZABETH ARRIVES ON THE - SCENE 222 - XXXI.--IN THE EARLY MORNING 226 - XXXII.--THE NOTE OF A BELL 233 - XXXIII.--THE GREEN MAN 235 - XXXIV.--ELIZABETH GIVES ADVICE 246 - XXXV.--THE BURDEN OF CONVENTIONALITY 255 - XXXVI.--CONSPIRATORS 261 - XXXVII.--CORIN TAKES A WALK 269 - XXXVIII.--CONCERNING AN ARGUMENT 277 - XXXIX.--A DUMB DOG-- 288 - XL.--SPEAKS-- 290 - XLI.--AT SOME LENGTH 291 - XLII.--A QUESTION OF IMPORTANCE 309 - XLIII.--MOLLY ARRANGES AFFAIRS 316 - XLIV.--AN ODD SENSATION 320 - XLV.--THE OAK FALLS 323 - XLVI.--TOLD IN THE STORM 325 - XLVII.--AFTER THE RAIN 328 - XLVIII.--IN SEARCH 331 - XLIX.--THE FALLEN OAK 345 - L.--A MIRACLE 347 - LI.--AND SO THE STORY ENDS 352 - - - - -The Wiser Folly - - - - -PROLOGUE - - -WHEN the Delancey affair had been brought to a conclusion, it was not -uninteresting to note the various opinions set forth regarding its -happy termination. - -Biddy, at once autocrat and indulger of at least three generations of -juvenile Delanceys, maintained, and stoutly, it was entirely due to -her own prayers to her patron saint. She took, so to speak, a monopoly -of the business as far as any human agency was concerned. But, as one -cannot, with any degree of modesty, parade one’s private devotions to -the world at large, it was hardly probable that this view of the matter -would be universal. - -The village in general, with the exception of Mrs. Trimwell, laid the -whole credit at the feet of Lady Mary Delancey. Doubtless this was -on account of the wave of relief which had surged over it, and which -exalted her ladyship, for the time being at least, to a pinnacle of -almost giddy height. - -Mrs. Trimwell had her own private views on the matter. What they were, -will, no doubt, be realized later. - -Corin Elmore believed the whole thing due to karma, though it is true -that this particular arrangement of karma puzzled him not a little. - -John Mortimer, while maintaining on the whole a strictly neutral -attitude, allowed his opinion of the credit due to sway slightly, if -it swayed at all, in the direction of his sister Elizabeth. And in so -doing, he swayed nearer the mark, if you will believe me, than the -majority of folk with opinions on the subject. - -Father Maloney was heard to announce that “surely to goodness the fella -himself might be allowed a taste of the credit.” The “fella” was David -Delancey. But more of him anon. Father Maloney made the announcement -with a twinkle in his eye, and a slight exchange of glances with Lady -Mary. That exchange of glances puzzled more than one of those who had -happened to surprise it. Its meaning, however, was never fathomed. -There was no question but that Lady Mary and the priest were past -masters in keeping their own counsel when they chose. He would be a -bold man who put any question savouring of impertinence to Lady Mary. -For my part, I had sooner face a whole battery of artillery than have -Lady Mary’s tortoiseshell-rimmed lorgnettes turned slowly upon me, her -grey eyes glinting through them with steely courtesy. The courtesy was -never absent, you may be sure, but then neither--on occasions--was the -steeliness. Nor would it be well, if you wished to retain the smallest -atom of self-respect, to question Father Maloney unduly. That soft -tongue and speech of his could shrivel your complacency to the likeness -of a withered leaf when you deserved it. And you may be very sure that, -when they did shrivel it, you were left in no manner of doubt as to -your deserts in the matter. - -Lady Mary herself never ventured the smallest hint of an opinion as -to whom the credit was due. In fact from first to last she kept a -dignified silence on the whole affair, save when sheer necessity -demanded speech from her. Her silence and dignity alone prevented it -from sinking to melodrama, and truth obliges me to confess that it -had more than once a distinctly suspicious flavour of that obnoxious -quality. - -But this is beginning at the wrong end of the skein, a proceeding which -will indubitably result in a most fearsome tangle. Therefore, with your -permission, I will break off and start anew. - - - - -CHAPTER I - -CONCERNING THE VILLAGE OF MALFORD - - -“YOUR idea,” said John meditatively, “as far as I can elucidate it from -your somewhat wordy discourse, is that I should accompany you to this -exceedingly out-of-the-way, this on your own showing entirely remote, -secluded, and sequestered spot, for the sole purpose of affording you -amusement in your so to speak out of work hours.” - -“That,” returned Corin admiringly, “is the idea _in toto_. It is -marvellous with what ease and skill you have grasped and summed up the -entire situation.” - -John sighed. - -“And might one be allowed to question what are the advantages to be -gained from such a sojourn? What manner of recreation can the place -afford? In a word, where do I come in?” - -“Advantages!” Corin raised his eyes to the cobwebby rafters. “Heavens -above! Isn’t my companionship an advantage? And for recreation what -more can you desire than the contemplation of country lanes and wide -moorland this glorious summer weather? Think of it, man! The earth -ablaze with purple heather, the sea blue and golden,--breathing, -living, colour. Anon there will be blackberries, great luscious -clusters of blue-black fruit hanging ready for the plucking in every -hedgerow. Again, I ask, what more can you desire?” - -John smiled grimly. - -“I am not, I would have you observe, either an artist or a boy. Your -inducements fail to move me.” - -“My companionship,” urged Corin. - -“The blatant conceit of the man,” sighed John. - -Corin changed his tone, descended to wheedling. “Consider my -loneliness,” he remarked pathetically. “From six o’clock--I can’t put -in more than an eight-hour day--till midnight alone and unoccupied. Six -hours!” - -“Go to bed at nine and reduce the six hours by a simple process -of subtraction to three, or play patience,” returned John -unsympathetically. - -“Inhuman brute,” mourned Corin. - -John merely laughed. - -He was a tall young man, thirty or thereabouts, clean-shaven, bronzed, -grey-eyed, and with a thin hooked nose. His mouth, below it, was -slightly grim in repose. But, when he smiled, you forgot the grimness, -and smiled involuntarily in response. Also, you found yourself watching -for the smile to come into play a second time. It had a curious manner -of leaping first to his eyes in a sudden and illuminating flash. -Deserting them, it passed equally suddenly to his mouth, leaving the -eyes sad. It was a disconcerting trick, a baffling magician’s trick, -and left you wondering. In the matter of dress he was fastidious to -a degree. At the moment his attire was the most immaculate suit of -London clothes, grey trousers, frock coat, and all the rest of the -paraphernalia. His silk hat, exceeding glossy, reposed on a worm-eaten -oak chair near him. He had removed a pile of sketch books and a bunch -of dilapidated lilies to make place for the hat. They lay now on the -floor. - -With Corin, by contrast, clothes were a matter of necessity as mere -covering, and no more. His tweed trousers and Norfolk jacket had an -out-all-night-in-the-wet-and-then-sat-upon air. In two words they -looked loosely crumpled. Paint spots adorned the left sleeve, in -the crook of the elbow where his palette was wont to rest. His soft -collar, attached to his shirt, was unbuttoned, and merely held together -by a smoke-grey tie. Briefly, in the matter of clothes, he was the -prototype of the modern novelist’s art-student,--the type that emerges -paint-stained, careless-clad, cheerfully Bohemian, from the chapters of -such novels as deal with the art world in Chelsea. - -But here it behoves me to walk warily lest I should hear a whisper of -“glass houses,” for does not this very Corin himself dwell in that most -fascinating region of London? Is not his studio within a bare five -minutes of the dirty, muddy, grey, but wholly adorable Thames, where -it drifts past Carlyle’s statue, smoke-grimed and weather-worn, and on -past the old herbalist’s garden set back across the street? - -In face, this same Corin was plump, smooth-skinned, rosy-cheeked, -fair-haired, with short-sighted blue eyes that gazed at you kindly from -behind gold-rimmed spectacles. His own appearance caused him moments -of acute anguish. - -“Look at me!” he would cry on occasions, having met his reflection in -some unexpected mirror in a friend’s house or studio, “Look at me! The -soul of an artist, and the appearance of a benign and grown-up baby! -If I didn’t know my own nature and character, I vow I’d be taken in. I -_am_ taken in when I come upon myself in this disgusting and unexpected -fashion. Who’s that odd, kindly, little pink-faced man? I ask myself. -And then I realize it’s me, _me_, ME! And, even while I’m swearing at -the sight of myself, I look no more than a cross baby yelling for its -feeding bottle. Talk of purgatory! I get ten years of it every time I -come opposite a looking-glass. The things ought to be abolished. They -ought to be ground to powder, scattered like dust to the four winds of -heaven. They merely pander to woman’s vanity. No man wants to look into -one. If he looks like a man he doesn’t bother about it. If he looks -like me--” At this juncture his anguish would become too acute for -further speech. - -There was a pause in the conversation, quite an appreciable pause, -seeing that it lasted at least two and three-quarter minutes. Then: - -“So the matter is definitely settled,” announced Corin with an air of -finality, “and on Tuesday next you and I, a couple of boon companions, -wend our way to the charming, the altogether adorable and old-world -village of Malford, situated, so the guide-books tell us, precisely -seven miles from Whortley station, as the crow flies. Why as the crow -flies,” he continued ruminatively, “I have never been able to fathom. -The information is of remarkably small use to the feathered species, -and I have not yet been able to grasp what precise and particular use -it is to mankind at large.” - -John, whose attention had been wandering, roused himself. - -“For sheer pertinacity,” he remarked suavely, “commend me to one, Corin -Elmore, painter, poet, musician, theosophist, and fortune-teller; in -short, dabbler in the arts and the occult sciences.” - -“At all events _you_ can hear Mass at Malford,” retorted Corin -succinctly. It would appear that “dabbler in the occult sciences” had -pricked. - -“Truly?” John’s tone was politely interrogative. “At what distance from -Malford, as the crow flies?” - -“You can hear Mass _in_ Malford, _in_ the Chapel, _in_ Delancey -Castle.” The statement was triumphant. - -“Delancey Castle!” ejaculated John. For the first time interest, -genuine interest, stirred in his voice. He began, in a manner of -speaking, to sit up and take notice. - -“Delancey Castle,” reiterated Corin. And then suspiciously, “But why -this sudden interest?” - -“Merely that I have heard of the place,” said John nonchalantly. - -“Who hasn’t?” Corin’s voice was faintly edged with scorn. “One of the -oldest baronial castles in England; situated in a park famed for its -oaks and copper beeches; Norman in origin, enlarged during the Tudor -period; minstrel’s gallery, secret chambers, terraced gardens. From all -accounts it breathes the very essence of romance and bygone forgotten -days. Heavens above! were there indeed tongues in trees, and sermons in -stones, I’ll swear there’s many a tale those old walls and the trees -around them might disclose.” - -“It is a matter for devout thanks,” returned John piously, “that the -tongue of Nature wags, in a manner of speaking, rather in accordance -with our mood of the moment than by any actual physical volition of its -own. We have quite enough to do to stop our ears to the human tongues -around us. But, seriously, I had no idea that Delancey Castle was -situated in this sequestered spot of yours.” - -“Sequestered spot of mine!” ejaculated Corin. “I lay no claim to the -spot. It exists not for my benefit, save in so far, I would have you -note, as certain pecuniary advantages will accrue to me for work done -in its lonely regions. Nevertheless Delancey Castle is situated there, -unless some good or evil genius has seen fit to remove it piecemeal -since last Thursday week. I saw it on that date with my own eyes, ‘set -on an eminence’--again the guide-books--‘above the small village of -Malford. Glimpses of its rugged grey towers may be observed among the -lordly oaks and magnificent copper beeches for which the park is justly -famed.’ I refer you to page one hundred and twenty-two of Sanderson’s -_Guide to Country Houses_ for the accuracy of my quotation.” He broke -off to light a fresh cigarette, then looked at John, challenging him -through his gold-rimmed spectacles. - -“Oh, I’ll not question the accuracy of your quotation,” retorted John. -“But how about your _former_ statement regarding the situation of the -Castle? You stated it was _in_ the village. Now I learn it is on an -eminence above it.” - -“Hark to the quibbler!” cried Corin. - -“Not at all,” returned John. “A Castle _on_ an eminence is a very -different pair of shoes from a Castle _in_ a village, especially when -it is incumbent upon one to seek that said Castle in order to fulfil -one’s devotional obligations.” - -“If,” said Corin reflectively, “I were a Catholic--don’t get excited, -there’s no smallest prospect of your ever claiming me as a convert--but -if I were a Catholic, I should not be so disgustingly slack about my -religion as to object to walking up a small hill in order to attend my -religious services.” - -“I never said I objected to walking up a small hill,” remarked John. “I -was merely pointing out the inaccuracy of your former statement.” - -Corin sighed patiently. “You make me tired with your quibbling. And -that last remark distinctly wanders from the truth.” - -John smiled, not deigning further reply. It began as a small pitying -smile for Corin’s weakness of retort, it continued with a hint of -pleasure, a tiny secret excitement as at the possibility of the -fulfilment of some concealed desire. His heart had beaten at least -three degrees quicker at the mention of Delancey Castle, and it had not -yet resumed its normal gentle throbbing. - -He waited silent. There was now but one thought uppermost in his mind. -Yet he could not voice it. The renewed suggestion--it surely would -be renewed--must come from Corin. For John to give spontaneous hint -of yielding in the matter of recent discussion would be to run the -risk--though possibly merely a faint risk--of giving himself away. -Faint or blatant, the risk was to be avoided at all cost. He smoked -on, therefore, imperturbable, his eyes for the most part on a desk in -a corner of the studio, an extremely untidy desk, covered with papers -that looked for all the world as if they had been tossed thereon by a -whirlwind, and then stirred by an exceedingly vigorous arm wielding a -pitchfork. Yet, for all that his eyes were upon the desk, his thoughts -were upon Corin. - -“Speak, man, speak,” he was urging him by that mental process which is -termed “willing.” “Renew your persuasions; beg me again to accompany -you on your lonely sojourn.” - -But either Corin was no medium, or John was no medium,--I have never -been fully able to fathom whether the willer, or the willed, or both -must be possessed of the mediumistic faculties for satisfactory results -to accrue,--certain it is that Corin sat placidly silent, apparently -entirely oblivious of John’s mental efforts in his direction. - -Willing can be an exhausting process, at all events to one who -is not an adept in the art. In John’s case, as the vigour of his -efforts increased, his muscles grew tighter and tighter, till his -very toes curled with spasmodic tension inside his shiny, polished, -patent-leather boots, while a portentous frown drew his eyebrows firmly -together till they practically met above his thin hooked nose. - -Corin, glancing suddenly in his direction, surprised an almost -anguished expression of countenance. - -“Are you ill?” he ejaculated dismayed, and with a swift half-movement -towards the cupboard where the brandy decanter was situated. - -John’s face relaxed on the instant. - -“Not in the least, thank you.” - -“Then what on earth were you making such faces about?” demanded Corin. - -“I was not aware that I was making faces,” said John with some dignity. -“I was merely thinking.” - -“Thinking!” Corin’s light arched eyebrows rose nearly to his fair hair. -“Then, man, for Heaven’s sake don’t do it again. It’s--it’s really -dangerous.” - -John heaved himself out of his chair, bitterly conscious of the -futility of his efforts. - -“Going?” said Corin. And then solicitously, “Sure you’re really all -right?” - -“Quite, thanks,” returned John with faint asperity. - -Corin strolled with him to the door. John was half-way down the stairs -when he heard a voice call after him: - -“I’ll let you know about the train on Tuesday.” - -John halted, turned. - -“Well, really!” he ejaculated. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -A RUMOUR - - -THAT evening John wrote a letter to his sister, Mrs. Darcy, who lived -in Ireland. The letter contained the following paragraphs: - - “I am going down to Malford on Tuesday, an out-of-the-way spot near - Whortley. Corin Elmore--the painter fellow, you know who I mean--has - bothered me into it. He has got a job there, uncovering and restoring - the mural paintings in a pre-reformation church. All seems grist - that comes to his mill. Apparently the only attractions the place - has to offer are gorgeous scenery, and later a superabundance of - blackberries, if I choose to await their ripening. I don’t know for - how long I shall find such attractions all-satisfying. - - “Address after Tuesday next till further notice, The White Cottage, - Malford, near Whortley. - - “I hope Maurice and the kiddies are flourishing. - - “Your loving brother, John.” - -The morning before he left town John received a reply to his letter. - - “A sojourn, even for a short space, in such a remote region sounds - extraordinarily unlike you. Perhaps it will have its compensations. - You will deserve them, as I am sure you are doing this entirely on Mr. - Elmore’s account. I wonder if you will chance to meet the Delanceys. - From all I have heard Lady Mary must be a charming woman, and I once - met her granddaughter, Rosamund Delancey. She is an exceedingly pretty - girl. Maurice raved about her in a way that might have made a younger, - and less experienced, woman than myself jealous. - - “I heard an extraordinary rumour some weeks ago regarding the Delancey - estate,--that an American claimant had turned up. Personally I gave - little credence to the report. It savours too much of melodrama for - this prosaic twentieth century. My informant had her facts pat enough, - though. But it is too long a story to deal with in a letter, certainly - too long when it is, as I believe, pure fiction. Anyhow there’s a - missing document, a murder, and a wolf-hound connected with it. True - Adelphi melodrama! - - “I hope you may chance to meet the Delanceys....” - -John glanced up at a small statue of Our Lady, which stood on his -mantelpiece. - -“Blessed Lady,” he said aloud in a tone at once respectful, fervent, -and charmingly friendly, “join your prayers to her hopes.” - - - - -CHAPTER III - -A MEETING - - -IT was midday in the month of August, the sun ablaze upon wood and -field. Only under the trees and hedges the shadows lay blue and -still,--intensely, deeply blue, the warm restful blue of summer -shadows. Overhead stretched another blue, a vault of brilliant azure, -a vast cup-shaped dome, spreading downwards from the illimitable space -above, to the hazy distant hills, to the far-off peacock-blue sea, -sun-kissed and radiant. The warm earth breathed forth the languorous -yet wide-eyed repose of perfect summer. Here was Nature at the -maturest moment of her beauty,--the fields golden with full-eared -corn, waiting in the richness of their dower for the first stroke of -the sickle; the moors purple with heather, and rich with a hidden -wealth of whortleberries; the hedges hung with clusters of scarlet -brambleberries, even now tinged with the deeper hue of ripeness. - -On a gate, set, after the general manner of gates in the west of -England, between two hedges, one to the right and another to the left, -sat our friend John. From the gate, a view stretched before him, which -many an artist might have been excused for attempting to seize and -transfer to canvas. - -In the foreground stood a birch tree, a slender, dainty, silver-barked -thing, rising straight out of a purple mass of heather. Its fairy -lightness was backgrounded by a wood of firs, while past it, to the -right, you got a stretch of undulating moorland across a valley, a -strip of blue sea, and a hazy coast line of white cliffs. - -“It really might be called a fine view,” said John aloud. And then he -broke off, for a voice had sounded behind him,--a very young voice, a -clear treble. - -“There’s a man sitting on the gate.” The statement was made with the -frank obviousness of childhood. - -John swung himself off the said gate, and turned. This latter -proceeding was distinctly simpler to accomplish from the safety of -solid earth than from the topmost of five bars. Doubtless his guardian -angel prompted the action, for, on the moment of turning, his heart -jumped, leaped, and pounded in a manner peculiarly perilous. Picture -his danger with a heart in this condition had he retained his former -attitude. - -On the other side of the gate, coming across the grass, and not more -than twenty paces from him, was a lady accompanied by two small boys. - -She was a young lady, tall and slender, in a white linen frock, and a -big shady straw hat. Her hair beneath it was red gold, like burnished -copper, a vivid note of colour. The two boys, one on either side of -her, were clad in emerald green knickerbockers, and soft white shirts. -Floppy straw hats were on their heads. Beneath the hats you caught a -glimpse of copper-coloured hair. A vivid, vital enough picture they -presented. The smaller boy, four years old or thereabouts, gazed -solemn-eyed towards the gate; the other, some two years or so his -senior, pointed towards our John, his face eager, alive. A stranger was -a bit of a rarity in those parts, it would appear. - -John saw the woman turn towards the child, caught a hint of murmured -words. The boy dropped the pointing hand. Doubtless she had made -the suggestion--delicately put of course--that it is not altogether -the best of manners to point at strangers, however unexpected their -appearance, as if they were some curious beast newly escaped from the -Zoo. - -The lapse of time, from the first acclamation of John’s position on -the gate, to the dropping of that accusing finger, had been of the -briefest, nevertheless it had allowed for a few further steps to be -taken across the grass, and the distance between John and the three -had, at the outset, been none so great. It was clearly obvious that the -intention of the three was to pass through the gate. Seeing this, John -bent to the fastening. By good luck it was not padlocked. Had it been, -it would have spoiled the dainty march of the procession, actually as -well as figuratively. He swung the gate open, raising his hat at the -same moment. She bent her head, a slight though entirely courteous -gesture, gave “thank-you” in a low round voice. - -“Now Heaven be praised,” murmured John, “that she did not say -‘thanks.’” By which token it will be seen that John was a trifle -fastidious as to modes of expression. - -The two boys, having defeated the difficulties of elastic beneath -the chin, had likewise removed their hats. They accomplished the -restoration of them to their heads with extraordinary dignity. John, -beholding the feat, marvelled. Then the little cavalcade of three -passed on across the heather. - -John gazed after them. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -A BLACK AND WHITE GOAT - - -JOHN gazed after them with longing in his eyes and resentment in his -heart. The longing was for the unattainable; the resentment that it -should be unattainable. - -What a crassly idiotic, what an altogether blindly stupid, doltish, -and utterly mulish thing was convention! Here were three young, gay, -and delightful creatures enjoying the summer day in company, together -revelling in the glowing sun, the caress of the air soft as thistledown -upon one’s face, the scent of the flowers and the warm earth, while -he--John--was condemned to loneliness, because, forsooth, of the lack -of four words. “May I introduce you.” - -There was the password, the magic utterance which would have smoothed -away all difficulties. It could be spoken carelessly as you please. -It could be spoken by his worst enemy with as great effect as by his -dearest friend. Without it a barrier, high as the highest peaks of the -Andes, loomed between him and them, a barrier to him insurmountable, -indestructible, and named, labelled, and placarded in letters at least -a foot long, Convention. Small wonder that John fumed inwardly, the -while his eyes gazed after the vanishing three, distilled essence of -concentrated longing in their depths. - -Chance alone could destroy the barrier,--Chance, the freakish, puckish -sprite, who sits with watchful eyes, smiling softly, impishly, till the -chosen moment arrives. Then, heigh presto! Chance springs light-footed -to your aid, is caught by you laughing, or in deadly earnest, according -to your needs. And if the latter, and your grasp is sure, you will -find it is no longer an impish, freakish sprite you hold, but a very -little demon, battling for you, trampling upon well-nigh incredible -difficulties, leading you triumphant to victory. - -We cannot see Chance coming in deadly earnest to John at the moment. -The imp came mischievous, laughing, and perched, if you will believe -me, between the horns of a goat,--a large, a black and white, an -over-playful goat. It came prancing over the purple crest of the hill, -and bounded, curved, and gavotted in the direction of the momentarily -unconscious three. - -The younger boy was the first to see it. He turned, startled atom, -to clutch at the lady’s white dress, thereby causing her to become -aware of the presence of the intruder on the scene. The elder boy, -likewise made aware of its presence, seized a small stick from among -the heather, a fragile enough weapon, but with it he stood his ground, -a veritable small champion, facing the enemy boldly. - -But think you that Chance, perched between those horns, was to be -daunted by a small boy in green knickerbockers, and holding a flimsy -stick? Not a bit of it! For no such paltry pretext would he desert our -John. I am very sure he but urged the goat forward, its advance in the -face of this defence lending greater colour to the danger. - -“Oh!” breathed the white-robed lady, her hands going out protectingly -to the little figure clutching at her skirts. And then, “Take care, -Tony,” on a note of intense anxiety. - -Here was the moment supplied by the mischievous imp. John recognized -the sprite’s wiles with fine intuition, cried him a fervent word of -thanks, and sprang to the rescue. - -That Chance had never intended the slightest peril to the three, you -may be certain; since, once seized laughing from his perch by John, he -joined with him in ordering the goat to retire. Slightly bewildered at -this change of front, the goat gazed for a moment with reproachful eyes. - -“I was but playing the game you told me to play,” you could fancy him -murmuring. Nevertheless, perceiving that the game was indubitably at -an end, he indulged in something very akin to a shake of his head, and -retired disconsolate whence he had come. - -“Oh, thank you,” breathed the lady in white fervently. “Boys, thank--” -she paused. “This gentleman” savours too largely of the shop-walker; -the word has long since lost its rightful meaning. “Our preserver” -smacks of the pedant. - -“My name is John Mortimer,” announced John, with one of his inimitable -smiles. - -“Mr. Mortimer,” she concluded, the word supplied. “I am Rosamund -Delancey, and this--” she indicated the whilom champion, “is Antony, -and this is Michael. It was very good of you to come to our rescue.” - -John murmured the usual polite formula. For the life of him he could -find no original observation to make. - -“Possibly,” continued Rosamund, half-meditative, a trifle rueful, “the -goat intended mere play. But as Biddy, our old nurse, often used to -say--and still does, for that matter--‘There’s play _and_ play, and if -one of the parties ceases to be liking it, it will be no play at all.’” -The little laugh in her eyes found reflection in John’s. - -“A very sound maxim,” quoth he. And inwardly he found himself -ejaculating, “What an adorable voice, what an altogether flexible, -musical and charming voice.” - -Rosamund was looking down the heather-covered slope. At the further -side, a quarter of a mile or so away, was a hedge, and in the hedge a -gate. Beyond the gate was a lane, which, after a series of turns, would -lead one eventually to the village and Delancey Castle. This latter, it -is perhaps somewhat obvious to remark, was her goal, and the way across -the heather towards the gate by far the nearest route to it. Yet how -attempt that route with the black and white goat still at large adown -the hill, eating sprays of heather--or what appeared to be sprays of -heather--in a deceitfully placid and amicable manner? - -“I wonder if that goat--” she began, her eyes vaguely troubled, her -brow slightly puckered. - -“Which way do you want to go?” demanded John promptly, the promptitude -mingled with a nice degree of deferential courtesy,--the courtesy quite -apparent, the deference a tiny subtle flavour. - -“To that gate.” She indicated it. - -“Then,” said John, “please allow me to accompany you. I think Antony -and I between us will prove a match for goats. I dare to boast on our -behalf, since we have already proved our prowess in the matter.” - -He threw Antony a glance, a little friendly, understanding glance. By -such glances are bonds established that will last a lifetime. - -“Me too,” quoth Michael, breaking silence for the first time. - -“In very sooth, you too,” said John. “Antony as advance guard,--not -more than a couple of paces advance, mind you,--Michael and I on -either side. Are we ready? Then, quick march.” - -This last was mere pandering to accepted custom. You cannot well say, -“Slow march,” though it is what your whole soul intends. Here is a fine -illustration of the fact that speech is but a poor mode of expressing a -man’s thoughts. And then an inspiration came to him. - -“Not too quickly,” said he to the advance guard. “If he thinks we -are attempting to elude him, he may pursue us. A nonchalant, a mere -careless strolling, will be our wisest course.” - -“Oh, do you think he might follow?” cried Rosamund. The suggestion had -evidently given cause for renewed anxiety. - -“It is possible,” returned John gravely, “though, I fancy, not -probable. However, we will take no risks.” - -Slowly, therefore, in mere dilatory fashion, they set forth. The goat -raised his read to look at them; but, having his orders, he dropped it -again towards the heather. - -Some hundred yards or so they walked in silence, two, at least, of the -party casting occasional furtive glances to the right. John was the -first to speak. - -“This,” he said, with the air of a man who has just made a discovery, -“is really beautiful country.” - -“It is your first visit to this neighbourhood?” queried Rosamund. - -“My first,” returned John, “but I dare swear it will not be my last. My -friend, Corin Elmore, dragged me down here, somewhat against my will -at the outset, I’ll allow. He’s uncovering the mural paintings in the -church down yonder.” - -“Ah!” Rosamund turned towards him, a light of interest in her eyes. -“Has he found much?” - -“He only started on the job this morning,” returned John. “We arrived -last night. But he’s full of confidence. There must be a curious -fascination in the work,--delving into the past, bringing traces of -bygone, forgotten ages into the light of day.” - -“And a certain sadness,” she suggested. - -“And a certain sadness,” echoed John, “though I doubt me if Corin -experiences it greatly. He’s an anomaly. For all that he’s a poet and a -bit of a dreamer, there’s a strain of the scientific dissector running -through him. It finds its outlet in theosophic tendencies.” John pulled -a wry face. - -He had forgotten that he was talking to an absolute stranger. Yet was -she a stranger in the true sense of the word? One afternoon--six months -ago as we crudely count and label time, though to John it was centuries -ago--he had had sight of her, a mere passing glimpse, truly, since it -was of length only sufficient to allow of her mounting the steps of the -Brompton Oratory, at a moment when John was about to descend them. He -had put a question to a friend who was with him. And thenceforth John’s -dreams had been coloured--I might almost say suffused--by one subject, -a face with dark eyes, framed in copper-coloured hair, and shadowed by -a largish black hat. Being, therefore, no stranger to his dreams in -spirit, it was small wonder that he regarded her as no stranger to his -perceptions in the flesh. - -Rosamund looked at him, half amused, half questioning. - -“But why theosophic tendencies?” she demanded. “I am,” she added, -“peculiarly ignorant of that trend of thought.” - -John laughed. - -“Nor am I vastly learned, for that matter. If I were to attempt to -define I think I should say that, where your scientist pure and simple -may deny the existence of God at all, your man, like Corin, with the -curious intermixture of a dreamer, acknowledges the existence of this -Supreme Power, even endows that Power with a certain mysticism, but -at the same time reduces--or attempts to reduce--all the actions and -manifestations of the Power to terms comprehensible by the finite -understanding.” - -“Yes?” she queried. It was evident she desired to hear more. - -“Oh,” smiled John, “it’s too complicated an affair to compress into -a sentence or two. But take, for instance, pain--the apparently -undeserved and ghastly suffering with which one is sometimes brought -in contact. Instead of saying, as we do, that there are endless -mysteries of pain and suffering which our finite minds cannot possibly -understand, they wish to find some quite definite and tangible -solution, therefore they adopt the Buddhistic theory of reincarnation -and karma. We work out, they say, our karma in each succeeding -incarnation for the sins of the last. There is, in their eyes, no such -thing as an innocent victim--with one exception. All suffering, even -that of the veriest babe, is the suffering it has deserved for former -sins.” - -“Oh!” A moment she was silent. “How about the exception?” - -“The exception, in their eyes, is any great teacher, who, having -fulfilled all his own karma, voluntarily returns to teach and aid those -in a lower state of evolution. You understand that, according to their -theory, a man is bound to return to this earth, whether he will or no, -till his debt of karma has been paid. It is only when that debt is -paid, that the return becomes voluntary; and, when sought, is purely -for the good of mankind.” - -She looked across the heather. - -“It would seem,” said she reflective, “that even that theory makes -something of a call upon faith.” - -“It does,” returned John. “And yet you must see that it reduces -the mystery of pain to terms capable of being grasped by the human -intelligence. It’s the same with every other mystery. There’s the -makeshift in the whole business. On the one hand they allow the -existence of a God presumably infinite; but, on the other hand, they -wish to reduce Him, and His dealings with creation, to terms capable -of understanding by their finite intelligence. But I forgot, strictly -speaking they would not, I suppose, consider their intelligence finite, -since, according to them, there is in every man the potential divinity.” - -“What do they mean?” she asked. “Are they talking about the soul?” - -“In a sense, yes,” returned John. “But the soul, apparently, has no -exact individuality of its own; at least, not a lasting individuality. -It is a spark, an atom, of the Great Whole, which when it has developed -to its utmost, and finished all its work, including possible return -in the body to the earth as a teacher, will eventually receive its -reward by becoming merged and absorbed in the Divine Whole from -whence it proceeded. Apparently, also, if a soul refuses to develop, -it can eventually be extinguished, or what is equivalent to being -extinguished.” - -“It doesn’t seem exactly a pleasant creed,” said she meditative. -“Absorption or extinction, as the two final alternatives, are not what -one might term precisely satisfactory to contemplate. It is certainly -nicer to believe that one retains one’s individuality.” - -“That,” John assured her, “is merely our unconquerable egotism.” - -“Then,” she retorted smiling, “let us hope that it is an egotism your -friend will shortly acquire.” - -There was a little silence. _Monsieur le Chèvre_ had been, for the -moment, forgotten. Certainly his own quiet self-effacement was -conducive to their forgetfulness of him. They were almost at the gate -before she spoke again. - -“I suppose,” she remarked tentatively, “your friend is not perverting -you to his theories.” - -“I trust not,” said John solemnly. And then he added, “I am a Catholic.” - -“Oh!” The ejaculation held the tiniest note of pleasure. Then, after a -second’s pause. “You know that we have a chapel at the Castle.” - -They had gained the lane by now. Antony, who had felt the full -responsibility of defence to rest on his shoulders from the moment -John’s attention had been occupied by a wholly unintelligible--and -probably, in Antony’s eyes, unintelligent--conversation, heaved a deep -sigh. - -“Goats,” said he, “are horrid things.” - -“Do you know,” quoth John, “I really have a slight partiality towards -goats myself.” - -Which speech would have savoured more strongly of truth had the -partiality remained unqualified. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -MURAL PAINTINGS - - -JOHN walked up the flagged path of the churchyard. Sounds of work came -to him through the little Norman doorway--the beating of hammers, the -rasping of saws, the jangle of buckets. - -Arrived at the doorway he paused for a moment to look at the scene -before him. It would seem almost incredible that order should ever be -abstracted from the present chaos, at all events in the space of time -proposed. Doorless, windowless,--in the matter of glass,--it was a mere -shell of a church, filled with scaffolding, planks, barrows, buckets; -echoing with the ceaseless sound of hammering, sawing, chiselling, -planing; while, within the shell, the creators of the various noises -moved and worked like a handful of restless ants. - -John looked towards the scaffolding surrounding the east window. -Perched high on a narrow planked platform was Corin, absorbed in his -work, entirely lost to the sounds around him. - -John picked his way among the scattered débris made for the chancel. -Here there was a ladder roped against a lower platform, from whence, by -means of a second ladder placed thereon, Corin’s eyrie might be gained. -John had his foot on a rung of the first ladder in a trice, swarmed up -it, and a second or so later was giving Corin warning of his approach -by: - -“Behold the little cherub perched aloft.” - -Corin turned. - -“Oh, it’s you, is it? Well, just come and look.” There was suppressed -exultation in his voice. - -John scrambled on to the platform, came alongside Corin,--Corin who -pointed with a triumphant chisel. - -Some half-dozen or so square yards of wall had been cleared of many -coats of plaster, and there, on the original groundwork, stood out thin -red lines vertical and horizontal, flowers in bold outline. - -“Masonry, they call it,” announced Corin, “and the flower is the herb -Robert. Isn’t it gorgeous?” - -Now to the purely uninitiated, to the mere casual observer, the adverb -might have appeared unduly extravagant. What, such a one might have -demanded, was there in a few crude brush lines to justify this mode of -speech? Yet John, artist though he was not, understood, and not only -understood, but endorsed to the full Corin’s rapture. Here was the work -of age-old centuries, the frank expression of some long-ago-forgotten -painter, brought once more to the light of day. Fresh as when first -limned the simple lines glowed crimson from the cream-coloured surface -of the wall. - -“It’s--it’s fine,” said John simply. - -Corin, radiant, beaming, waved his chisel in a comprehensive sweep -around the walls. - -“And think,” cried he exultant, “what more there may be, there -assuredly is, to find. Think what further glories this plaster hides. -Man, it’s hard to restrain one’s impatience and not hack, which would -be a truly disastrous proceeding.” - -John laughed. - -Then, “Try another spot,” he urged. “Here, close by the east window. -I’ll not divert the stroke of the chisel by the faintest whisper.” - -Pretending to a half-reluctance, though at heart, truly, he was nothing -loath to consent, Corin let himself be persuaded. He shifted his -position. By the outer edge of the window splay he raised his chisel -and set himself to work. - -The outer coats of plaster fell in thick flakes before that same -remorseless chisel; they crumbled on to the platform upon which Corin -stood. Below the plaster was a thin substance lying on the wall like a -film. Here the chisel came lightly into play; that film must be removed -carefully, with touch as delicate as the touch of a butterfly’s wing. -It entailed a suspension of breath, an excited prevention of the merest -involuntary quivering of a muscle. The film broke and powdered at the -lightest stroke, covering Corin’s hand and wrist with a soft grey dust. -Breathless he pursued his work; then, suddenly, he stopped, his eyes -gleaming with pleasure. - -John bent forward. Here assuredly was novelty,--no longer the crimson -masonry, but black chevrons set within two narrow black lines showed -on the cream-coloured wall, and extending, it was evident, around the -whole window. - -“Ah!” breathed John. - -Corin nodded, his chisel again raised. - -In places the plaster adhered like glue to the walls; it had to be -chipped away inch by inch, and through sheer force. Here it was that -the work required the greatest skill and dexterity. The pressure of -the chisel by an extra hair’s breadth would have meant the cutting -through of the film below the plaster, and destroying the painting that -lay beneath. It required a fine strength of wrist, the calculation -to a nicety of the depth to which to cut, above all, an infinity of -patience. Yet, again, there were patches where not only the plaster, -but the film with it, flaked away at the lightest stroke, and here the -painting was at its freshest. - -For full twenty minutes John gave close eye to the proceedings. At the -end of that time he sighed, a mere tiny sigh. If Corin heard, he heeded -not. Stepping back a pace he regarded his work, head on one side, soul -absorbed. - -John took him firmly by the arm. - -“I vowed I’d not divert the stroke of the chisel by the faintest -whisper,” he announced. “At the moment shouting would be harmless. -Therefore let me tell you in merely normal tones that I’m hungry.” - -“Hungry!” Corin blinked at him. “What’s the time?” - -“Long past the luncheon hour,” John assured him. “Come!” - -Corin reluctantly laid down his chisel, turned for a final look at -masonry, herb Robert, and chevrons. - -“And to think,” he ejaculated, “that the plaster hides all this! There -must be ten coats of plaster or thereabouts. After the first Goth, -the first horrible Philistine, plastered, no one can have known what -was hidden, and they just went on plastering at intervals. I’ve made -out six plasters for certain,--grey, green, white adorned with awful -scroll-work, purple, green again with more scroll-work, and then this -dingy brown,” he waved his hand towards the walls. “There are other -plasters so stuck together no one can distinguish them, and underneath -it all, this.” He touched a flower in a kind of subdued and dreamy -ecstasy. - -John took him once more kindly but firmly by the arm. - -“It’s extremely beautiful,” he said in a tone conciliatory. “Presently -you shall rhapsodize again to your heart’s content and I’ll help you. -At the moment,” he propelled him gently towards the ladder, “we leave -ecstasy for the mundane, the mere sordid occupation of eating.” - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -MRS. TRIMWELL - - -MRS. TRIMWELL, brisk, black eyed, white-aproned, entered with a covered -dish. - -Corin, deep in an armchair, was smoking a cigarette. - -“I wonder,” said he meditative, between the inhalations of smoke, “what -the old painter of the church down yonder thinks of our proceedings. -It would be interesting to hear his own reflections on the subject. -Presumably he does reflect. If his spirit haunts the church, possibly -some fine evening I shall see him. Then I shall put a question or two.” - -John merely laughed, and approached the table. Mrs. Trimwell, raising -a dish-cover, disclosed two golden-brown soles, perfect samples of her -culinary art. - -“I have never,” continued Corin, still reflective, “seen a spirit, but -I firmly believe that one might be seen under favourable conditions.” - -“Come and eat,” laughed John. - -Mrs. Trimwell eyed Corin for a moment in hesitating fashion. Then she -spoke with the air of one embarking on a weighty question, though -addressing herself to John. - -“There’s never no knowing, sir, what it mightn’t be given you nor any -one to see. I seed an angel myself once.” - -Corin paused in the act of handing John a plate on which reposed one of -the soles. - -“An angel!” he ejaculated. - -John took the plate. - -“An angel!” he echoed dubious. - -“I seed it,” reiterated Mrs. Trimwell, “as plain as I see you. I was -doing my bit of ironing, the baby--that’s the youngest, sir--asleep in -the cradle under the table, so as I could give the rocker a jog with my -foot now and again, and the angel comed in.” - -She paused, watching the effect of her words. - -“But how?” queried John busy with the sole. “Through the window, the -ceiling, or the floor? Angels, you know, are spirits, not corporeal -weighty humans like ourselves. They’d never,” concluded John gravely, -“make an ordinary, an expected entrance.” - -Corin glanced at him sternly. - -“I should have imagined you would have held the matter too sacred for -joking about,” he remarked. - -John smiled gently. - -“This one,” said Mrs. Trimwell firmly, “came through the door. I heard -the outer door click, and said I to myself, ‘That’s Robert for sure.’ -I thought he’d come home a bit earlier. Then the kitchen door clicked. -It opened just a little ways, and the beautifullest angel you ever seed -comed in all floaty-like. I was that scared I dropped my iron--there’s -the heat mark on the baby’s robe to this day--and I made a clean bolt -for the back door. I never thought of the baby nor nothing. And as I -bolted I squinnied over my shoulder, and I seed that angel by the table -all white and shiny.” - -Again she stopped, and regarded John, who was eating steadily. To -Corin, who was all agog for a continuance of the story, she perversely -paid no heed. - -“But--” began John dubious. - -“You may doubt me as much as you like, sir. I wasn’t going back to that -kitchen without a neighbour. I told Vicar myself, sir, and he didn’t -believe me neither, though I’m a truthful woman. For as I says to my -children: ‘You tell the truth at all costs. If you’re in a hole don’t -tell a lie to try and get out of it. Truth will always give you the -surest hand up even though her clutch is a bit severe.’ I’d not deceive -you, sir, and ’tis the truth I’ve spoken as I spoke it to Vicar. I seed -that angel.” - -Finality in her tone she stood there, slightly challenging, yet -respectful withal. - -“Hmm!” mused John. “Your integrity, Mrs. Trimwell, is, I am convinced, -above suspicion. Yet why, do you imagine, should the angel come? What, -do you take it, was the motive for his visit?” - -Mrs. Trimwell approached a step nearer. She lowered her voice to a -confidential whisper. - -“’Twas that day to the minute, sir, as my uncle died.” - -“Ah!” John’s eyes, non-committal in expression, sought the window. -Corin cast a look of scorn at him; then turned, eager, to Mrs. Trimwell. - -“Did you tell the Vicar that?” he demanded. - -“I did, sir,” replied Mrs. Trimwell, including him for the first time -within her range of vision. “But, Lor’, where’s the use of telling -things to he! He don’t understand no more than a Bishop.” - -“Why a Bishop?” thought John in parenthesis. - -“When my Tilda was down with pneumony,” pursued Mrs. Trimwell -reminiscent, “and the doctor said there wasn’t no chance for her, ‘I’ll -see about chances,’ says I. Vicar, he talked about the Will of the Lord -and submitting. ‘It’s not the minute to be talking about submitting -yet,’ says I to him. ‘The Lord may do the willing, and I’m not one to -deny it, but ’tis we do the doing, and it kind of fits in. And if you -think I’m going to leave off fighting for my Tilda till the time comes -as she’s ready to lay out, you’re much mistook.’ He was mistook, sir, -for she’s in the kitchen now a-minding of the baby.” She ended on a -note gloriously triumphant. - -The triumph found quick response in John’s eyes. I fancy he saw here -reflected the attitude of that old-time king, who strove in prayer for -his child, till striving and prayer were no longer of avail. - -“The fighting chance,” murmured Corin, swallowing his last mouthful of -sole. - -Mrs. Trimwell removed the plates and placed cold chicken and salad on -the table. - -“In a manner of speaking it was,” said she, eyeing him with approval. -She moved towards the door, then turned. - -“You will take coffee after lunch?” she asked. - -John looked his assent, yet left it to Corin, as in a manner host, to -give verbal reply to the query. - -“By all means,” replied Corin. “I need,” he assured her, “every atom of -support at your avail.” - -Mrs. Trimwell looked at him commiseratingly. - -“I’ll be bound it’s hard work down there,” said she sympathetically. -“How do you find it, sir?” - -“Interesting,” returned Corin, “distinctly interesting. I feel like an -explorer of bygone centuries penetrating through modern hideousity, -early Victorian crudeness, Puritan dreariness, and various other -glooms, to the sweet, kindly simplicity, the grace, the freshness, the -love of beauty, appertaining to the olden days. I am,” concluded Corin, -helping himself to salad, “crumbling to pieces that which has hidden -beauty, and exposing beauty to the light of day. In other words, I’m -scraping the plaster off the walls of the church, and enjoying myself.” - -Mrs. Trimwell nodded, frank approbation plainly visible on her face. - -“And time it was scraped, too. A mucky looking place it was with them -walls all stained and chipped and mildewed. Not that it hurt me much, -seeing as I never go inside it, except it’s for a christening or a -burial.” - -“Oh!” remarked Corin, and somewhat feebly, be it stated. - -John cast a whimsical look in his direction. - -“I don’t hold with church-going,” pursued Mrs. Trimwell calmly. “Say -your prayers at home if you want to say them, says I. And as for -sermons,--if you’ve heard Vicar talk out of the pulpit whether you will -or no, you don’t run off smiling to hear him talk in it. Leastways I -don’t. There’s some as does, I know.” - -“Oh!” said Corin again, and this time more feebly. (John, I fear me, -was laughing inwardly.) To disagree with Mrs. Trimwell would, Corin -felt, be tantamount to calling her a black kettle, setting up himself -the while as a shiny brass pot, to which title he knew he possessed no -manner of right. Yet to agree!--Well, Corin’s conscience, some hidden -fragment of convention--call it what you will--felt a slight hint of -repugnance at her sentiments. - -There is your man, your male individual, all over. Dogmatic -religion--however vague the dogma--church-going is often outside his -own category, yet for his women folk--any women folk--to speak against -it holds for him a hint of distaste. It just serves to destroy that -soft light of idealism with which he loves to surround women. Every man -has one woman, at least, in this idealistic shrine, or, if he has not, -he is of all men most miserable. And here it is that your adherents -to the old Faith--the oldest Faith in Christendom--have a pull over -your so-called enlightened individual. There is always One Woman to -whom those of that old Faith can turn, one for whom no shrine is too -fair, too lofty,--can be bedecked with no too costly wealth of love and -homage. Here, in this shrine, at her feet, may every idealistic thought -of man towards woman be placed, preserved, and cherished. - -Corin, as already stated, said “Oh!” an ejaculation at once feeble, -utterly lacking in significance of any kind, a mere signal that his -ears had received the speech. - -“Miss Rosamund don’t hold with my views,” went on Mrs. Trimwell, while -John’s heart gave a sudden throb. “Not that I pays over-much heed to -her, being a Papist what’s bound to go to Church and obey their priests -if they don’t want any little unpleasantness in the next world, which -I takes it may be a considerable more unpleasantness than you nor I -would suppose. Still I will say she has a wonderful way of talking a -thing clear, and if I didn’t _know_ that popery was no better than a -worshipping of graven images, I might go for to believe her.” - -Corin glanced anxiously in the direction of John,--John who was eating -chicken with an expressionless face, though I’ll not vouch that his -shoulders didn’t shake a little now and then. - -“Not that Miss Rosamund talks goody talk,” pursued Mrs. Trimwell, -“which is a thing I never could abide in grown-up or child, and burnt -them little tracty books they give my Tilda up to Sunday-school, -setting of her off to talk texes to me and her father, which we didn’t -smack her for though she deserved it. But there, she’d have been -thinking she was an infant prodigal and a Christian martyr if we had. -No; I just said how if she was so fond of texes she could learn a few -more instead of going along blackberrying with the other children, and -I sets her down to get a chapter of the Gospels by heart. We didn’t -hear no more of texes after that, didn’t me and her father,” concluded -Mrs. Trimwell dryly. - -Indubitably the corners of John’s mouth were twitching now. Then Mrs. -Trimwell’s eye caught his. Laughter came, whole-heartedly to John, to -Mrs. Trimwell first with a note of half apology, over which the entire -humour of the reminiscence presently got the upper hand. Corin joined -in somewhat relieved. He had feared lest John’s feelings might be hurt. - -“When I thinks of Tilda setting there not knowing whether to sulk or -pretend she liked it!” ejaculated Mrs. Trimwell after a moment. She -wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes with her apron. “But there, -it was coffee I was going after, and not memories of my Tilda.” - -Mrs. Trimwell vanished. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -FLIGHTS OF FANCY - - -CORIN looked dubiously at John. - -“She talks a good deal,” quoth he tentatively. - -“I have,” returned John, “conceived a great affection for Mrs. -Trimwell. Her ideas are original. She has, also, a distinct prejudice -in favour of speaking her mind with a candour and verve which I find -undeniably refreshing. Yes; certainly I have conceived an affection for -her.” - -Corin snorted. - -“Every man to his own taste,” said he. “For my part I find her -over-fluent of speech.” - -“That,” replied John, “arises merely from a tendency I have frequently -noted in you to monopolize the whole conversation; to mop it, so to -speak, into your own sponge, thereby leaving the sponges of others bone -dry.” - -“I have never,” retorted Corin, “observed that your sponge lacked -moisture, if you will use terms of parable instead of straightforward -words. But to leave Mrs. Trimwell for the moment. How did you enjoy -the morning? Did I expand one whit too freely on the glories of the -surrounding country? Is there not colour,--radiant, vital colour at -every turn?” - -“I’ll allow there’s sufficient beauty hereabouts,” conceded John. - -“And you had a pleasant time? Own to the truth. It was worth while -sacrificing sun-baked streets for wide stretches of glorious moorland?” - -“Oh, I’ll own to the worth whileness of it,” laughed John, hugging a -delicious secret to his heart. - -Corin shrugged his shoulders. - -“You might be a trifle more expansive,” he grumbled. “You might give -me an epitome of your morning’s experiences. There was I, perched -like a hen on a henroost, slaving my life out for four hours, while -you were enjoying glorious freedom. I said to myself, he’ll return -enthusiastic. I’ll have, at least, a second-hand experience of purple -moorland, sun-kissed sea, and cool green woods. And all the man has -done is to smile oracularly, and admit to beauty when the admission -was fairly dragged from his lips. No; don’t begin to rhapsodize now. -It’s too late. I wanted spontaneity, a first fine careless rapture. And -by dragging, pulling, and tugging, I get a bare admission of beauty -grudgingly made.” - -John laughed again. It must be confessed that he was in a peculiarly -lighthearted mood. - -“I’ll attempt no rhapsody, no poetic flights of fancy, since the -psychological moment for so doing has, according to you, passed. I’ll -give you the mere salient facts of the morning, the chiefest being that -I played St. George to the dragon.” - -Corin eyed him suspiciously. - -“I have an idea I heard you remark ‘no poetic flights of fancy,’ a -moment agone,” he suggested. - -“I did,” retorted John, “and I adhere to that remark. Here is fact -pure and simple. But, for your better convincing, I will state that -the dragon had for the moment disguised itself as a goat,--a large, a -playful, black and white goat. The disguise was good, I’ll allow, but,” -concluded John dramatically, “I penetrated it.” - -Corin sighed. - -“If you could divest your speech of symbolism,” said he pathetically, -“and give me facts in plain English.” - -“No symbolism I assure you,” protested John. “It was a goat,--a black -and white goat. It curved, it gavotted, it gambolled, thereby causing -much distress to a fair lady and her two attendant knights, who were, -believe me, hardly of an age to deal convincingly with either goats or -dragons. Then, behold, enter St. George.” He struck himself upon the -chest. - -“Oh!” Corin began to find a thread of reasonableness among the -nonsense. “Who was the lady, I wonder?” - -“She told me,” said John, “that her name was Miss Rosamund Delancey.” -He experienced a strange sensation of pleasure in pronouncing the words. - -“Oh!” said Corin a second time. “From the Castle.” - -“From the Castle,” echoed John. - -Corin reflected, mused. Finally, seeing that John had come to an end of -the repast, he pushed back his chair, rose from the table, and lighted -a cigarette. - -“I have heard a rumour,” said he, the cigarette lighted, “that they -are shortly leaving the Castle on account of some claimant who has -turned up. I can’t remember the whole story. I know it struck me as -sufficiently melodramatic at the moment,--murders, missing documents, -and little Adelphi touches of that kind were mixed up in it. But I -daresay it’s nothing but a rumour.” - -“Let us trust so,” said John devoutly. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -AN OLD PRIEST - - -FATHER MALONEY was in a mood, which, it must be confessed, was -distinctly unfavourable to his peace of mind. And not only his peace -of mind, but his appetite had suffered considerably thereby. Cold -corned beef and plum tart had been so much sawdust between his lips, -flavourless and exceeding dry. Even his after-luncheon pipe failed to -rouse him to a cheerier outlook on life in general. Now, when the joys -of tobacco had ceased to woo him, matters had, indeed, come to a pretty -pass. Anastasia, his housekeeper, clearing away the débris of the meal, -eyed him solicitously. - -“You’re not ill, Father?” she asked, her black eyes snapping anxiety in -his direction. - -For a moment he roused himself. - -“Not at all, not at all,” he responded with a show of briskness, only -to relapse once more into gloom. - -Anastasia shook her head. - -“It’ll be that moidering business up to the Castle, I’m thinking,” -quoth she to herself, her lips tightening in a manner that would have -augured ill for the author of the business had he been anywhere within -sighting distance. - -Returning to the kitchen she addressed a fervent, and, it must be -confessed, slightly authoritative decade of the rosary to Our Blessed -Lady, before beginning to wash up plates and dishes. To her mind -_something_ had to be done. Herein her mind and that of old Biddy the -nurse up at the Castle were distinctly in accord. - -For one hour--two hours, perhaps--Father Maloney sat in his old -armchair. During that time he endeavoured, with some degree of success, -to say his office with attention. Then he once more lapsed into gloomy -retrospection and anticipation. - -Since midday the world--the pleasant, material, sunny world--had been -turned upside down for him. It is true that this inversion had been -looked for, feared, for the last six months, but that fact did not -prevent the present phenomenon from being any the less unpleasant when -it actually occurred. It requires a peculiarly level head, not to say -a certain degree of something almost akin to callousness, to regard -matters from so totally different a point of view. It is a position to -which you cannot readily adjust yourself. At all events Father Maloney -found it one to which he could not readily adjust himself. It required -a supreme effort on his part merely to hang on, so to speak. - -“Sure, and I ought to have been more prepared for it,” he muttered to -himself. - -Getting out of his chair he went into the little hall, reached down his -hat, and took his stick from the stand. Anastasia saw him through the -open door of the kitchen. She came to it, a small dried-up woman. - -“You’re not going out without your tea, Father,” she protested. “The -water in the kettle is boiling this very minute.” - -“I’ll not be wanting any tea,” returned Father Maloney opening the -front door. - -Anastasia went back into the kitchen, shaking her head sorrowfully at -the steaming kettle on the stove. - -Father Maloney went slowly down the lane. It was powdered thickly with -white dust, since, for a fortnight past at least, the sky by day had -been blue and brazen, at night starlit and cloudless. - -Two small girls passed him, belonging to his own flock. They dipped him -profound curtseys, glancing at him with bright bird-like eyes. He gave -but abstracted response to their salutation, which fact elicited from -them surprised and regretful comment as soon as he was out of earshot. -Though, for that matter, they might, at the moment, have reproached him -under his very nose, and gained no hearing. - -Leaving the lane presently, he turned through a gate, and up the slope -of a grassy field. He had need of wider expanses than the hedged-in -lane afforded him. - -He climbed slowly, pausing every now and then to take breath. At last -he gained the summit. Finding the sun distinctly warm, and being heated -by the ascent, he lowered himself slowly on to the short dry grass. So -busy was he with his own reflections, that he did not perceive a young -man lying in the shade of a blackberry bush some hundred or so paces -to his right. But it is very certain that the young man saw him; and, -seeing him, observed him intently. - - * * * * * - -When Corin had returned to his work, John had again betaken himself to -the open. - -It was fairly obvious, so concluded John shrewdly, that a route -chosen for a morning ramble was not likely to be again sought in the -afternoon. The proceeding would savour too strongly of unoriginality of -ideas. But, so he pondered within his mind, it was just possible that -some other route might be chosen, and that by the favour of the gods he -might hit upon it. Therefore he had set out, leaving matters to those -same gods. - -Having, after circumlocutious and disappointed walking, gained -his present post of eminence, he had lain down in the shadow of a -blackberry bush to muse over, and carp at, the fickleness of the gods -to whom he had trusted, and incidentally to survey the surrounding -country for a moving white-robed figure. - -Till this present, no figure of any kind had come within his range of -vision; then, five minutes or so agone, turning his eyes leftwards, he -had perceived a stout elderly priest climbing the hillside towards him. - -Here was some solace. If it were not the rose herself, it was at -least one who, it might pretty safely be concluded, was tolerably -well acquainted with the rose. A small backwater of a place, such as -Malford, does not, he might suppose, yield many priests, nor even, -presumably, more than one. There was little doubt in his mind but that -the approaching figure was the priest who officiated at Delancey Chapel. - -John observed him intently, as I have said. He saw him lower himself on -to the grass with the slow deliberate movement of a stoutish man, saw -him gazing straight in front of him. From his position John had a view -of his face in something less than profile, but it was the dejection of -his attitude, rather than his face, that at the moment impressed our -John. He watched him, intent, absorbed. - -“Something,” observed John mentally, “has recently upset his -equilibrium. Like a wise man he has come into the open to gain -restoration of balance.” - -Which mental observation showed John to be possessed of no little -shrewdness, as you will perceive. And then, by a really marvellous leap -of intuition, he bounced straight into the heart of affairs, went in -with a splash, and came up gasping. - -“Oh!” cried John to his soul, “that rumour, that obnoxious and -detestable rumour is true, and he has just been made aware of the -unassailable fact. The poor old fellow!” - -No wonder he looked dejected, no wonder he gazed with all his eyes in -the direction of the towers of Delancey Castle plainly visible above -the distant trees. If the rumour were true, and John was now very -certain of its truth, it was enough to wring tears from the heart of a -flint, to call forth protestation from the tongueless trees and mute -stones of the old Castle itself. - -An American claimant to that place! that utterly and entirely English -place! Its very walls, its surrounding trees and fields, were so -unmistakably and undeniably English. You might have taken up the whole -thing and planted it down in any remote and unexpected quarter of the -globe that you had chosen, and its whole atmosphere would have shrieked -its English origin dumbly, but quite, quite explicitly, at you. At any -time its origin would have been unassailable, and truly fifty times -more so at this present moment, as it lay serene and peaceful in the -blue and golden warmth of an August afternoon. - -And now it was to be claimed by an American. - -John suffered from no racial prejudice, I would have you to believe; -but there were some things that could be, and some things that could -not be. And for Delancey Castle to be in any but English hands would -be, to his way of thinking, a thing as incongruous and impossible as -that a Chinese should don the kilt of the Highlander, or that a South -Sea Islander should assume the Irish brogue. Oh, it was preposterous, -preposterous, preposterous. It was altogether unthinkable and -unimaginable. - -And then suddenly he was aware of a difference in the old priest’s -attitude. It was a tiny difference, a subtle and quite inexplicable -difference, nevertheless it existed. And all at once John felt himself -a bit of an intruder, looking at what he had no atom of right to see. -Had he not feared that movement would make his presence known, he would -have moved on the instant. As it was he became absorbed in pulling up -small blades of grass from the ground. He pulled at them fiercely, his -eyes fixed upon them, the while he was most intensely aware of that -motionless old figure a hundred paces from him. - -At length a sound--it might have been a half cough--caused him to raise -his eyes again. He saw the old priest pulling a pipe and tobacco pouch -from his pocket. - -John watched him. The pipe filled, and the pouch replaced, Father -Maloney still fumbled at his pockets. It would appear that something -was missing. - -“Matches!” said John. And cautiously he heaved himself to his feet. -Softly he advanced some steps, came to a line directly behind the old -priest, then marched boldly forward. - -“Can I be of any use?” John held out a box towards him. - -Father Maloney looked up surprised. - -“I’m much obliged. Where did you appear from?” - -“From over there.” John waved his hand in a backward and non-committal -direction. “I saw you intended lighting your pipe, but your intentions -were being frustrated.” - -“Can’t think how I forgot them,” said Father Maloney pulling at his -pipe. - -John dropped on to the ground beside him. - -“What a view!” he announced in a pleasantly conversational tone. “And -what a day!” - -“It is that indeed,” returned Father Maloney cheerfully. - -John hugged himself inwardly. - -“He’s got the hang of things again, brave old fellow!” he ejaculated -mentally. “But I’d give a very great deal to know the veritable -standpoint of affairs.” - -Aloud he said. “Am I right in imagining that you are the chaplain of -Delancey Castle?” - -“I am,” said Father Maloney. “What made you think so?” - -“Well,” said John airily, “one does not expect to see a superabundance -of priests in a Protestant country, and when it comes to a minute spot -such as this, where you happen to know there is one priest,--well, when -you see him, you imagine he’s the one,” concluded John explicitly. - -Father Maloney’s eyes twinkled. - -“Under the circumstances, as stated by you, the inference might be -drawn,” quoth he. - -And then followed a little silence. Both men were looking towards -Delancey Castle, and it may be pretty safely conjectured that the -thoughts of both were occupied by that same Castle. - -John, if the truth be known, was longing--fervently longing--that the -old priest should give voice to that matter, which, he was fully aware, -was uppermost in their minds. For him to broach the subject would, he -feared, savour too strongly of impertinence on the part of a complete -stranger. Yet it is very certain that, without any undue curiosity on -his part, he desired intensely to know the actual rights of the case, -to arrive at the veritable truth of the rumour which had twice reached -his ears. - -Now whether John’s desire was sufficiently intense to communicate -itself to Father Maloney, or whether it was that the subject which -so absorbed the old priest’s mind was bound to find an outlet in -speech, you may settle as best pleases you. For my part, I have no -definite opinion to offer on the matter, though I sway slightly in -favour of the latter conclusion. When every nook and cranny of the -mind is filled with a thought which increases in volume the more it is -absorbed, there comes a point when an outlet in speech is practically -a necessity, and, to my thinking, this point had been reached in the -present case of Father Maloney’s mind. Also it is quite possible that -he recognized the silent and unobtrusive sympathy of John. Certain it -is that he began to speak. - -“I suppose you’ll have heard the news of yonder Castle?” he asked, -pulling at his pipe. - -“I’ve heard rumours,” acquiesced John, “which I devoutly trusted were -nothing more.” - -“I trusted that myself,” said Father Maloney grimly. “But the truth of -them is clinched now, and that’s a fact.” - -“Ah!” said John quietly. And then, “Would you tell me the story? I -should like to hear it, if you wouldn’t mind telling it.” - -“Not at all, since you’d be caring to hear it But it’s a longish tale, -and a bit complicated at that. It might be boring you.” - -“Not a bit of it,” declared John fervently. “I’ve been wanting to hear -the truth of the matter ever since the first rumour reached my ears. -Honestly,” he continued smiling, “it has been nothing but the fear of a -snub that prevented me from broaching the subject the first moment I -dropped on the grass beside you.” - -Father Maloney smiled. - -“Ah, well,” he said. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -AN OLD-TIME TRAGEDY - - -AFTER a moment, during which Father Maloney was, I imagine, sorting -his ideas, seeking for the best beginning to the promised complicated -story, he began to speak. - -“Well, you’ll know, of course, that the Delanceys are a very old -family. The baronetcy dates back to the time of the Crusaders. The -family have never lost the Faith, as we Catholics say. The matter which -has given rise to the present upset happened in the year seventeen -hundred and thirteen. The then baronet was one Sir Michael Delancey, -his wife, Helen, _née_ Montgomery. But sure that’s nothing to do with -the tale at all. There were three children by the marriage, Henry, -Antony, and Rosamund. It was with Henry that the difficulty arose. -He was--well, I fear there’s no denying that he was a rogue, with no -decent feeling in him at all. A card-playing, drinking fella he was, -and not above doing a thought of cheating if it happened that the luck -was going against him. Well, it was in one of these card routs that -things came to a crisis. There was cheating and quarrelling and what -not, and at the end a duel. Henry killed his man, and raced off to his -home to lie low a bit in hiding. The old man--Sir Michael--was sick -of him and his ways by that time, I’m thinking. Anyhow he agreed to -smuggle him out of the country, but on one condition, and here’s the -first, and, for that matter, the whole point of the business. Before he -was shipped off he had to sign some paper or other renouncing all claim -to the property, indeed disinheriting himself in favour of his younger -brother, Antony. Somehow it seems that the old man had not the right to -disinherit him himself.” - -“Entail, I suppose,” said John lighting a fresh cigarette. - -“Something of the kind, I’ve no doubt,” returned Father Maloney. -“Legally, I’m thinking, he’d still have inherited the title, but -the bargain was that he was to go off for ever, be, in a manner of -speaking, dead to the heritage of his forebears in any shape or form. -And his heirs to be dead to it likewise. Be that as may be, he went -off, having renounced all claim to the property. Five years later his -brother Antony succeeded to it.” - -Father Maloney paused, then a moment later resumed his tale. - -“Antony married Margaret de Courcey, a fine woman from all accounts, -and by her he had four children, Antony, Richard, Rosamund, and -Michael. Now comes along the next point of interest. Ten years after -Sir Antony had succeeded to the property and title, Henry reappeared -upon the scene. There’s no doubt but that he had it in his mind to -make matters as unpleasant for Antony as might be. He was married, so -he said, and had two sons. Margaret was away from home at the time, -and the whole business is clearly shown in letters she received from -her husband, Sir Antony. The letters are still in existence. In them -Sir Antony tells her of Henry’s reappearance, and sets forth his -reluctance to do the obvious thing and inform the law his brother has -returned,--which would have been mightily unpleasant for Henry, I’m -thinking. Sure, he must have been a daring fella to have come back to -England at all. Sir Antony tells her, too, clearly enough, Henry’s -motive in coming, and it’s one a blind man might be seeing without -over-much difficulty. It was the paper he’d signed he was after. If he -could destroy that, why, it would leave his son free to inherit the -title and property at his death. He couldn’t think to be getting them -himself without more of a boggle than he’d have a liking for. But it -would be another matter for his son. You’ll be finding all this in the -first two letters Sir Antony wrote to Margaret, as well as the whole -history of the signing of the paper. Perhaps after a fashion she knew -of that before, but not over-definitely. Anyhow Sir Antony writes it -all down, and it is from that letter we know of the matter. A third -letter, and a shorter one, shows that Sir Antony is getting a trifle -uneasy with Henry hanging around, and that he means to remove the paper -from the strong box, where it was kept, to some hiding-place of sorts. -But never a hint did he give of where that hiding-place would be at -all.” - -“Possibly,” remarked John shrewdly, “he had no mind to put his ideas on -paper.” - -“’Tis more than likely,” returned Father Maloney grimly, “but it’s -a deal of trouble he’d have been saving if he’d given the merest -suspicion of a hint. A fourth letter was sent to Margaret Delancey, -written by one Francis Raymond, a priest. ’Tis a sad letter, and a -fine letter too, for that matter. He begs her to come home without -delay, and tells her of her husband’s death. He goes straight at what -he has to say, and then gives her the comfort the poor soul would -be needing,--though it’s plain he knows the manner of woman she is, -and the courage of her. There’s a hint in his letter of foul play of -some kind. Other papers, Margaret’s own diary among them, tell what -that foul play was. Sir Antony had been found in the park, under an -oak tree, shot through the head. Henry was lying near him, a pistol -not ten inches from his hand, and his throat torn out by Sir Antony’s -wolf-hound.” - -“What a ghastly business!” ejaculated John, as Father Maloney stopped. - -“You may well say that,” remarked Father Maloney. “The matter was plain -enough. Henry had shot his brother with the idea of getting hold of -that precious paper unhindered, but he had forgotten--or, maybe, never -realized--the presence of Sir Antony’s wolf-hound, Gelert. The dog -wasn’t one to let his master’s murderer go unpunished.” - -Again there was a little pause. Father Maloney refilled his pipe. - -“Well,” he said after a minute, “after Sir Antony’s death, his son -Antony came into possession. But--” Father Maloney emphasized the word -with an emphatic movement of his pipe, “that paper desired by Henry had -vanished. Wherever Sir Antony had hidden it, the hiding-place was a bit -too good. It has never been found.” - -“Perhaps,” suggested John tentatively, “Henry had destroyed it.” - -Father Maloney shook his head. - -“Not a bit of it. If Henry had destroyed it before he shot his brother -there’d have been no need for the shooting at all. He shot his brother -to get at the paper, but Gelert was one too many for him. And never a -scrap of paper was found upon, or near him.” - -“And,” said John ruminatively, “that has proved an awkward business.” - -“It has that,” said Father Maloney drily. “A claimant has turned up.” - -“Yes,” said John quietly. - -“Oh, ’tis a pretty boggle,” went on Father Maloney, “it is that. This -fella, this David Delancey arrives from Africa----” - -“Africa!” interrupted John. “I heard he was an American?” - -“Well, ’tis Africa he has come from,” said Father Maloney. “He arrives -as cool as a cucumber. ‘I’m the rightful owner of this place,’ says he -in a letter to Lady Mary. ‘I’ve every proof, and send copies of them.’ -’Tis a long rigmarole how he got hold of them. Of course there was -a lawyers’ investigation. That’s been going on for months. But ’tis -proved now beyond no manner of doubt that he is the direct descendant -of that scoundrel Henry, and not a scrap of legal proof have we got on -our side that Henry ever renounced the claim to the property. There’s -the whole business. Lady Mary got the letter from the lawyer fellas -this morning. ’Tis full of their jargon, but the meaning is plain -enough through it all. David Delancey is the rightful heir, and no -vestige of right has this little Antony here to stick or stone of the -old place.” - -Father Maloney stopped. - -“It’s--it’s preposterous!” ejaculated John hotly. - -Father Maloney smiled, an untranslatable, an enigmatic smile. - -“When does he take possession?” demanded John. - -“Oh, he’s written a decent enough letter,” responded Father Maloney. -“He says there can be time enough taken for the handing over of the -property. ‘Take six months, or a year about it, for that matter,’ says -he. He’ll be coming down here in a day or so to the inn to look around -and get the hang of affairs, though he’s in no way anxious to intrude.” - -“Intrude!” snorted the wrathful John. - -“Well, well,” interpolated Father Maloney soothingly, “he’ll be within -his rights according to those lawyer fellas.” - -John gazed sternly before him. - -“I don’t believe he has an atom of right,” he announced emphatically. - -Again Father Maloney smiled. - -“Well, I’ll allow we’re all of us for that way of thinking ourselves. -But private opinion has never overridden the law yet, without proof in -the plainest black and white to back it up.” - -John heaved a portentous sigh. - -Here, at least, was fact indisputable. Matters for the present -inhabitants of Delancey Castle were at a deadlock, a deadlock of the -tightest and most emphatic kind. There was no denying that a stoic -philosophy was the only course open to them. - -But stoic philosophy on such a matter! How was any living human -creature possessed of a drop of warm tingling blood in his veins to -encompass such a state of being? He saw the trio as they had come -towards him in the August sunshine that morning,--the girl tall, -graceful, breathing vitality, temperament; the merest casual observer -must have felt her extraordinary capacity for feeling things intensely. -Oh, it was no imagination on his part, imagination fed by the white -light of idealism with which he had surrounded her. Verily was there no -imagination on his part. She would suffer in every fibre of her being. -It would be to her like tearing her heart from her. And she would -suffer smiling, he knew that. That’s where the pain would be the more -intense. Those who can bedew a wound with tears bring easing to its -agony. And he told himself she would never shed one tear. He knew he -wasn’t being sentimental. It was the hard bed-rock truth. - -And the boys too! Antony, gay, debonair, valiant little champion! -Michael, a mere clinging, cuddlesome baby! And there was Delancey -Castle before him in the sunlight. - -Of course he didn’t know the place, he was perfectly aware of that -fact, but imagination could well make up for lack of knowledge. In -imagination he saw the gardens, the terraces, the old grey walls, the -dark interior lit by diamond-paned casement windows; he saw the blend -of harmonious colours; he smelt the old-time smell of century-mellowed -oak and leather, the fragrant scents of lavender and _pot-pourri_. -And it was this--this absolutely perfect and fitting frame for that -adorable trio (he had forgotten Lady Mary for the moment) that was -to be snatched from them, and made the frame for a modern, hustling, -nasal-voiced American. - -“What do you think about it?” demanded John sternly, his eyes towards -the distant Castle, but his words intended for the old priest. - -“Sure, I was thinking every bit the same as you’re thinking, till -twenty minutes or so agone,” responded Father Maloney. - -“And now?” demanded John. - -“Glory be to God, is it a sermon you’re wanting?” asked Father Maloney -with a little twinkle in his eyes. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -CORIN THEORIZES - - -CORIN, from the depths of one armchair, regarded John in the depths of -another. - -“For sheer, racy, brilliant conversation commend me to you,” he -remarked sarcastically. “For the last hour at least--I’ve had my eye on -the clock--you’ve uttered no single word. You’ve rivalled the immortal -William’s lover in your sighs. Talk of _a_ furnace, it’s like ten -furnaces you’ve been. Sigh, sigh, and again sigh. What’s the matter -with you, man? Is it love, sorrow, or remorse for an ill-spent youth? -Come, out with it. Disburden your soul of the worm i’ the bud which is -feeding on your damask cheek. Speak, I implore you.” - -John roused himself. - -“Oh,” he responded airily enough, “in the matter of conversation -I fancied we’d had enough of it at dinner--supper--whatever the -original, but wholly appetizing meal might be called. We conversed -pretty tolerably, I fancy.” - -“Conversation!” Corin’s voice expressed a depth of utter scorn. -“Conversation! If that’s what he calls the airy, frothy, soap-bubble -words which fell from his lips! Oh, you didn’t deceive me. I saw -in them the mere cloak to an aching heart. You just over-did the -lighthearted careless rôle. You’ve said fifty times more in the last -hour. But now I want the translation, the interpretation. Where’s the -use of first frivolling, and then glooming? Strike the happy medium. -Come, consider me a confidant,” he ended on a note of coaxing. - -John laughed. Then he relapsed into gloom, frowning. - -“It’s no laughing matter,” he said. - -“It wasn’t I who laughed,” urged Corin gently. “Come, tell me.” - -“Oh, well,” said John stretching out his legs. And forthwith he set -himself to speak, succinctly, concisely. - -“Bless the man!” cried Corin at the end of the recital, “so it’s that -that’s weighing on his mind.” - -“Well?” demanded John surprised, and not a little injured. “And isn’t -it enough to weigh on a man’s mind? Isn’t it an entirely unparalleled -situation? Isn’t it an unthinkable, inconceivable situation?” - -Corin waved his cigarette in the air. - -“Oh, I’ll grant you all that. But you’re too susceptible. You’re -too--too ultra-sympathetic. It isn’t _your_ Castle. It isn’t _your_ -relation that has appeared unwanted from the other side of Nowhere. It -isn’t _you_ who have got to take a back seat and see Americans vault -over your head into the position you have just vacated.” He stopped. - -“Oh, well,” said John frigidly, “if that’s the way you look at things.” - -Corin sighed. - -“It’s the only sensible way.” - -“Hang sense,” muttered John. - -“My dear fellow,” urged Corin soothingly, “look at matters in a -reasonable light. Here are you sighing, frowning, suffering real -mental pain on behalf of a family--a quite picturesque and interesting -family, I’ve no doubt, but one with which you have the barest bowing -acquaintance, the merest superficial knowledge. Your attitude isn’t -reasonable, it’s altogether exaggerated and beside the mark.” - -“It’s merely ordinary decent human sympathy,” retorted John. - -Corin raised his light arched eyebrows till they nearly touched his -light straight hair. - -“Then,” he remarked coolly, “defend me from your company when you are -suffering from extraordinary human sympathy. Seriously, though,” he -went on, “aren’t you being a trifle _exalté_ in the matter? Aren’t you -plunging the sword of sympathy a bit too deeply into your heart? For a -moment--just for one brief infinitesimal moment--consider facts as they -are. Here are we two, dropped by the merest chance upon this place, -fallen upon it by the merest freak of fortune--three weeks ago I’d -never even heard of its existence--and we’ve really no more individual -connection with it than with--with Mount Popocatepetl. What possible -reason, or, I might say, what right or justification, has either one of -us to take to heart the private and personal trials of a family living -here. It’s--it’s almost an impertinence. We aren’t in the picture at -all. We’re altogether superfluous to them. Look at the whole thing -from the point of view of an audience,” continued Corin blandly. “A -month or two hence the curtain will have fallen on this little drama, -as far as we are concerned. We aren’t on the stage at all.” - -John smiled, a little grim smile, provoked, no doubt, by the eminent -common-sense of Corin’s statement. - -“You have a really wonderfully level way of regarding matters,” he -remarked. - -“Isn’t it common-sense?” demanded Corin. - -“Oh, yes, it’s common-sense right enough,” conceded John airily. - -“You see,” continued Corin, secretly immensely pleased with what he -considered the success of his theorems, “you see it is absolutely and -entirely impossible for us as individuals to take to heart, deeply to -heart, each individual grief of each individual person in the world. -Consider, man, if one did, every perusal of the daily papers would be -fraught with soul-agonizings, with horrible heart-burnings. It would -become a sheer wasting of the nervous tissues, an utter and entire -uneconomic expenditure of the sympathies. Also,” concluded Corin, -speaking now at top speed, “though you, in your isolated superiority of -an orthodox religion, refuse to admit my theories, it is nevertheless -a fact that all suffering is the outcome of justice, in a word, of -karma, the inevitable demand for the payment of those debts which every -individual has at one time or another voluntarily contracted.” - -John grinned. - -“I’ve heard that theory of yours before,” he remarked. - -“Oh, I know your didymusical tendencies,” retorted Corin. - -John laughed. - -“I should have supposed,” quoth he, “that the shoe fitted another foot.” - -But in his heart he was considering three points--three questions -raised by a previous speech in the foregoing conversation. Firstly, was -it a mere freak of fortune that had brought him to Malford? Secondly, -would the curtain presently fall on the drama so far as he was -concerned? Thirdly, had Father Maloney considered his palpable sympathy -in the business an impertinence? - -To firstly and secondly his heart cried an emphatic negative. Thirdly, -after all, was a minor consideration; but, having in mind Father -Maloney’s shrewd old eyes, John was disposed to answer that question -likewise in the negative. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -IN AN OLD CHURCH - - -THE next two days were _dies non_ as far as John was concerned, since -never a glimpse did he obtain of white-robed figure or attendant -knights, despite sun-baked rambles along dusty roads, deep lanes, and -over purple moorland. - -He began to carp at that freakish sprite Chance. Matters might have -been so differently arranged by him. Taking them in hand at all, they -could have been conceived with so infinitely greater diplomacy. Where, -after all, had been the use of a mere goat? Why could not a bull--a -ferocious, snorting, pawing bull--have been brought on to the stage. -A bull must have entailed some further acknowledgment of the heroic -rescue. He might even have been slightly injured in the course of that -same rescue. In that case inquiries would have followed as a matter -of course, maybe even a visit of sympathetic and grateful condolence. -But a goat! a mere goat! With time and safety in which to consider the -situation, it had doubtless presented itself to the lady’s mind as one -of ridiculous insignificance. Her alarm was, probably, by now almost -laughable in her own eyes; and, in the face of this calm consideration, -John’s advance to the rescue would, therefore, have savoured somewhat -what of an intrusion. Verily had Chance been freakish and ill-advised. - -“Could I but build me a willow cabin at her gates,” sighed John. “But -to sit on the sun-baked road would undoubtedly gain one the reputation -of a madman in these prosaic, self-contained days.” - -Nevertheless he wandered past those same gates more times than I will -venture to record, and gazed ardently along the avenue of oaks and -beeches, but with no reward for his pains. - -To bring solace to his soul, he bethought himself of Sunday. Sight of -her, at least, must be then permitted him; speech with her, though a -good devoutly to be desired, was not probable of consummation. Also, -with distinct and genuine success he interested himself in Corin’s -labours. - -The work in the church progressed. Daily the plaster fell before that -remorseless chisel, daily new delights shone forth to the light of -day. The tracery of the east window was uncovered; showing brilliant -blue-green, with glowing ruby eyes. Great splashes of colour, bold yet -simple outline, transformed the dreary, hitherto plastered place into -a thing of mediæval beauty. The progress of time vanished with the -falling plaster. You found yourself back in the old centuries, the dead -years revitalized. - -John sought the church most willingly when the workmen’s hours were -over, when silence lay upon the place, when the only sounds that -came to him were the falling of fragments from the walls, the echo -of Corin’s foot upon the plank as he shifted his position, and the -twittering and chirping of the birds from the bushes in the sunny -churchyard without. - -At such time imagination ran riot. - -He pictured the village folk coming up the path among the lengthening -shadows, saw them entering by the little Norman doorway, taking holy -water from the stoup, then kneeling before Christ in the Blessed -Sacrament. To him the church was no longer an empty shell, but a place -of crimson draperies, dark oak pews, scattered shrines; with here and -there a kneeling figure; and above all, superseding all, the quiet -strength and peace of the Hidden Presence. - -Presently he began to individualize his village folk. There was a -fair-haired girl who came to pray for her lover, to commend him -specially to Our Lord and St. Joseph, since he--her man--was a -carpenter. There was a dark-eyed woman who came to plead for the life -of her child lying sick of a fever; there was a young man who came -to dedicate his youth and strength to God; and there was an old, old -woman, who, having no living to pray for, came daily to pray for the -holy dead. The present had vanished, merged and absorbed in the past. -Despite all that has been lost, removed, abandoned, despite the denial -of entry to that Gracious Presence, does there not still linger in -these old churches some faint sweet breath, some hidden fragrance of -that which once has been? - -You would never have imagined, seeing John sitting there in his most -immaculate suit of grey flannels, that such thoughts as these were -passing through his mind. But I have observed, and you may take my -observation for what it is worth, that to attempt to guess at the -minds of one’s fellow humans by their clothes and their superficial -appearance, is a distinctly dangerous task. To do so must inevitably -result in a series of vast surprises when the truth becomes known. - -To my thinking it would be not unlike marching into some great clothing -emporium to examine coats. There they hang,--tweed coats, frieze coats, -fur coats, silk coats, velvet coats, satin coats, tinsel coats, even -second-hand and shop-worn coats. You turn them to look at the linings. -Now, here the shock begins. Where you expected to find warm linings you -find calico; where good material, rags; where flimsy useless linings, -cloth of gold and soft fur; where soiled linings, the most exquisite -satins. Therefore, if you desire to make a guess at the substance of -these coats, without actual knowledge of their linings, take them from -their peg and weigh them. A discrepancy between their weight and your -expectation of it may lead you nearer a fair guess at the lining. - -I’ll be bound, that, on mere superficial observation, you’d have taken -our John for a mere summer coat of little substance and no weight; -but assuredly you’d find your mistake when you had examined a bit -closer. It is an idiosyncrasy of human nature, perhaps intentional -on the part of the individual, perhaps unavoidable, that the vast -majority invariably deceives the casual observer. No doubt this lends -interest to our acquaintanceships and friendships; often, too, lends -disappointment; and occasionally unexpected pleasure; but interest -certainly. - -Here, however, I have advanced somewhat with John’s meditations, -carried them beyond those first days of which I began to speak. -Therefore to return on our traces. - -That first Saturday afternoon John, sitting on an overturned -wheelbarrow, began something of those thoughts of which I have given -you the greater elaboration. I don’t believe for a moment that he knew -that he was thinking them. There’s the curious joy of such thoughts. -There is no conscious effort on your part. You don’t map out a route -in your mind resolving your progress along it, a conscientious -observance of the milestones you may pass. Insensibly you drift into -peaceful glades, silent and very sweet. Their atmosphere steals upon -you, holding your spirit in a breathless charm. Happiness, a strange -wonderful happiness, falls upon you. You accept it in its entirety, -taking, at the moment, no note of details. Later, returning to more -material consciousness and surroundings, the details present themselves -to your memory, and you then realize your awareness of them, even while -they were submerged in the whole. - - * * * * * - -It was cool in the church, in marked contrast to the heat without. -Being Saturday afternoon, John and Corin had the place to themselves. -Corin, up aloft, chiselled with vigour, or with suspended breath, -as the exigencies of the work demanded; John, on the overturned -wheelbarrow, was lost in thought. - -Suddenly a slight sound made him raise his head. For a moment, for one -brief instant, he still remained in the past, almost believing his -thoughts to have materialized before him. - -In the shadow of the little Norman doorway stood a white-robed figure. -Still half dreaming he looked to see her take holy water from the -stoup. Then actualities rushed upon him. His heart jumped; pleasure, -undeniable radiant pleasure, shone from his face. He got to his feet. - -“Oh,” said Rosamund perceiving him. And she stopped, half hesitating. - -John made her a little courtly bow. - -“I thought,” said she smiling, “I should have found the place deserted. -It is Saturday afternoon.” - -“It is deserted,” John assured her, “but for me and Corin.” He -indicated the indefatigably industrious figure aloft. - -She smiled. - -“I came,” said she, “with the intention of having a private view, a -little secret examination of the paintings Mr. Elmore was uncovering.” - -“Oh!” said John. And then dubiously, “The uncovered paintings are, as -you see, at a goodly height above us.” - -“Yes.” Her voice was regretful. - -John heard the regret. - -“I wonder--” he began. - -“I _could_,” she assured him, with swift realization of his unspoken -thought. - -He glanced towards the ladder. - -“Really?” he queried. - -She nodded. “Really. I am sure I could.” - -“Come then,” said John. - -They advanced towards the ladder. At the foot thereof she paused. - -“Shan’t we be disturbing him?” she queried. - -“Not a bit of it,” laughed John. “He’ll merely be flattered at your -interest. He’ll adore an audience.” - -The situation had for him the hint of an adventure. To have told her -curtly,--or suavely, for that matter,--that it was impossible for her -to see those paintings would have resulted in her leaving the church. -There could have been no possible excuse for her remaining. This -thought justified him in suggesting the venture. Naturally it was an -infinitely greater venture in his eyes than in Rosamund’s. That is -probably understood without need of my mentioning the fact. - -John, in advance, reached the first platform; turned, took her hand -firmly in his, and drew her to safety. A second time was this feat -accomplished in like manner. - -“Hullo!” exclaimed Corin, surprised at the double apparition. - -“Allow me,” said John, “to present my friend, Mr. Elmore. Miss Delancey -wanted to see the paintings.” - -“Therein,” quoth Corin bowing, “she shows her judgment. Behold!” He -waved his chisel towards the wall. - -“Oh!” breathed Rosamund. Just that, and no more. - -Corin hugged himself with delight. - -“Isn’t it gorgeous!” he ejaculated. “Isn’t it superb, adorable, and -dreamy! And heaven knows what more this plaster hides. The unutterable -Philistines who smeared and daubed it over from the light of day!” - -“Is it not,” suggested Rosamund, “a matter for thankfulness that they -did merely smear and daub? It is possible, it is quite conceivable, -that they might have scraped.” - -Corin shuddered. - -“Don’t suggest such a possibility,” he implored. “I’ll confess my -thankfulness for the daubing.” - -She barely heard him. She was engrossed in the work before her,--red, -black, turquoise blue, and crimson, she revelled in its colour. Daring -enough it was in parts, in others almost crude in its simplicity. She -was drawn, as John had been drawn, back into the bygone ages. Their -atmosphere enfolded her, enwrapped her. She saw in the work before -her, almost without realizing her thoughts, the interpretation of the -mind of the painter. Here was nothing petty, nothing niggled; it was -frank, simple, childlike. It was extraordinarily unselfconscious. -Therein lay its subtle charm. There was no intricacy of expression; -nothing laboured; almost, one might say, nothing preconceived. - -“Well?” queried John at last. - -“Oh,” she cried, turning towards him, “it’s--it’s so deliciously -simple, so utterly unstudied. It’s almost untutored in its crudeness, -and yet--I wonder wherein exactly the charm lies?” - -“In its simplicity,” returned Corin promptly. “Whoever painted this -worked for pure pleasure. There’s--well, there’s so extraordinarily -little hint of even the thought of an audience. Do you know what I -mean?” - -“Isn’t it,” she said laughing, “the entire expression of ‘when the -world was so new and all’?” - -“_Exactly!_” cried Corin. “In those eight little words Kipling carried -us back into a clean fresh world with its face all washed and smiling; -when we laughed for the mere joy of laughter; when we wept if we wanted -to weep--only I believe we didn’t want to; when the tiresome stupid -phrases ‘What will people think? What will people say?’ were unknown in -the language; when we danced, and ate, and played in the sunshine for -the mere joy of living.” - -“Only that?” she queried, her eyebrows raised. - -“Only that,” said Corin firmly. “Kipling is a glorious pagan.” - -“Oh!” She was dubious. “I wonder.” - -“And this painter,” pursued Corin unheeding, “splashed his colours on -the walls, his blacks, his reds, his blues, his lines and curves, and -he laughed as he worked, and I think he sang too, and he didn’t care -one jot what people thought about him or his painting. He loved it, and -so--” He broke off with a gesture. - -“But,” quoth she demurely, “I suppose you don’t intend to infer that -_he_ was a pagan?” - -“Oh, you can _call_ him what you like,” returned Corin magnanimously, -“I only know that his mind was as untrammelled as his work.” - -“I see.” She shot him a little quizzical glance. - -Ten minutes later, standing once more on the floor of the church, she -said to John, smiling: - -“I suppose Mr. Elmore considers your mind, and my mind, and, for the -matter of that, the mind of every Catholic in a kind of strait-jacket?” - -“You’re not far beside the mark,” returned John laughing. - -He went with her to the door. A moment she stood there; and, turning, -looked back into the church. - -“After all, it’s sad,” she said. - -“I know,” replied John. - -“It’s--it’s the sense of loss.” - -“I know,” said John again, “the sense of loss, in spite of the faint -fragrance that still lingers.” - -She nodded, then turned towards the sunshine without. - -“By the way,” said she suddenly reminiscent, “I left a note for you at -the White Cottage. My grandmother would be very pleased if you and Mr. -Elmore would lunch with us tomorrow at one o’clock. She would like to -thank you in person for your intervention on our behalf the other day. -Can you come?” - -“With the greatest pleasure in the world,” returned John. And there is -no question but that his heart was in his voice. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -THE WICKEDNESS OF MOLLY BIDDULPH - - -YOU perceive, therefore, that Chance had truly played the game well. -John--a radiant John--apologized within his soul for his one-time -doubt of the Sprite’s arrangement of affairs. The sun immediately -shone brighter, the sky was bluer, the earth an altogether fairer and -lovelier place. - -He made his way swiftly back to the White Cottage. There, in the -parlour, he found what he sought, a pale grey envelope lying on the -table. Quickly he broke the seal, perused the opening words: - -“My grandmother desires me....” - -John’s heart thumped madly. It was exactly as he had hoped,--her -handwriting, her signature! The faintest scent of lavender was wafted -to him from the paper. - -“We shall be lunching at Delancey Castle tomorrow,” said John, with -a fine air of casualness, to Mrs. Trimwell, who was setting out the -tea-things. Inwardly he was aware that an almost idiotic smile of -pleasure was wreathing itself about his lips. - -Mrs. Trimwell beamed. You might have fancied, seeing her, that the -invitation had been extended to herself. - -“I’m glad,” said she, heartily and concisely. “You need cheering up a -bit.” - -“I do?” John was surprised. - -“Yes,” replied Mrs. Trimwell. “I’ve noticed well enough that you’ve -been down on your luck like these last three days, and no wonder with -not a soul to speak to except Mr. Elmore, and him everlasting on -ladders chiselling of the walls, which it isn’t the easiest way to be -talking at the same time, I’ll be bound. You’ve done nothing but wear -yourself out a-trapezing round the country in the heat, and come home -that tired you’ve no stomach for your food. I’ve eyes in my head.” Mrs. -Trimwell nodded emphatically. - -“Oh, but really--” began John feebly, and with something like a queer -sense of guilt, “I haven’t----” - -“You’ve been dull,” reiterated Mrs. Trimwell firmly, “and if you _say_ -you haven’t you don’t deceive me, no more than my Tilda did when she -come into the house half an hour agone looking for all the world like -a choir boy a-singing of hymns. ‘Where ha’ you been, Tilda?’ says I. -Tilda, she glinted at me out of the corner of her eye. ‘Oh, round and -about, mother,’ says she. ‘And ’tis round and about with Molly Biddulph -you’ve been then,’ I says. And Tilda, she begins to snivel, knowing -I’ve told her times out of number I won’t have her going around with -Molly, who’s the worst young limb of mischief to the village. There’s -nothing that child won’t do, from getting unbeknownst into Jane Kelly’s -shop and changing the salt and sugar in the jars, to tampering with the -very books in the church itself. Did I ever tell you about her and the -banns of marriage, sir?” - -“You did not,” replied John. - -“It was her cousin from Dublin what helped her, I know,” announced Mrs. -Trimwell, “being a boy, and good at writing, and old enough to think of -the wickedness. But ’twas Molly stole the key, as Father Maloney got -her to own, and seeing she goes to his church, being Irish papists, I -wonder he don’t keep her in better order. Vicar, he was away for a -Sunday or two, and got another parson what he called a lokomtinum to -come down. Molly, she stole the key of the vestry from Henry Davies -what’s the verger, and used to keep the key in a china cat on his -parlour mantelpiece, but has carried it tied to his watch chain ever -since, and her and Patsie sneaked off down to the church when Vicar had -gone, and got the book of banns to be called. There wasn’t but one bann -to be called, Lily Morton’s, her that married the blacksmith over to -Bradbury three months agone. Patsie and Molly wrote down the rest. They -coupled off Mr. Healy and Miss Sweeting, and Mr. Porter and Miss Janet -Cray, and Mr. Lethbury and Miss Martha Bridges, what’s all over fifty -if they’re a day, and the respectablest spinsters for miles round, and -Mr. Healey he’s in his dotage, and Mr. Porter what’s afraid to look a -woman in the face, and Mr. Lethbury a married man with a wife a bit of -a termagent. They said afterwards--Molly and Patsie--they had to give -Miss Martha Bridges to somebody, and there wasn’t no unmarried men but -Mr. Healey and Mr. Porter, and they’d fixed them to Miss Sweeting and -Miss Janet Cray. Well, the lokomtinum he don’t know no more than Adam -who the people in the village are, and when it come to the banns, out -he reads the sinfulness them two have written down. Mrs. Morton, the -butcher’s wife, she was there, and she told me afterwards you might ha’ -heard the gasp that went round the church up to the Castle. Mr. Porter -took and bolted, and hasn’t been seen outside his gates yet. Mr. Healey -wasn’t there, and Mr. Lethbury he sat with his jaw dropped and his eyes -a-sticking out of his head. Miss Martha Bridges had hysterics, and the -only ones that seemed a bit pleased and fluttery-like was Miss Sweeting -and Miss Janet Cray, specially Miss Janet. Suppose them two thought it -was a new kind o’ way of proposing, not having the courage to do it -otherways.” Mrs. Trimwell stopped. - -“What happened?” asked John trying to keep his voice steady. - -“Happened!” said Mrs. Trimwell. “There was talk enough in the village -that Sunday and a week after to last most people for a lifetime and -then them feel a bit of chatterboxes. Henry Davies he was mad, feeling -responsible like as verger. He guessed ’twas Molly at the bottom of it -as she’s at the bottom of all the mischievousness in the place and -her only eleven. But he couldn’t prove nothing finding the key in the -china cat Sunday morning same as it always was, Molly having put it -back. He ask her, and she up and lied straight. She’ll tell you a lie -and look you in the face as innocent as a dove. But I knows when she’s -lying for that she always turns her toes in when she lies. But I don’t -think other folk have noticed that, and for all she’s a bad child I’ll -not give her away that much. Henry Davies he went up to Father Maloney, -and he sent for Molly and Patsie, being a knowing man like, and the -sinfulness a bit beyond Molly’s years. They told him the truth fast -enough. I’ll say that for Molly, she don’t never lie to Father Maloney, -that I knows. And then all they’d say, as brazen as you please, was -that they were sorry they couldn’t have heard the banns read, because -’twould be a sin in them to go to a Protestant church. Henry Davies -said Father Maloney was that angry with them for such a speech he just -turned his back straight on them and walked over to the window. And -presently he said in a queer sort of voice that if Henry Davies would -go away for a bit he’d talk to Patsie and Molly. Henry Davies was -sure he was so upset at the wickedness of them being responsible for -their souls like that he couldn’t abide to have any one see what he was -feeling.” - -“It would be a grief to him,” announced John gravely. “Did--did his -lecture have any effect?” - -“Well,” said Mrs. Trimwell, “in a manner of speaking you might say -it had. Father Maloney went with Molly and Patsie to them six they’d -insulted--Father Maloney said ’twas an insult--and to Henry Davies and -the lokomtinum, and they apologized. Though Molly said afterwards that -Miss Janet and the lokomtinum were the only ones it had been worth -while apologizing to. She said it in Henry Davies’s hearing, which it -wasn’t pleasant for him to hear, and he’d have gone to Father Maloney -again but that Mrs. Davies persuaded him to let well alone seeing he -might ha’ been a bit to blame for not keeping the key safer. Father -Maloney made them own up to Vicar too, and say they were sorry. But -sorriness with Molly is water on a duck’s back and no more and no less. -And I’ve told my Tilda fifty times if I’ve told her once, that I’ll not -have her go with Molly. But it’s awful the way Molly gets a hold on -children with her coaxing ways.” - -John shook his head in commiseration. Words, it would appear, failed -him at the moment. - -Two minutes later, Mrs. Trimwell having departed, he betook himself to -a careful re-perusal of that pale grey letter. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -AT DELANCEY CASTLE - - -“I SAW a new man in the park today.” - -This statement, clear, emphatic, came from Antony’s lips. Sheer -courtesy had suppressed it long enough to allow of Father Maloney’s -saying grace, then it had shot forth, somewhat after the manner of a -stone from a catapult. - -The hour was one of the clock; the place was the dining hall -at Delancey Castle. John, on entering it, had swept it with a -comprehensive glance. It was old-world, supremely, superbly old-world. -He had taken in the atmosphere in one delicious draught. - -It was a dark place, oak-panelled, yet, so he assured himself, it was -utterly devoid of grimness. It was mellow, harmonious, softly shadowed. -High up on the oak walls, set against their darkness, were splashes of -colour,--shields of the houses with which the Delanceys had married. -Over the great fireplace was the Delancey shield itself, _Arg. a pile -azure between six and charged with three escallops counterchanged_. -The sunlight fell through long casement windows, patterning the floor -with diamond-shaped splotches of gold. At one end of the hall were two -steps leading to a little arched door. Through this you entered the -chapel. At the other end was the minstrels’ gallery. John could fancy -it peopled with musicians, heard in imagination the soft strains of the -harp and lute. - -The table, uncovered, shone with the polishing of generations; silver, -glass, and red roses, were reflected in its glossy surface. At one end -sat Lady Mary. Her white hair, covered with lace, cobwebby, filmy, was -backgrounded by the darkness of her chair. Facing her was Rosamund, -white-robed, lovely, cordial. Opposite to John was Corin flanked on -either side by Antony and Michael; on his right was Father Maloney. - -To John’s mind, he and Corin alone brought the twentieth century into -the dark old place; yet, bringing it, they failed to destroy the -abiding atmosphere. Of course the other five at the table did not date -back to their setting itself,--they were somewhere about eighteenth -century he conjectured,--but they linked on without a break to the -remoter ages; his thoughts ran smoothly from them to the past. In a -word, they and their setting “belonged,” and that, to him, summed up -the whole essence of harmony. He felt himself in a new old world,--new -to him, and yet old as Time itself. The day was centuries old, caught -out of the forgotten past, set down, sweet, fragrant with memories, -into the midst of this twentieth century. And the twentieth century -with all its movement, with all its modern innovations, fell away from -him, dissolved, vanished like fog wreaths before the sun. - -“I saw a new man in the park today.” - -The remark dropped into the harmony like a pebble into a still lake. -Why the simile presented itself to his mind at the moment, John could -not have told you; nevertheless it did present itself. - -“And what manner of man may a new man be?” demanded Father Maloney. - -Antony knitted his brows. - -“Mr. Mortimer was a new man on Wednesday,” quoth he serious. “Mr. -Elmore is the newest of all.” - -“Ah!” said Father Maloney, his eyes twinkling, “now we see daylight. -And what was this other new man doing in the park at all?” - -“I think,” quoth Antony solemn, “he was trying to look at the Castle, -but he didn’t want any one to see him. Least I don’t think he did.” - -“Hum!” said Father Maloney. “What makes you think that?” - -“’Cos,” said Antony calmly, “when I said ‘Hullo,’ he jumped an’ said -‘Great snakes!’ I told him,” he continued carefully, “that there -weren’t any snakes in the park. Least not big ones anyway. An’ he said -he hadn’t concluded there were. He’d said ‘Great snakes!’ ’cos I made -him jump. S’pose it was same as Biddy says ‘Saints alive!’ an’ you say -‘Glory be to God!’” - -Father Maloney looked down the table at Lady Mary. The glance was a -trifle grim. - -“Did he say anything else?” asked Lady Mary in a level voice. - -“He asked me who I was. An’ I told him my name was Antony Joseph -Delancey. An’ he said he reckoned I was the owner of the place. An’ I -said no, it was Granny’s place now, but I was going to have it when I -was a man. An’ he said, ‘Oh, you are, are you?’ An’ then he whistled.” - -There was a little curious silence. As we calculate time it endured, -perhaps, not longer than two or three seconds, yet to John it -seemed interminable. It was broken by Antony’s voice, pursuing his -reminiscences the while he was busy with roast chicken and bread sauce. - -“He talked quite a lot,” pursued Antony, cheerfully reflective. “He -asked me how old I was, an’ how long I’d lived here, an’ if I liked it. -An’ he wanted to know why we had a chapel built on to the Castle, an’ -he said he hadn’t been inside a church for years, ’cos there weren’t -any churches where he lived, an’ when he came into a town he felt like -a fish out of water if he went inside one. An’ he lives in a house that -hasn’t got any stairs, an’ there’s mountains round it, an’ there’s -baboons what come down from the mountains to steal the mealies. Mealies -are Indian corn, he says. An’ he says lilies grow in the ditches in his -country, an’ great tall flowers grow in his garden,--I don’t remember -the name,--an’ wild canaries fly about among them. An’ he says the -sunshine out there is all hot an’ gold, an’ the shadows are blue as -blue. An’ he says we don’t know what sunshine is in England, ’cos even -when it’s sunny it’s like a gauze veil hung over the sun. An’ he’s shot -leopards, an’ little tiny deer, an’ killed big snakes. An’ he asked me -honest injun what I thought about him, an’ I said I liked him. An’ he -said perhaps I wouldn’t like him very long. An’ I said ‘Why?’ An’ he -laughed, an’ shook hands, an’ went away. An’ that,” concluded Antony -with satisfaction, “is all.” - -Again there fell a little silence. It was probably infinitely more -poignant to John than to the other members of the luncheon table. -That is the worst of being possessed of a sensitive and imaginative -temperament. Your suffering is invariably duplex. You suffer for -yourself and the other, or others, as the case may be. And, in -suffering for others, your imagination, as often as not, passes the -bounds of actualities, for the very excellent reason that you possess -no real knowledge to bring it to a halt. - -Corin, though certainly less imaginative, felt the slight tension. -He leaped to break it, in a manner highly praiseworthy, if slightly -abrupt. What his remark was precisely, John did not fully grasp, but it -certainly had his work in the church for a foundation. The leap taken, -he burbled joyously, expounding, theorizing. There was no egotistical -note in his expounding. After all, as he assured them, the work was not -his. He was, in a manner of speaking, but a digger, a scraper. The fact -left him free to be enthusiastic at will, and enthusiastic he veritably -was. - -Possibly mere politeness first urged three of the elder members of the -party to suitable rejoinders. I omit John from the number. Later they -may have been fired by Corin’s exceeding enthusiasm. Be that as it -may, the tension was distinctly relieved. Conversation flowed easily, -smoothly. Dessert had been reached before it was suddenly jerked back -to dangerous quarters. - -“I wonder,” said Antony, surveying a bunch of raisins on his plate, -“who he is?” There was, you can guess, no need for a more detailed -explanation. - -“I think,” said Lady Mary quietly, “it was Sir David Delancey.” - -It was out now. The words were spoken. To John, they somehow struck -the last nail in the coffin of his hopes. - -“Same name as us?” queried an astonished Antony. - -“Yes,” said Lady Mary. - -“I liked him,” said Antony cheerfully. “Do you s’pose he’s staying -here? Do you s’pose I shall see him again?” - -John caught his breath. Once more there was the fraction of a pause, a -little tense silence. - -Then came Lady Mary’s well-bred voice. - -“I think you will see him again. I shall ask him to come and see the -Castle before long.” - -John looked up, amazed. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -A POINT OF VIEW - - -“OF course,” said John to himself, “I see her point of view.” - -It was, be it stated, at least the fiftieth time in the course of -the last four and twenty hours that he had assured himself of the -perspicacity of his vision. Also, it must be observed, it was because -his own point of view was so diametrically opposed to hers that he -found the assurance necessary. It emphasized, in a measure, his own -broadness of mind, his ability to perceive another’s standpoint even -while he disagreed with it _in toto_. You will doubtless have observed -this attitude of mind in such persons as are fully determined to adhere -to their own opinions. - -Of course he realized Lady Mary’s point of view, her quixotic -determination to recognize the interloper as one of the family, now -that his claim to recognition had been fully established. Of course -it was noble, chivalrous, Christian to a very fine degree of nicety; -but it was, to John’s way of thinking, ultra-quixotic, unnecessary, -save to aspirers after saintship. And John, from a delightfully human -standpoint, saw no reason to imagine Lady Mary as an aspirer to this -exalted degree of perfection. Therefore, from a human standpoint, her -determination was tinged, distinctly tinged, with absurdity. - -It was one thing, argued John, to bear a treacherous dog’s bite with -courage and equanimity, it was quite another to welcome and caress -the dog that has bitten you. There was treachery, unfairness, in the -whole business as far as the interloper was concerned; that fact made -John’s point of view the justifiable, and, indeed, the only sane one. -He saw precisely how he would have acted in the matter. He would -have given a dignified refusal to permit the interloper to put so -much as his nose inside the Castle, till such time as he himself and -his belongings had made a dignified exit from it. There was dignity -enough in John’s attitude, you may be sure. In fact it was a dignity -which, for the time being, entirely overrode his quite abundant -sense of humour. Therefore, you perceive, that the dignity was -coloured by a very decided sense of ill-temper. This last quality and -self-appreciation--and I believe our John was modest enough--alone are -capable of subordinating such humour. - -“Of course,” said John again, “I see her point of view, but it’s such a -confoundedly quixotic one. It isn’t level; it isn’t sane; it--it won’t -work.” And then John frowned fiercely, and gazed glumly before him. - -He was sitting in the shadow of a haystack, the afternoon being -intensely hot. The sleepy air was curiously still. Had John not been -entirely engrossed in his own reflections, it is possible he might have -read something ominous in this stillness. It is certain that he would -have done so had he looked past the haystack behind him, and seen the -purple-black clouds gradually massing up on the distant horizon. Before -him, however, all was serene, sunny, and drowsy; therefore he continued -to dream. - -His thoughts leaving, for a time at least, a subject at once unfruitful -and irritating, they rambled over the incidents of the last few days. -Undercurrently, as a kind of connecting link to the scattered beads of -incident, was a half-wondering reflection on the inscrutable leadings -of Fate, Providence,--call it what you will. And if it wasn’t Fate -which had led him here, it was Providence, and if it was Providence -there was no gainsaying the plan, and so--and so-- He broke off. - -Oh, he’d follow up the leading fast enough. It was his one whole and -sole desire. Hadn’t he had this desire for months past? Hadn’t it been -his one dream since five minutes to four precisely one windy March -afternoon? He’d follow hot afoot fast enough. The whole question was, -Would she come the merest fraction of a step towards him? Would she -even pause to await his coming? Or would he come to the end of the -pathway to find that she had eluded him,--a locked gate the end of his -quest? And there must be no stumbling, no clumsy blundering on that -pathway. Despite his desire for swiftness, he must walk warily. And -then his thoughts came to a halt, overcome, I fancy, by some suspicion -of their presumption. For a moment he staggered mentally, yet but for -a moment. Courage called high-handed to his heart. “On, man, and take -the risk,” she cried. “Cowardice and false modesty never yet led to a -fair goal.” - -Now his thoughts went back slowly step by step, dwelling with interest -on each little incident that had brought him to his present vantage -point. It being a vantage point, this method of thought had its -fascination. It was pleasant enough to give mental fingering to each -little bead of incident, to marvel at their connection with each other. -Truly there are times when such a process brings pain, when each bead -will hold a tiny poisoned prick. But why think of such times? To John, -each bead was carved in happiness. - -And then, suddenly, he was aware that the physical sunshine around him -had dimmed. Glancing upwards he saw the edge of a dark cloud. He got to -his feet and came out from the shelter of the haystack. - -Rolling up from the westward, thunderous, leaden, were great massive -clouds. The air below was extraordinarily still; he was aware now of -something electric in its stillness. Overhead there was unquestionably -wind, since the clouds rolled up and spread with rapidity. - -“We’re in for a deluge,” said John, making for the high road. - -It led downhill, straight, dusty, and very white, flanked on either -side by high hedges, dust-sprinkled. John made his way down it at a -fine pace. A thin flannel suit would be poor enough protection against -the torrent that was at hand. - -Nearing the bottom of the hill, he heard the sharp ting of a bicycle -bell behind him. The next instant the bicycle and its rider flashed -past. - -“Crass idiot to ride at that pace,” ejaculated John against the hedge. -The machine had been within a couple of inches of his arm. - -And then came the first drops of rain, splashing down, splotching dark -spots on the dusty road. White a moment agone, in a second it was -brown. The rain hissed down upon the earth. Truly there was the sound -of its abundance. - -John took to his heels and ran. As he turned at the bottom of the hill, -he came to a sudden halt. By the roadside, half sitting, half lying, -was a man; a bicycle, wheels in the air, reposed disconsolately in a -ditch. - -“Hurt?” demanded John as he came abreast of him. - -“Twisted my ankle,” was the laconic response. - -John glanced along the road. A hundred yards or so ahead, through the -downpour, he could see the White Cottage. - -“I can give you an arm to shelter if you can manage to hobble,” he -announced, indicating the house. - -The man scrambled to his feet with a grimace of pain. Together, in -halting fashion, they made their way towards the cottage. Conversation -there was none. John expressed a consolatory remark or two at -intervals, to which his companion replied, “All right. Not much. Brake -broke,” as the case might be. - -Even in these few words there was something in the inflexion of his -voice which perplexed John. Undercurrently he found himself demanding -what it was, but the exigencies of the moment disallowed of the query -coming uppermost. Also, at the moment, John happened to be suffering -from one of those lapses into obtuseness to which even the most -intelligent of us are liable on occasions. - -It was with a sigh of relief that he pushed open the door of his -sitting-room. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -JOHN PLAYS THE SAMARITAN - - -THERE is no question but that Mrs. Trimwell could rise to an emergency -when it presented itself before her. In fifteen, perhaps no more than -ten, minutes from their entry, she had the drenched couple into dry -garments; the injured ankle was bound in soft bandages, tea was in -preparation. - -But why, marvelled John, should her beneficent services have been -dispensed with a face as sour as a crab-apple? Why should her whole -mien have been as stiff, unbending, and unyielding as the proverbial -poker? The disapproval of her attitude was so marked as to be -impossible to ignore. John, in the position of host, felt some sort of -an apology necessary. Mrs. Trimwell departed, he stumbled one forth, -wondering, as he endeavoured at lightness, whether he were not, after -all, a bit of a fool for his pains; whether, by remarking on her -taciturn grimness, he were not emphasizing it more crudely. - -“She doesn’t mean to be abrupt,” he concluded, holding his cigarette -case towards the stranger. - -The man took a cigarette, and glanced at John. - -“Oh, yes, I guess she does,” he remarked drily. - -John looked at him. Obtuseness still had him in her clutch. - -“She knows who I am,” said the man coolly, “and--well, I fancy most -folk round here are not predisposed in my favour. My name, by the way, -is David Delancey.” - -John gasped, frankly gasped. He was amazed, dumbfounded. Running -through the amazement was, I fancy, something like annoyance; though -superseding it was a sense of the ludicrous, a realization of the -absurdity of the situation. And this brought him to something -perilously near a titter. - -The man looked at him. - -“Look here,” he said deliberately, though with a gleam of amusement in -his own eyes, “if you feel the same way about things, I’ll move on now. -I’ll make shift to hobble to the inn if you’ll lend me a couple of -sticks.” - -John experienced a sudden sensation of shame. Perhaps it was by reason -of the quick interpretation of his unspoken thoughts, perhaps it was -something in the other’s steady grey eyes. - -“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” he said quickly. And then he laughed. - -“What’s funny?” demanded David. - -“Oh, the whole blessed kaboodle,” returned John, still laughing softly. -“Here was I half an hour agone inveighing against you for all I was -worth, and now--well, the rôle of good Samaritan strikes me as a bit -humorous, that’s all.” - -He held a lighted match towards his guest. David took it. After a -moment he spoke. - -“Then you know them up at the Castle?” - -“I do,” said John. - -David glanced at him, then turned to a contemplation of his cigarette. - -“I had a note from the old lady today,” he said ruminatively. “She has -asked me to dine on Thursday. Now, I call that sporting of her. I guess -I’d be more like sticking a knife into me than asking me to share her -salt. It’s the way she’s worded the note, too, that I’m stuck on. I’d -give a good many dollars to get my tongue and pen around words in that -fashion. I reckon I shall shake hands with her cordially.” - -John eyed him curiously. His preconceived notions of hostility were -undergoing an extraordinary change, a change at once rapid, and, to -him, amazing, incomprehensible. I fancy he tried to rein them back, -to bring them to a standstill, while he took a calmer survey of the -situation, but, for all his endeavours, he found they had suddenly got -beyond his control. - -“I wonder,” hazarded he, “if you’d mind my asking you something. What -gave you the first clue--the idea of starting out on this quest of -yours?” - -“The clue?” David laughed. “It’s a bit of a yarn, I can tell you. You -want it? Sure?” - -John nodded. - -“Well,” quoth David, “you can call it luck, chance if you like. We’ve -always known we hailed as a family originally from England. That -knowledge has been handed down to us as a bit of tradition. I was born -in Philadelphia, and riz there, as they say in the States, till I was -going ten. Then my father made for Africa. There’s no need to enter -into the details of that move; they’re beside the mark. He took a small -farm in the Hex River Valley. He had a few old things that belonged -to his father and grandfather before him. They were stored away in a -chest. I used to look inside it when I was a youngster, and see coats, -and waistcoats, and neck stocks, and a fusty old book or two lying in -it. I never smell camphor without thinking of that chest. - -“As I grew older, I left it alone, didn’t think about it. I guess my -father hadn’t bothered about it much more than I did. He died when I -was fifteen, and my mother ran the farm. She was a capable woman. I -helped her all I could, and there were men to do the work. But she -was boss till I was one and twenty. Then she turned it over to me to -run,--root, stock, and barrel. She was cute, though, the way she’d talk -things over with me, telling me all the time what was best to do, and -making me think that I had figured out the plans. Later on she left it -really to me, not just in the name of it. That was when I’d got the -right hang of things. - -“Then she dropped suddenly out of all the man way of thinking, and just -sat knitting and smiling in the chimney corner, or letting me drive her -around in the buggy, with never a talk of business unless I began the -subject. It’s seven years ago that she died.” He stopped. - -John was silent. - -“I missed her,” went on David presently, “I missed her badly. The -place wasn’t the same. I went roving around trying to think she wasn’t -gone--but I’ll get maudlin if I go on with that. It wasn’t the bit I -set out to tell you, anyway. One afternoon I was in the lumber room -feeling lonesomer than ever. I don’t know what took me there if it -wasn’t just fate. Then I looked at that chest again. I opened it, and -the smell of camphor rushed out at me, making me think more than ever -of my mother. She was mad after camphor, putting it among everything to -keep away the moth. - -“To get away from my thoughts I began pulling out the things in the -box, stuffy books, coats, waistcoats, and all. There was one coat, -a snuff-coloured one, that might have been worn in the time of the -Georges, I calculated. I sat looking at it, and wondering which of my -grandparents had worn it, and what kind of a man he was, and all the -things a fellow does think when he’s got his grandsire’s stuff before -him. After a bit I began going through the pockets. I found a tiny horn -snuff-box in one, and that set me off searching closer. I’d come to the -last pocket, when I found what gave me that clue you were asking about. -I found a letter.” - -John looked up quickly. - -“It was torn, and not over-easy to read,” went on David. “I’ve got it -here. You can read it if you like.” - -He felt in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out his pocket-book. From it -he took a letter. - -John took the yellow paper with its faded ink lines. As he touched it -he thought of the queer twists fate gives to the wheel of our life. -Less than a fortnight ago he had set eyes but momentarily upon one of -the Delancey family, and now here he was, thrown into their midst, made -participator even in their extraordinary history. It was, so mused -John, a bit of a marvel. - -Here is the letter he read. - - “MY DEAR SON RICHARD: - - “I am about to set forth on the journey of which you know the purpose. - If I am successful you will claim your birthright. Though I sold mine, - after the manner of Esau, for a mess of red pottage, being forced - thereto by harshness, yet I forfeited it for myself alone. - - “Your mother and brother do not know of the purpose of my journey to - England. I think it well that it should remain known to us two alone - till my return. - - “Your affectionate father, - “HENRY DELANCEY.” - -John slowly deciphered the faint lines. Silently he tendered the letter -again. - -“It set me thinking,” said David reminiscently. “I was in that lumber -room for more than two hours reading that letter again and again. It -was clear that there was something belonging to us that we hadn’t got; -something that, as far as I could see, we had the right to have, though -I didn’t just know what it was. It struck me as queer that the Richard -who had had the letter hadn’t had a try for it. I know now that he died -of some kind of fever after his father had been gone six weeks. His -father didn’t return.” David’s voice was grim. - -“I know,” said John. - -“You’ve heard the story?” demanded David. - -“That part of it. But go on.” - -“Well,” continued David, “whether no one else knew of the letter, or -whether they thought that trying for their rights was a fool game, I -don’t know. There were times when I was after it that I thought it a -fool game myself. But I’d set out on it, and somehow I never find it -easy to turn back on any job I’ve set out on. If the others didn’t -think our birthright worth a bit of a fight I did. It took me five -years to trace up the family, but I got on the track, back to the -certificate of Henry Delancey’s marriage to Marie Courtoise, daughter -of a Brussels lace merchant. It was their grandson who first settled in -the States. With that I came to England, and followed up the clue here. -Then I understood exactly what I was after. They can’t deny that Henry -was the eldest son, and though they say he signed away the property -from himself and his heirs they haven’t got that document. This letter, -too,” he tapped it gently, “shows that though he may have signed it -away from himself, he did not touch the birthright of his heirs. See?” - -“Yes, I see,” returned John a trifle drily. - -Oh, he saw fast enough. Also, he saw pretty plainly that Henry Delancey -had been no fool in the game of swindling. - -David looked at him. - -“You’re on the side of the occupants of the Castle,” he said. It was -statement rather than query. - -“I am,” said John coolly. His eyes held something of a challenge. - -“Hum,” remarked David. - -And then Mrs. Trimwell entered with the tea, and an aspect of rigid -disapproval. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -CORIN DISCOURSES ON KARMA - - -“I LIKE that man,” announced Corin succinctly. - -John grunted. - -“I like him,” announced Corin again, stirring his coffee. - -“I’ve heard you make that remark at least ten times since his -departure,” quoth John, and somewhat sarcastically, be it stated. - -“It is possible,” returned Corin coolly, “that you will hear me make -it at least ten times more. Of course I’ll allow that he isn’t in -the picture. In fact he’s entirely out of the picture; he strikes an -incongruous note. It requires a readjustment of all one’s preconceived -notions to see him in that old-world setting up yonder.” - -John groaned inwardly. - -“Yet you cannot deny,” pursued Corin, “that there is a pleasing -strength and virility about him. I had allowed myself to imagine him as -a small hustling man, a cross between the brisk commercial traveller -and the hard-headed mechanic, with perhaps a touch of the oily waiter -thrown in. And now,” went on Corin musingly, “I perceive that he is a -big man----” - -“Your eyesight would be strangely deficient if you didn’t perceive it,” -broke in John. - -“A silent man----” - -“He hadn’t a chance of getting a word in edgeways when you appeared -upon the scene,” interpolated John. - -“A thoughtful man----” - -“It is to be hoped he was able to assimilate a few of the thoughts you -thrust down his throat,” quoth John grimly. - -“Hang the stupid little complications of life,” he was thinking. There -was a tiny note of trouble in his eyes. - -“If you mean that I thrust my ideas upon him unwanted,” said Corin -with dignity, “allow me to remark that you are mistaken. I observed -interest, intelligent interest, in his face.” - -“And you pretend to being short-sighted,” interposed John. - -“The idea,” continued Corin, “of his having worked out his debt of -karma for sins committed in former lives, and being, therefore, now -able to enter upon his birthright, appealed to him. It distinctly -appealed to him. He said, ‘I guess that’s a new handle to take hold -of,’ more than once.” - -“That doesn’t say it was an inviting one,” retorted John. - -“I’m a fool to be worried about such a trifling absurdity,” he thought. - -“There is much,” said Corin didactically, “that is uninviting at the -outset, but which, on further acquaintance, proves of extraordinary -interest. Also, for my part, rather let me grasp Truth however -uninviting she may appear, than dally with the most pleasing of lies.” - -John laughed. - -“I wonder,” went on Corin, “what precise debt of karma the family at -the Castle owes this man, that he is to be the instrument for their -unseating.” - -“According to you,” returned John, “since he has paid off his own debt, -and gained reward, he is obliged to unseat someone.” - -Corin sighed. - -“I fear,” he said, “that I shall never be able to make you perceive -the law and order, the strict justice in the universe. If reward is -gained at the expense of another, it is merely because that other -deserves that the reward should be so gained.” - -John laughed a second time. Argument in this quarter was futile, and -he knew it. His friendship with Corin was always a matter of some -slight amusement and puzzlement to him, when he chanced to consider -the subject. It is certainly somewhat difficult to conceive wherein -precisely the attraction between them existed, having in view their -diametrically opposite opinions. - -“Confound the man,” thought John, and it was not on Corin those -thoughts were centred, “why couldn’t he have been all that I had -pictured him?” - -“You can laugh,” said Corin severely, “but it is very certain that you -can bring no arguments to refute mine.” - -“My dear man,” responded John, “I could bring twenty million, but it’s -like pouring water into a sieve to propound them to you. I believe I -have heard a tale of a monk being once sent by a saint to fetch water -in a sieve; and when, at the end of several journeys, he ventured to -remonstrate at the futility of the journey, it was pointed out to him -that at all events the sieve had been cleansed by the process. I don’t -know whether my arguments would have a like effect on your mind, but I -confess I am too lazy to try.” - -“Your simile savours of an insult,” retorted Corin. “But I’ll leave you -to your own mode of thought. I know it to be hide-bound, iron-cast. -Now, in this man I see plastic material; he needs but careful moulding. -I shall pursue my acquaintance with him with interest.” - -John laughed a third time. But behind the laughter in his eyes was -still that little indefinable note of trouble. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - -A RARE ABSURDITY - - -NOW, to your calm, collected, and reasonable individual, John’s little -trouble may appear nothing but rank absurdity. It probably will appear -nothing but rank absurdity, seeing that it had existence merely in the -fact that he had felt a certain attraction towards the man, whom fate -had that evening thrown in his path. - -And why on earth shouldn’t he feel attraction!--so your reasonable -individual may exclaim. - -But John was not reasonable. He was one of your ultra-sensitive -characters, to whom the merest dust speck may prove, at moments, -a source of perpetual annoyance. He desired to feel nothing but a -whole-hearted detestation of this interloper. - -I am not defending John’s desires,--they certainly cannot be termed -precisely Christian,--I merely state them as existing. Their fulfilment -would have left him entirely free to draw a line between himself and -the one who had arisen to harass the inhabitants of Delancey Castle. -He would have felt utterly and entirely established beside them. He -was established beside them, yet this tiny attraction sent forth an -irritating little lay across the barrier. He felt it, in a measure, -disloyal. He disliked it; and yet, for the life of him, he could not -prevent its existence. - -I am well aware of the absurdity of his annoyance; but it merely -characterizes John. It shows him to be what he was,--ultra-quixotic -in his friendships, sensitive to a degree of fastidiousness where he -fancied his loyalty to be in the smallest measure at fault. - -Not that John was blind to the imperfections of his friends (and here I -use the word in its full meaning),--those few--they were few--whom he -had admitted, or who had somehow found entrance, to the inner shrine of -his heart. But I could fancy him shielding those imperfections from the -eyes of the world with his own body; standing between them and the gaze -of a curious multitude; suffering death, if need be, in the shielding. - -Call him absurd, if you will; but, for my part, I like this rare -absurdity. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - -IN FATHER MALONEY’S GARDEN - - -FATHER MALONEY was pottering in his garden. I use the word pottering -advisedly, since assuredly the cutting off of a dead rose here and -there can hardly be termed work. - -It was a minute place, this garden of his, a mere pocket handkerchief -of a garden, yet every conceivable flower possible to bloom in a garden -bloomed in it according to the season. At the moment it was ablaze -with African marigolds, escoltia, asters, salvias, stocks, summer -chrysanthemums, and all the rest of the August flowers, fragrant with -the scent of roses, heliotrope, carnations, and mignonette. - -In the centre of the garden was a tiny square of grass, smooth and -trim. A gravel path surrounded it; beyond it were the many-coloured -flower borders backgrounded by a close-clipped yew hedge. You could -see over the hedge to the lane on the one side, and the field on -the other. The field sloped upwards to a sparse wood, carpeted with -primroses and bluebells in the springtime. Later there was a lordly -array of foxgloves on its margin, stately purple fellows, standing -straight against the trees. - -Beyond the lane and the wild-rose hedge, which bordered it on the -further side, you had a glimpse of the sea. Its voice was never absent -from the garden. In its softly sighing moods it lay as an under-note -to the fragrant scents, and the humming of the insects. In its sterner -moods it dominated the little place, filled it with a note of sadness. -And always there was that strange bitter-sweetness in its sound. - -Father Maloney was conscious of it now. He looked up from the rosebush -towards the distant shimmering strip of blue. - -“’Tis like the far-off voice of a multitude longing for peace yet -unknowing of their desire,” he said, “it is that.” And there was pain -in his old eyes. - -Then he looked round the garden. - -“Sure, ’tis happy I’ve been here; and now--” he sighed. “The fella is -no Catholic at all, they say. But if he were it would not be the same -thing, it would not.” - -He cut off a couple more roses, and pocketed them. Later Anastasia -would empty his pockets of the dead leaves. Also she would -suggest--more as a command than a suggestion--that there were plenty -of baskets in the house if he wanted to be cutting off withered roses -and suchlike. To which Father Maloney would make his usual shame-faced -reply: - -“Sure, and a basket slipped my mind entirely, it did.” - -Whereupon Anastasia would sniff. By force of habit she had gained a -certain air of command, which most assuredly he did not permit to many. - -“She’s an example to all of us, is Lady Mary,” said Father Maloney, -pursuing his reflections. “It’s more than I would do to invite the -fella to the house. It’s not uncharitable towards him, I am, but he’d -not put his foot across my threshold till I’d cleared out. No; it’s not -uncharitable I am, but I’ll have a job to be civil to him I’m thinking.” - -He stuffed a handful of dead roses into his pocket, and sat down on a -rustic-seat. - -It was three of the afternoon. It was still; it was very hot. If I -have often mentioned heat in the course of this chronicle, I must -crave for indulgence. An almost unprecedented summer was reigning over -this England of ours. Morning after morning you woke to blue skies and -golden sunshine; night after night you slept beneath clear heavens -star-sprinkled. Day and night the earth sang the Benedicite; and men, -I fancy, echoed the blessings. In spite of the inclusive terms of -the hymn, it is infinitely easier to respond to it in sunshine and -starlight, than in fog and darkness. - -Father Maloney sat facing the lane and the distant strip of sea. Two -poplars in the field across the lane rose spirelike against the blue -sky. Bees droned around him among the flowers; butterflies flitted from -blossom to blossom. Every now and again a bird twittered and then was -silent. Their song was over for the year. Only the robin would ring -later its sweet sad lament. - -Through the open kitchen window he heard the clink of plates, telling -of Anastasia busy within. At intervals she hummed in a thin cracked -voice: - -“_Salve Regina, Mater Misericordiæ, vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra -salve,..._” - -You could have recorded each of the Church’s seasons by Anastasia’s -humming of the antiphons of Our Lady. At first Father Maloney had -suffered the humming with what patience he might. It now affected him -no more than the droning of the bees in his garden. - -For twenty minutes, half an hour, perhaps, he sat motionless, his -thoughts very far away. Suddenly he came back to the present. He was -conscious, in some subtle fashion, that he was not alone. It was a -moment or so before the consciousness found articulation in his brain. -He looked up. The garden was as empty of any human presence but his own -as it had been hitherto. - -He turned. - -In the field, on the other side of the yew hedge, a tall man was -standing. He was big, he was loose-limbed, he was red-headed. His face, -squarish and short-chinned, had a somewhat doggy expression. He was -looking at the flowers, seemingly unconscious, for the moment at all -events, of the presence of the owner of the garden. - -Father Maloney coughed. The stranger’s eyes left the flowers, and -turned towards Father Maloney. - -“I was looking at the flowers,” quoth he, and a trifle shame-facedly, -after the manner of a schoolboy caught in some venial offence. - -“You’re welcome,” said Father Maloney genially. “Looking is free -to all.” And then a sudden idea struck him, and he stiffened -imperceptibly, or perhaps he fancied it was imperceptibly, for the -stranger spoke. - -“I’ll be off,” said he. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” - -A little odd shadow had passed over his face, the expression of a child -who has been snubbed. It sat oddly, and a trifle pathetically on him. -He turned, limping slightly. - -“It’s not disturbing me at all you are,” said Father Maloney quickly. -The honour of his hospitality had been pricked. The merest touch will -suffice for an Irishman. - -And then he looked at the stranger again. There was an odd commotion -stirring in his heart, something that baffled him in its interpretation. - -“Glory be to God, what’s come over me,” he muttered inwardly. Aloud -he said, and the words surprised himself, “Will you be coming in, and -having a look around. There’s a wicket gate in yonder corner.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - -A BEWITCHING - - -IF this--his own voluntary invitation--had surprised Father Maloney, -twenty minutes later he was more surprised still. His mind was in one -chaotic state of surprise. It had entirely lost its bearings; it had -drifted into an extraordinary geniality with, apparently, no volition -on his own part. As surely as he contracted it momentarily into a state -of astonished frigidity, so surely it expanded, thawed again, into an -altogether untoward hospitality. - -“Sure, it’s entirely bewitched I am,” he muttered sternly, bewildered -at one moment, and the next expatiating on the individual beauties -of some rose, as a mother expatiates on the virtues of her child, -provided, of course, that her audience be sufficiently sympathetic. - -“’Tis in June you should have been seeing them,” he said at length, -tenderly fingering a Madame Abel Chatenay, salmon pink, pale, and -graceful, “’tis in June you should have been seeing them. For every one -rose on the bushes now, there were ten then. Sure, I never know which -of them I’m for loving best. At times I think ’tis this fair lady, -then I’m for thinking ’tis yonder creamy Devonionsis, or that drooping -white Niphetos, or Caroline Testout smiling away over there. But for -the most I’m always coming back to General Jacqueminot. ’Tis the -old-fashionedness of him, and his sturdy ways, and, more than all, the -sweet scent of him. If you’re down on your luck, and take a good sniff -at him, why, the world’s a different place that very minute. There’s -all the sunshine of the summer, and the humming of the bees, and the -laughter of children, and your mother’s voice, and all the memories of -your boyhood in the scent, there is that. And you’d laugh yourself, the -while there’s a queer tenderness is catching at your heart for happy -tears.” - -“I know,” nodded David. (I have not insulted your intelligence by -giving him a former and formal introduction.) “I know. There are -scents like that. They are alive. They are worth a million words, or -a million pictures. I could be taken blindfold across the world, and -if I were set down on the veldt I would know the scent in an instant. -It’s hot, pungent, aromatic. I’d see the scrubby bushes, the scarlet -everlastings, the flame-coloured heaths, and the straggling blue -lobelia. I’d see the mountains, blue against the sun, and golden facing -it. I’d feel the great spaces, and the vast distances. I’d--” he broke -off with a laugh. “There I am trying to give you in words what only the -scent of the place can really give you.” - -“Words are poor things,” said Father Maloney smiling, “when you come to -wanting to express what lies closest to your heart. I’m thinking ’tis -like the Tower of Babel over again, after a fashion. We can talk fast -enough when our thoughts are down near the earth, but the moment they -get up a bit, for the most of us our tongue is halting and stammering, -and there’s confusion. I’m thinking it’s as well, or we might get a -bit above ourselves with glibness of speech, and be fancying ourselves -embryo prophets and visionaries, and getting others to fancy it along -with us.” - -David flicked an insect off a rose. - -“There’s not much need for speech if you happen to be with the right -person, is there?” said he thoughtfully. - -Father Maloney’s eyes twinkled. - -“There is not,” quoth he. “Or, at all events, your stammering will -stand you in good stead.” - -And then Anastasia rang the tea-bell. - -Father Maloney started almost guiltily. Time had stolen a march on him, -it would appear. He looked uneasily towards the house. - -“That’s your tea-bell,” said David calmly, voicing the obvious. - -“It is that,” said Father Maloney. “I--will you be having a cup,” he -blurted out. - -For one instant, for just one brief instant, David hesitated, then, - -“Thanks,” he said. - -“’Tis altogether bewitched I am,” groaned Father Maloney inwardly, as -he accompanied his guest towards the house. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - -A VITAL QUESTION - - -A WHALEBONE Anastasia brought a second cup for “this gentleman.” She -heard well enough the trace of guilt in Father Maloney’s voice, knew -also well enough who the gentleman was, of that you may be very sure. -You cannot, believe me, pass two days, or even one day, in Malford -without the majority of the population becoming fully and miraculously -acquainted with your whole previous history and antecedents. I’ll -not vouch for the entire accuracy of the information; to do so would -be mere rashness on my part, but certain it is that the information -collected by Anastasia was more than sufficient to account for her -whalebone rigidity of bearing, and also for an unpleasant little sniff -on receiving Father Maloney’s order. - -If she imagined that this obvious disapproval of manner would affect -Father Maloney, she was vastly mistaken, at all events as to the manner -of effect produced. You might have imagined that twelve years in his -service might have gained her some experience. But not a bit of it. Her -own preconceived notions of what should be were infinitely too deeply -engraven to be eradicated by what was. If I desired to be trite, I -might discourse for a chapter and more on this common state of affairs. - - * * * * * - -Father Maloney’s sitting-room was a small, shabby place. There was -nothing artistic about it; there was nothing even particularly -comfortable, with the exception of two large armchairs, which, having -been much sat in, had become remarkably adapted to the human form. -Anastasia having had a field day therein that morning, it smelt both -clean and bare. It had that peculiar, tidy, empty smell of a newly -cleaned room. - -After such a day, Father Maloney uttered inward prayers for patience. -Long experience had shown him that it was useless to inform her that a -desk was specially constructed to hold scattered papers; that chairs -were an infinitely preferable receptacle for books than the top shelf -of a lofty bookcase; that a tobacco jar was intended to stand on -the piano, rather than in a cupboard behind a waste-paper basket, a -coal-scuttle, a broken chair, and a screen; that the bottom drawer of -a bureau, which opened only by sheer physical force, was not the place -he would ordinarily choose for his pipes. Such information fell on ears -as deaf as the ears of the proverbial adder, despite the wise charm -of its utterance. Therefore, having in view Anastasia’s other, and -excellent, qualities, Father Maloney merely prayed for patience, as I -have indicated. - -David looked round the room. In a manner of speaking, he weighed, -judged and appraised the mental atmosphere from that which he noted. - -Firstly, he observed the shabbiness, which I have mentioned; secondly, -he smelt the almost aggressive cleanliness, which I have also -mentioned; thirdly, he noted a curiously combined homeliness and -discomfort; fourthly, he took in various details,--a _prie-dieu_ in one -corner, with a cheap Crucifix above it; a large framed photogravure of -Pope Pius X over the mantelpiece; a small, badly coloured statue of -the Sacred Heart on one wooden bracket, and an equally badly coloured -statue of Our Lady on another; gilt-framed oleographs of saints -scattered about the walls, the gilt poor and rubbed, the oleographs -horribly crude; a thumbed office-book lying on a crimson plush-covered -sofa, the broken corner of a lace-edged card protruding from it. - -It was all amazingly artificial, and yet--well, it was real. There was -the extraordinary paradox. On one side the artificiality was utterly -apparent; on the other it stood for something, and that something -was neither artificial, imaginary, nor even commonplacely real, but -vividly, vitally real. It was like recognizing a soul in a wax-work, or -finding life in a daguerreotype. - -David sniffed the mental atmosphere, so to speak, vainly endeavouring -to arrive at an understanding thereof, gave it up as a bad job, and -then suddenly received a flash of illumination. - -“It’s because it’s all real to him,” he concluded. But felt, -nevertheless, that somehow the conclusion did not absolutely reach the -mark. - -Arriving at his second cup of tea, David spoke. The conversation so far -had been more or less trivial. Here, it would appear, was a weightier -matter. - -“I’ve been asked to dine at the Castle on Thursday.” - -“Yes?” From Father Maloney’s voice one might have judged the -information as not altogether a surprise. - -“I’ve accepted,” said David. - -“Yes?” said Father Maloney again. He perceived that there was something -further to come. - -David reddened slightly beneath his tan. - -“The fact is,” he blurted out, “I’d forgotten all about dress clothes. -I know people do wear the things. I haven’t got such a suit to my name.” - -Father Maloney cut a slice of cake. - -“Sure, such things are not obligatory in the country at all, they are -not,” quoth he calmly. “In the town now--but the country, ’tis quite -another matter.” He looked straight at David’s anxious eyes. - -“Sure?” demanded David. - -“It’s dead certain I am,” returned Father Maloney. - -David fetched a big sigh. - -“I’m awfully glad I mentioned it to you,” he responded. “The matter was -sitting on my chest a bit.” - -“Glory be to God!” laughed Father Maloney. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - -A REQUEST - - -HALF an hour later Father Maloney was wending his way towards Delancey -Castle. - -“I’m thinking she’ll not altogether understand,” mused he ruefully, -“but ’twas the child’s eyes of him, ’twas just that. Though if he -hasn’t a will at the back of them, my name’s not Dan Maloney.” - -An hour later he was bearing a note in the direction of the White -Cottage. It was addressed to John Mortimer, Esq. It contained a -sentence which may be of interest to you. - -“Please will you both wear morning dress at dinner on Thursday.” - -Father Maloney tramped along the road looking at the hedges and the -trees. Finally he raised his eyes to the sky. - -“She’s a wonderful woman is Lady Mary!” he ejaculated, “A wonderful -woman!” - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - -THE WONDERFUL WOMAN - - -BUT underneath the wonderfulness there was a heartache. You can hardly -expect it to have been otherwise; and, for my part, I would not have -had it otherwise. She wouldn’t have been one quarter the adorable old -lady she was, if there hadn’t been that heartache. - -If, from some lofty and ascetic perch, she could have calmly -contemplated her approaching departure from Delancey Castle with never -a tremor, with never a soul-stabbing, then, very assuredly, she would -have been one of a genus of human beings that I would find it in vain -to attempt to comprehend. It is through the very humanity of the saints -that one feels their lovableness. They felt intensely; they had their -loves and their hates, their likes and their dislikes, their joys and -their sorrows; they were living, sensitive, human creatures, not masses -of granite, nor insensible lumps of putty. And it wasn’t one atom -because they didn’t care for happiness and pleasure, and possibly even -for luxury, that they became saints, but just because they did care, -and caring gave all these things as a free and generous gift to God. - -Of course you know this every bit as well as I do, but I like to remind -myself of it every now and then. And sometimes God may have given them -back their own actual gifts to Him, even while they were still on -earth,--gifts refined, transmuted by some wonderful purifying process -in His hands. But most often it would seem that He gave them another -gift in exchange,--that wonderful gift, Sorrow, of which only a saint -can see the true beauty. Yet always He gave them back in full and -overflowing measure one gift that must of necessity have been offered -with the other gifts,--the gift of love towards Him. - -I don’t mean to infer from this that Lady Mary was a saint. That would -be a matter on which I naturally should not venture to express an -opinion. One leaves such decisions to God and the Holy Fathers. But she -was very assuredly a wonderful woman, as Father Maloney had remarked. - -If her heart was old in years, it was young in immortal youth. She -revelled in the sunshine, she revelled in happiness; I am not sure that -she didn’t bask in it. I fancy there would be little real gratitude if -we accepted these gifts timorously, fearing lest their removal should -follow quickly. To my thinking, the truest gratitude, the fullest -trust, is to accept them with whole-hearted enjoyment, to say a real -“thank You” for the loan, when the time comes that God asks us to give -it back again. Naturally our manners would be as disagreeable as those -of a badly brought-up child if we clung to the gift lent us till it had -to be taken from us by force. The first hint is sufficient for a nicely -brought-up child. But never be grudging or timorous of enjoyment during -such time as the happiness is lent. - -Truly I believe this was Lady Mary’s attitude. Now, of course, there -was a big sense of loss, a pretty heavy heartache, and even the tiniest -question, Why? At the first, I don’t think that she had realized that -the happiness had been merely a loan. She had looked upon it as hers -by right. There’s the danger with prolonged loans. You begin to forget -that they aren’t actually yours. But, if she had forgotten, it was -only for a moment; and now, in spite of the heartache, her “thank You” -was genuinely spoken. - - * * * * * - -Lady Mary was sitting by a window facing towards the sea. It shone -pearly iridescent, in the evening light. The sky beyond reflected the -glory of the sunset; grey near the water, it merged upwards into soft -rose-colour, and thence to blue-green. The earth was bathed in soft, -glowing light. - -Only the faintest whisper of air came through the open window,--a -faint, cool sigh of relief after the heat of the day. Below, in -the garden, were golden splotches of colour--beds of great African -marigolds, a vivid contrast to the cool green of the close-dipped -grass. Through the silence came the musical dripping of a fountain. - -Overhead a door opened. She heard a child’s voice, and then a little -burst of laughter. Again there was silence. And slowly the rose-colour -faded in the sky, till only a pale lavender-grey haze covered land and -water. - -The gold of the marigolds became softly blurred; the green of the grass -lost its colour. - -A little haunting melody came suddenly into her mind,--one she had -often played in childhood. It was a melody by Heller. There is a -footnote at the bottom of the page on which it is written, which -designates it “Twilight,” or “Le crépuscule.” The latter word came into -her mind at the moment. It held greater significance to her than the -English word. It represented more clearly the onward stealing of the -grey shadows, the soft sweet evening sadness, the slow passing of the -day’s glory. - -And then, once more, overhead a door opened. There was a pattering of -footsteps along the corridor, a child’s voice, clear, demanding: - -“Granny, prayers!” - -Lady Mary got up from her chair. If there was something of the evening -shadows in her eyes, I fancy there was also the aftermath of the -sunset’s glory. - -“Tomorrow I must tell Antony,” she said. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - -THE CACHE - - -JOHN was walking over the moorland. He had been walking for the last -hour and more. It was nearing five o’clock. He had made a great circle, -and was now somewhere near the place where he had first had sight of a -fair lady and her two attendant knights. - -At the moment there was no human being in sight. He had the earth, it -would appear, entirely to himself. Only furze-chats and yellow-hammers -twittered in the gorse around him; little blue butterflies and brown -underwings flitted over the heather. To the right it lay one great -purple sheet, broken only by the gorse bushes. Their golden glory of -April had long since passed away, but yellow flowers still lingered -among their prickly shields. You know the old adage: - - “When the gorse is out of bloom. - Kissing is out of fashion.” - -To the left lay a stretch of long brown grass, dry and coarse. The -wind, rustling softly through it, whispered of summer secrets. It came -blowing softly, faintly, from the distant blue sea. Truly it was a day -for whole-hearted enjoyment, for content, for reposefulness, for each -thing and everything that goes to sum up entire happiness. - -But if you imagine John to be in this restful mood, you are vastly -mistaken. Three thoughts repeated themselves with about equal -recurrence in his mind. The first was merely a name--Rosamund. - -The birds twittered it, the wind whispered it, the faint understirrings -in the heather took it up and repeated it with tantalizing insistence. - -Rosamund, Rosamund, Rosamund. - -A fair name truly; a poetical name. John, at the moment, might have -emulated Orlando, who hung a very similar name on every tree. Only here -there were no trees at hand, merely gorse bushes, and purple heather. - -The second thought was a quotation. It ran through his head again and -again. - -“Never the time, and the place, and the loved one altogether.” - -“He knew what he was talking about,” sighed John. “Unquestionably, at -the moment, it would seem the veritable time and place,--the sunniest -most desirable time, the sweetest-scented most gorgeous place. But she -isn’t here. And, if she were, I’d bet anything the time and place would -seem all wrong. The time would jump to about a million of years ahead, -and as far the place----” - -To tell the truth he hadn’t much idea as to what would happen to -the place. His thoughts were hardly what might be termed precisely -coherent, but perhaps you can arrive at some kind of a guess at them. - -The third thought was neither fair, nor poetical. It was summed up in -the one short, pithy phrase, - -“Drat the man!” - -By which token it will be seen that John had not yet recovered from his -Monday’s mood. - -Now, I don’t intend to attempt any detailed explanation as to why both -John and Father Maloney had found themselves in this curious state of -unwilling perturbation after one meeting with David Delancey, but it is -very certain that the perturbation had not only arrived, but remained. -Of course you will say sagely that it was the man’s personality, -and equally of course you will be right. But what was there in -his personality to cause this perturbation in two such entirely -dissimilar minds? There’s the question! And I, for my part, can find -no satisfactory verbal explanation of it. It is one thing to have the -explanation in one’s mind, knowing the man; it is quite another to set -it forth coherently in words. Therefore I will content myself with your -sage remark that it was his personality. - -“Drat him!” said John again. - -And then he stopped short, looking towards the heather to his right - -His attention had been attracted by a curious little mound of stones. -Now it is not in the least unusual to see stones lying on a moorland -among the heather. But to John’s eye there _was_ something unusual -about these stones. They had unquestionably been placed there by human -agency; they were not the haphazard arrangement of mere chance. - -John went across the heather towards them. They were built up in a -small rough circle; a large flat stone formed a kind of roof or lid to -them. John bent towards the mound. - -A sound, a very slight sound, made him raise his head. There was no one -in sight. He had the earth, as I have told you, to himself. Only the -wind whispered among the heather and grass, and rustled softly through -the gorse bushes. - -John went down on his knees and raised the flat stone. Sheer idle -curiosity prompted the action. He hadn’t the faintest expectation of -seeing anything beneath. He peered within; and then gave vent to a -tiny chuckle of amazed surprise. He put his hand within the circle -of stones, and drew forth three objects,--firstly, a piece of green -ribbon; secondly, a small, a very small, thimble; and thirdly, a rosary -of red beads. - -“Oh, ho!” quoth he to himself, “if fairies have been at work here, they -are Catholic fairies, it would seem.” - -He fitted the thimble on the top of his little finger, where it sat in -an insecure and ludicrous position. - -“A _cache_,” said John, “but whose?” - -He looked before him down the sloping moorland. And now, far off, he -descried a small black speck. The black speck was a figure. It was -coming towards him. - -“There’s just the faintest conceivable chance,” said John. - -He removed the thimble from its ridiculous position. He put it, the -ribbon, and the rosary once more within their hiding-place, replaced -the flat stone, and withdrew himself to a post of vantage, couched -behind a gorse bush. Therefrom he awaited possible developments. - -As the black speck drew nearer, it defined itself as a girl child, some -eleven years old or thereabouts. A gypsy-looking elf she was. Coming -nearer still, he saw that she was dark-haired, smutty-eyed. Her head -was uncovered; she was clad in a faded green frock; her brown legs were -bare, her feet cased in old shoes. She was walking quickly; eagerness, -expectation, were in her bearing. To John’s mind the possibility -already resolved itself into something akin to certainty. The next -moment he saw that his surmise had been correct. - -She came straight across the heather to the small circle of stones, and -went down on her knees beside it. The flat stone was pushed aside; the -small brown hand dived within the circle. - -“Ah!” - -John heard the little gasp of pleasure. - -She came to a sitting posture, the treasures gathered on to her lap. -John saw her face plainly. The ribbon and thimble were examined with -sheer and palpable delight. The rosary was handled gravely; there was -the tiniest hint of question in the handling. Then suddenly she lifted -it to her lips. The next moment she was on her knees again, telling the -beads devoutly. - -“If,” quoth John to himself, “I am not much mistaken, ’tis that young -limb of mischief, Molly Biddulph.” - -And there she knelt in the sunshine, among the heather, looking, for -all the world, a young, rapt devotee of prayer, the scarlet beads -falling through her small brown fingers. Her eyes were closed; her -lips moved rapidly. Here was matter for a poet’s pen; a subject for an -artist’s brush. The soft wind stirred the dark hair on her forehead, -the sun kissed her bronzed cheeks. A butterfly flitted to her shoulder, -lighted a moment, circled round her head, and flew away. - -Coming to an end of her orisons, she made a great Sign of the Cross, -got to her feet, and sped away down the hill, clutching her treasures -tightly. - -John came from behind the gorse bush. - -“Well!” said he aloud. - -“It might be called a pretty little scene,” said a voice behind him. - -Turning, amazed, he met a pair of laughing eyes, saw a white-robed -figure, and two attendant knights. - -“You!” quoth John. - -She laughed. - -“We were afraid, so dreadfully afraid, lest you should decamp with the -treasures,” said she. “I had the greatest difficulty in restraining -these two from rushing to the rescue.” - -“I _thought_ I heard a sound!” ejaculated John. - -“It was me,” said Michael. “I squeaked, but Aunt Rosamund held my mouf.” - -“Then,” said John, “_you_ are the fairies?” - -“It is our _cache_,” quoth Antony magnificently. - -“So I am beginning to perceive,” responded John. “But why, if I may -ask without undue curiosity, is Molly in the matter? I imagined it -was Molly. And, if all accounts be correct, she would appear hardly a -subject for especial favours.” - -Rosamund’s eyes danced. John had a mental image of sunlight suddenly -sparkling on still waters. - -“It is just,” she explained, “that she appears, as you say, hardly a -subject for favours, that she gets them.” - -“Oh!” John was frankly a trifle bewildered by the explanation. - -“It was Tony’s idea,” smiled Rosamund. - -She had seated herself on the heather, and John had followed her -example. The boys were some paces ahead of them, examining the _cache_. - -“Tony,” pursued Rosamund, “discovered that pleasant anticipation is -conducive to good behaviour. He solemnly assured me of the fact one -day. Therefore we--or, at least, I--conceived the idea of putting the -theory to the test.” - -“Therefore,” said John, “you established a _cache_ for Molly.” - -“We established a _cache_ for Molly,” echoed she. “We lured her to it -in the most innocent way imaginable. Of course she hasn’t the remotest -notion as to who has established it. That would be to spoil the joy of -it. It is the hint of secret magic about it that is half its delight. -The contents are dependent on conduct, you understand. At least a -fortnight’s exemplary behaviour brings the kind of reward you perceived -today. Often there may be merely a flower found. If the fairies are -dissatisfied, I have known them to put a couple of snails within the -_cache_.” Again her eyes danced. - -“Brown pools that have caught and held a sunbeam,” thought John. - -Aloud he said ruminatively, “I wonder what becomes of the snails.” - -Rosamund gave a little shiver. - -“I fear me,” said she, “that once at least, they were--squashed!” - -“Hum!” quoth John. “I have an idea that if I were seeking--say a rose, -and found a snail instead, that the snail might possibly be subjected -to a like fate.” - -“But it wasn’t the poor snails’ fault,” she objected. - -“We have frequently,” said John sententiously, “to suffer for the sins -of others. If I might offer a suggestion, I would point out that the -fairies’ displeasure might be equally well marked by coal, stones, or -even a copybook maxim. How does ‘Be good and you’ll be happy,’ or -‘Gifts are the reward of virtue,’ strike you?” - -She shook her head. - -“Fairies,” she assured him, “never indulge in moral reflections. They -merely act.” - -“‘Deeds, not words,’ being their motto,” laughed John. “But coal, now!” - -“Yes,” she conceded, “I think coal might answer our purpose.” - -There was a little pause. - -“To a mere casual observer,” remarked John reflectively, “the young -person in question might have appeared an embryo saint. From which we -perceive the truth of the adage that appearances are deceitful.” - -“Not in every case,” she retorted. “How do you know that she isn’t an -embryo saint? Very much in embryo, I’ll allow. Oh, but there’s stuff in -Molly. But do you suppose she’s understood among the village folk? Not -a bit of it! It’s respectability they admire, wooden respectability.” - -“Hum,” said John. - -“And Molly isn’t wooden.” - -“No,” acquiesced John fervently. - -Rosamund laughed. - -“And therefore,” she continued, “they see downright sin in her--well, -her unwooden escapades. And they haven’t a notion, the faintest notion -of her possibilities.” - -“As either sinner or saint,” suggested John. - -“Well, there’s the stuff for either there,” she agreed. - -“I own,” said John somewhat irrelevantly, “that there’s a certain -attraction in sinners.” - -“Of course there is,” she retorted, “if it’s brilliant enough sinning. -It’s the personality that attracts, though the material has run off -the rails. Only people so often make the mistake of contrasting -brilliant sinning with commonplace goodness. If you want your -contrasts, you should place commonplace goodness alongside commonplace -sinning--pettiness, meanness, drunkenness, hateful little detractions, -and all the rest of the sordid category. And then put brilliant sinning -alongside the impetuous ardour of St. Peter, or the mystic sweetness of -St. John.” - -“You speak sagely,” quoth John. “It is, I fear, a matter of contrasts -which one is extremely apt to overlook.” - -Again there fell a little silence. And the birds twittered, and the sun -shone, and the butterflies flitted over the heather, and a thousand -words rose to John’s lips, only to remain unspoken, because the time -had somehow leaped to about a million of years ahead. It was not the -moment, he knew it was not the moment, and yet--and yet-- Well, at any -rate she was there beside him on the heather. The faintest scent of -perfume--violets, perhaps? came to him from her garments. For all his -outward calm, for all his level, easy, careless voice, his heart was in -a tumult. - -“You and Mr. Elmore are dining with us tonight,” she reminded him on a -sudden. - -“I had not forgotten.” John’s voice was full of assurance. - -“You know,” quoth she tentatively, “that you are to meet--Sir David -Delancey.” There had been the fraction of a pause before the name. - -“I know,” said John, his eyes clouding. - -“My grandmother felt it might ease the situation,” she explained. There -was a sudden little note of confidence in the words. “A dinner _en -famille_ might be, indeed must be, a trifle difficult.” - -“I quite understand.” - -She pulled at a sprig of heather. - -“Father Maloney has seen him,” she said abruptly. “He--he seems -favourably impressed.” - -“I, too, have seen him,” owned John. It was not altogether easy to make -the statement. - -“You!” She was frankly surprised. - -He gave her a brief account of the meeting. - -“And--and he was passable?” - -“Oh,” said John grudgingly, honesty forcing the truth from him, “he is -really quite a decent fellow.” - -She glanced up quickly, understanding his tone. - -“You would rather,” said she, “dislike him quite frankly.” - -“You have stated the case,” said John. - -“I quite understand,” she nodded. - -And then Antony and Michael came towards them from the _cache_. The two -on the heather bestirred themselves. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - -DAVID DINES AT THE CASTLE - - -WHEN John, with Corin in his wake, entered the drawing-room of Delancey -Castle that evening, he glanced anxiously around. He had no real -cause for anxiety. He was a good ten minutes in advance of the hour -mentioned, having led a protesting Corin up the hill at a fine pace. - -Mrs. Trimwell had seen them depart, her face an amazed and horrified -note of interrogation. - -“You’re dining with her ladyship!” she had gasped. - -“We are,” John had assured her. - -“You aren’t never going up to dine at the Castle in them clothes!” she -had ejaculated. - -“We dine,” John had said smiling, “in these very clothes that you now -perceive upon us.” - -“Land sakes!” Mrs. Trimwell had gasped. And words failing her, either -from horror, or lack of imagination, she had mutely watched them -depart. - -They had started betimes; they had also, as I have stated, walked at -a fine pace; and now, somewhat heated, they found themselves shaking -hands with Lady Mary, while the clock yet wanted some ten minutes of -seven-thirty. - -But, so argued John, surveying the said clock, half an hour, even an -hour too soon, was infinitely preferable to one minute too late. It was -the first moment of meeting that would set the keynote to the whole -evening. It was at that first psychological moment that the easement of -his presence was necessary. Corin, he considered as quite beside the -mark, you perceive. - -Father Maloney was already present. He was seated in the window-seat -with Antony and Michael, who had been granted half an hour’s furlough -from bed. - -And now came the moments of suspense,--an anxious waiting. Corin and -the two boys alone were absolutely at their ease. Corin, having engaged -Rosamund in conversation, was expatiating on his day’s work. John, his -eyes on the clock, his ear alert for the opening of a door, talked -to Lady Mary. It is fairly certain that her eyes and her ears were -likewise occupied. - -“I hear from the boys that you were present at the _cache_ this -afternoon,” said she smiling. - -John laughed. - -“It was a fairy-tale scene,” quoth he. “I wouldn’t have missed it for -worlds. It isn’t often an imaginative conception works so successfully.” - -“In this instance,” she reminded him, “there was the Celtic temperament -to deal with. Nothing is beyond the imagination of a Celt, I fancy.” - -“No,” said John musingly. And then, “Not as criticism, but merely as -query, I wonder how far it is justifiable to play upon it?” - -“You mean that Molly’s imagination was played upon?” - -“Yes.” - -“I fancy,” said Lady Mary, “that the human element comes into most -of our material rewards. It is the agency by which they are worked. -In this case the human agency merely hid itself beneath a fantastic -garb, thereby adding a subtle pleasure to the reward. I don’t know -whether Molly believes in her heart of hearts that the fairies had -been at work, any more than I’ll vouch for Tony’s and Michael’s belief -in Santa Claus filling their stockings. I fancy there are many things -the pleasure of which is enhanced by their being shrouded in the soft -light of imagination, rather than by their being dragged forth to the -somewhat garish light of fact. There’s no lack of truth in keeping them -shrouded. There is, after all, no necessity to be merely blatant.” - -“No,” laughed John. - -“Most children,” went on Lady Mary, “have a subtle power of -imagination. If you were to bring them to hard bed-rock fact, they’d -own to the imagination, though probably reluctantly.” - -“I know,” said John, “a willow wand is not a spear, neither is a -broomstick a horse, nor a twisted tree-trunk a dragon, and you know it. -But when you ride forth on the horse, armed with the spear, to kill the -dragon, you suffer some terrible and indefinable loss when the actual -facts of the case are set before you in faultless English by an all -too-truthful aunt.” - -“You see,” smiled Lady Mary. - -“I see,” said John, “and I withdraw my query, or, rather, you have -answered it.” - -There was a silence, and again they both waited. They made no attempt -to break the silence. It could only have been broken now by some -entirely futile remark, and neither John nor Lady Mary was in the mood -for such remarks. - -John looked in the direction of Rosamund and Corin. He saw that the -former glanced towards the door every now and again, and back from it -to the clock. The minutes seemed interminably slow in their passing. -And then, suddenly, footsteps were heard in the hall without. John’s -heart leaped; Lady Mary’s face was pale; Rosamund was smiling; Father -Maloney looked up from the little tin soldier he was examining. - -The door opened and the butler appeared on the threshold. He muttered -something. Certainly his speech was not his usual clear enunciation. -John, seeing his solemnly injured expression, felt a sudden desire to -laugh. Lady Mary certainly smiled. And then David Delancey entered the -room. - -Of course the actuality wasn’t half, or a quarter, as bad as the -anticipation. In two minutes the introductions were over. John had -shaken hands; everyone had shaken hands; Antony, in a clear treble, had -informed the guest that it was on his account alone that he and Michael -had been granted half an hour’s furlough from bed. The announcement -broke the ice, so to speak; if, indeed, there had been any to break. -Probably there wasn’t any. There had been a sudden thaw the moment the -solemnly injured butler had appeared upon the threshold. - -And David himself was so utterly simple. To his direct mind the -invitation alone had conveyed sufficient assurance of his welcome. Why -on earth should it have been issued else? There you have your child all -over. He may hesitate to intrude for fear of a snub; but, once let an -invitation be given, snubbing does not enter into the category at all. -Such conventionalities as enforced politeness do not enter his mind. Of -course Lady Mary was as pleased to welcome him as David was to make her -acquaintance. It was _sine qua non_ to the present situation. - -I don’t say it hadn’t surprised him. He had been extremely surprised. -It wasn’t in the least the way he saw himself acting had he been in -Lady Mary’s place. Nevertheless he saw entire genuineness in her -action. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - -JOHN MAKES A DISCOVERY - - -YET, in spite of what might be called a good beginning, the dinner -party was not a success. John was certain it hadn’t been a success. He -reviewed it, walking home with Corin in the starlight; he continued to -review it sitting in an armchair with a pipe, since he was in little -mood for sleep. - -And yet, wherein precisely did its failure lie? - -It did not lie with Lady Mary; nor with Rosamund; nor with Father -Maloney; nor, he was certain, with himself. (Corin, as already -mentioned, he left outside the category.) They had each and all of -them been courteous, friendly, charming. They had kept the ball of -conversation tossing lightly from one to the other; they had given -David his full share of the game. Certainly the fault did not lie with -any of the four. He could not, also, have said precisely that there -was any fault at all. Outwardly, at least, there was none. Yet there -had been a subtle atmosphere, an indefinable hint of something lacking. - -They had discussed books--standard authors--with which David was well -acquainted. They had mentioned classical composers, with whom he was -certainly less familiar. They had talked of flowers, birds, animals, -sunsets, storms, and ships, and here he was in his element. - -He had talked well. John had received a vivid impression of a land hot -beneath the noonday sun, of wine-red sunsets, the atmosphere aglow -with palpitating colour, the on-stealing of the darkly purple night, -the stars big and luminous looking down with ever-watchful eyes upon -the lonely veldt. He saw the vivid reds of the flame-coloured heaths -and everlasting flowers, the brilliant blue of the lobelias, the waxen -whiteness of the arum lilies. He heard the countless voices of the -grasshoppers, the low booming note of the frogs, the muffled beating -of the buzzards’ wings. And above all he felt the vast illimitable -spaces, the great loneliness of the veldt. David had talked of -Muizenberg, and the white sands stretching for forty miles towards -the mountains,--mountains gold and orange in the sunshine, blue in -the evening twilight, the green sea bordering the sands, emerald set -against pearl. - -He had talked of Cape Town,--of the Malay men with their great baskets -of flowers, of Table Mountain with its silver-leaved trees, with -the rolling cloth of white cloud covering it. But here he touched -civilization; his speech was less fluent than when he held them in the -vast solemnity of the lonely veldt. - -And here John made a discovery. He perceived all at once, not merely -the loneliness of the veldt, but the lonely spirit of the man who had -dwelt on it. It was that which had caused the subtle incongruity in the -atmosphere. He no more belonged to his surroundings than did a hermit -to a London Club; and, so thought John, carrying his discovery further, -he--David--was, in a measure, aware of that fact himself. He had been a -fish out of water, and however kindly, however charmingly, landsmen may -treat it, a fish on land is certainly in an element in which it cannot -by any possibility be at ease. It is true that this particular fish -had entered the element of its own free will; but, so surmised John, -it is equally true that he was not at home in it. And yet, so John -perceived with a fine subtlety of perception, it was not the material -surroundings alone which were at the root of the mischief. It lay -deeper; it was in the mental atmosphere that the uneasiness lay. - -Now, he also perceived, or thought he perceived, that while David was -aware of the incongruity of the situation, he had not fully recognized -it to lie, as John saw it to lie, in this same mental atmosphere. This -fact in itself increased the man’s loneliness. He was not only isolated -in mind from those with whom he found himself, but he was isolated -from himself, because he did not understand himself. It is the most -bewildering kind of loneliness. It is almost useless to attempt to -describe it in terms of speech. There are no precise words for it. I, -at least, can find none, and John could not, though it is certain that -he recognized it in a measure. - -And then by one of those sudden flashes of inspiration which come -to all men at times, or which come, at all events, to those given -to a certain quality of mental analysis, John saw that the more -material drama, of which he was at present an audience, sank into -insignificance before the mental drama he had perceived. The man had -come, so he believed, into his material birthright, but, regarding his -mental birthright, he was utterly ignorant. How, in what fashion would -he find it? if, indeed, he ever found it at all. - -I do not say that John said all this to himself in words, even in -the somewhat clumsy manner in which I have tried to express it. He -perceived it vaguely that night. The actual articulation of his -thoughts did not, I fancy, come till later. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - -A FUNNY WORLD - - -“IT’S never a bit of good losing your temper,” remarked Mrs. Trimwell -sagely. “You can say much more telling things if you don’t.” - -She was clearing the luncheon table. John, from the depths of an -armchair, made a sound slightly indicative of doubt. - -“Yes,” said Mrs. Trimwell firmly, in reply to the sound, “you can. -Losing your temper you never know what you are going to say, and as -like as not you’ll say something as’ll hit back on yourself, and -you be sorry you said later. Keeping it you can have an eye to your -neighbour’s weaknesses, and pull them out to show, so to speak.” - -John seemed to recognize some truth in this statement. - -“Whose weaknesses,” he demanded, “have you been exposing?” - -“He’s a captious man, is Vicar,” said Mrs. Trimwell, and John -perceived that her remark was not irrelevant. “He’s never been what -you’d call pleased like in his mind that the biggest house to the place -is a papist house, and yet now when they’re leaving he’s for railing -against the new occupant that is to be, and him no papist at all, they -say.” - -“Oh!” said John. He had fancied, be it stated, that Mrs. Trimwell -herself was not what might have been termed cordial towards the -interloper. - -“I don’t say I’m wanting him at the Castle myself,” pursued Mrs. -Trimwell, in reply, it would seem, to John’s unspoken thought, “but -Lor’ bless you, ’tisn’t exactly his fault if he is the rightful heir, -and it’s little more’n a child he is for all he’s a man grown. He come -in here yesterday when I was stoning raisins for a cake. I don’t say at -first I was pleased for to see him. But, ‘Mrs. Trimwell,’ says he, ‘I -want to thank you for seeing to my foot. It’s a real doctor you are, -for I’d never but a limp the next day.’ And he sat down, and watched -me stoning of them raisins, eating one now and again for all the world -like a great boy. And his eyes--have you seen his eyes, sir? You -couldn’t no more say a harsh word to him than you could to my baby. He -stayed chatting an hour and more, and I declare I thought ’twas only -ten minutes.” - -John laughed,--a curious little laugh. - -“Then this morning,” went on Mrs. Trimwell, “Vicar come in. He’d seen -him yesterday afternoon at the front door. Wanted to know what he’d -come for. As if a visitor can’t come to the house without me answering -a penny catechism from Vicar. I up and as good as told him that. And -he began talking about loyalty to the family at the Castle, and it’s -never a word of loyalty he’s had for them, and I can tell you. We got -to words a bit, and Vicar’s temper isn’t never sweetened with the best -sugar, but I kept mine. I called to mind a thing or two as he’d said of -the family, and I let fall a hint now and again that I hadn’t forgotten -it neither. It’s wonderful the way it riles a person if you’ve a good -memory and let them know it.” - -John grinned. - -“I’ll not be repeating all he said,” pursued Mrs. Trimwell with -dignity, “but I will say there were some things I didn’t expect to hear -a parson say. But they’ll come back to himself. You can’t ever be real -spiteful but they does. Did I ever tell you about Mrs. Ashby and Lydia -Ponsland?” - -John intimated that she had not - -“Them two always had their knife into me, seeing that I gave them short -shrift when they come here with gossiping lies of my husband drinking -at the Blue Dragon over to Whortley. Lord love you, sir, he’s never -touched a drop more’n was good for him since the day we married. I’ll -not swear to before that, seeing as young men will be young men all the -world over. Anyhow I wasn’t going to listen to no lies from Mrs. Ashby -and Lydia Ponsland, and told them they was liars to their face, which -wasn’t perhaps the pleasantest hearing for them, though the truth. My -words stuck, I’m thinking, and turned a trifle sour, and they planned -a bit of revenge. ’Twas the silliest thing they did, though cruel at -that, and you’d never believe folks could have been that childish, if -I didn’t tell you ’twas the gospel truth. ’Twas Christmas Eve, and I -was over to Whortley for a bit of shopping. My husband was at home with -the children, when five o’clock or thereabouts there come a ring at the -front door. Robert he goes to see what ’tis. There’s a man there, and -a cart outside. ‘’Tis the coffin for your wife,’ says he. Robert, he -fails all of a tremble, and never thinking, like a man, I couldn’t ha’ -ordered my coffin anyhows if I’d been dead. He don’t understand it, -and stays arguefying, and mortal frightened. In the middle of their -speechifying I comes home, and I tell you it took me ten minutes and -more to make him believe I hadn’t no call for a coffin yet awhile. -’Twas them two as had ordered it, as I knew well enough, though -couldn’t never bring it clear home to them. But they was paid for their -evilness. Mrs. Ashby, she’s lost her money, and is in a two shilling -attic at Whortley this very day, and Lydia’s down with rheumatic fever -what the doctor says she’ll not be getting over this side of next -Christmas. When God pays He don’t pay in halfpence.” - -The vigour with which Mrs. Trimwell brushed the crumbs from the cloth -served to emphasize her statement. - -“It was,” said John, “an astonishingly idiotic thing for them to do.” - -“Idiotic!” ejaculated Mrs. Trimwell, “I should think it was idiotic. -But there, they’d lost their tempers and kept them lost for weeks; -and if you mislay your temper like that it turns that sour you’d be -surprised. I’m for thinking Vicar hasn’t found his yet, nor will be -finding it for a bit. But as I says to him, if a man finds his chance -like this one has, you can’t be surprised if he takes it. If he don’t -he’s a fool, and no more and no less. If you get a chance, take it, -says I, if you don’t it goes off in a huff to somebody else.” - -“Then,” remarked John ruminatively, “it would be your advice that a -chance should be taken at all hazards, even at the expense of someone -else?” - -Mrs. Trimwell looked dubious. It would appear that this aspect of -affairs had not previously struck her. - -“Well, sir,” quoth she reflective, “I’ll own you have me there. I -couldn’t give you no clear answer to that. It seems to me that the -world’s all a bit of shoving and pushing, and slipping through gaps to -the front when you see them. And if you don’t do the slipping, someone -else will. I reckon it’s right enough if you’re not pushing your own -folk and friends aside. When it comes to them, well, matters do get a -bit awkward, I’ll allow. What do you think, sir?” - -John shook his head. - -“Frankly, Mrs. Trimwell, I don’t know.” - -“Well, to tell you the honest truth, sir, no more don’t I. It’s one -thing to talk o’ the common-sense point of view, but when you come -straight up to it, well, you sometimes wonders if it isn’t a bit more -edgey and cornery than you cares about. ’Tis a funny world.” - -“It is,” said John fervently. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - -THE OLD OAK - - -OH, it was a funny world, fast enough, John knew that. He’d known it -in fits and starts all his life, but somehow the last ten days had -emphasized the fact more fully. - -Ten days! To John it seemed a lifetime since he, in company with Corin, -had stepped upon Whortley platform, had taken his seat in the rickety -bus that had conveyed him at its own shaky pace to the White Cottage. -A lifetime! And yet reason, that firm indicator of common-sense, -emphasized to the contrary. Anyhow, a lifetime or ten days, the time -had been long enough for him to know his mind. He had known it for -weeks past. But for her? There was the question. And it was one which -common-sense, modesty, and every other thought but his own wish, -answered firmly in the negative. He had seen her precisely seven times, -and two out of the number obviously went for nothing, seeing that the -first time she had been totally unaware of his presence, and the third -time, if she had seen him, it would have been merely as one of a small -congregation of worshippers, his individuality entirely unnoticed. - -Therefore, argued John, if what he so ardently desired was, by any -possible manner of means, to be brought about by an increased number of -meetings, the sooner he set about increasing them the better. Obviously -the proper, the correct thing to do, after lunching at a house, was to -pay a respectful call upon one’s hostess. He had no need to consult an -etiquette book to remind himself of that fact. - -True, he had lunched on Thursday, and this was only Saturday, therefore -the call might be considered somewhat precipitate. But, argued John, -endeavouring to find some plausible excuse for the precipitancy of the -call, with the practical certainty in view of meeting the family in the -cloisters after Mass the following day, the most desirable course, the -only correct and proper course, was to call that very afternoon. - -No sooner thought than decided on. John left the White Cottage, -betaking himself in the direction of the church, from which he -intended to drag a possibly reluctant Corin, and insist on his mounting -the hill in his company. - -But his intentions and his insistence came to nought. - -A dusty, untidy, and wholly absorbed Corin utterly refused to accompany -him. Objection number one, it was too soon to pay a call; objection -number two, it was Saturday afternoon, the one afternoon in the week on -which he enjoyed solitude; objection number three, would John kindly -look at the discovery he had just made, and then see if he--Corin--was -likely to leave it for the purpose of paying a merely conventional -visit. - -John looked. Corin was, at the moment, on _terra firma_, be it stated. - -On either side of where the altar would have stood, had there been -one, and some five feet or so from the ground, the wall was partially -uncovered. A border in brilliant blue, red, black, and yellow was -disclosed,--a bold, simple pattern. Below it, in the upper loops of -a painted curtain, were animals,--dragons, twisted of tail, forked -of tongue; a leveret, a deer, and a fox, each of these last courant, -to use the parlance of heraldry. For the most part the animals were -washed in boldly in red; two of the dragons were a gorgeous yellow. - -“I am certain,” said Corin enthusiastically, “that they are after -Geraldius Cambrensis. It’s the best find of the lot. I’m not coming -with you. Nothing, no power on earth, can drag me from this till dark. -If you must go today, make my excuses.” - -Therefore John departed. - -The excuse was valid. It also gave a _raison d’être_ for his somewhat -precipitate call. Miss Delancey was interested in the discoveries in -the church. It would be merely friendly to let her know of this new -discovery as soon as possible. Therefore, I say, John departed. Of -course he grumbled a moment or so before departing. Equally of course -the grumbling was of a merely perfunctory nature. - -And then he turned into the sunshine. - - * * * * * - -His heart beat high as he walked up the hill. Of course he was doing -the right and obvious thing. It would be absurd to wait till next week -to pay the visit. The day after tomorrow! How could such a delay be -contemplated? It would have been impossible, unthinkable. - -The eighth meeting! And surely there must follow the ninth and the -tenth, and heaven alone knew how many more. And which, _which_, WHICH -would be The Meeting? Of course it was absolutely absurd to surmise -on this point. It was impossible to fix the moment beforehand. To -come, as John would have it to come, it must be almost inspirational, -heaven-sent. It couldn’t be arranged, planned. It couldn’t be -calculated over, preconceived. But--and here John’s spirits went down -to zero with a sudden run--would it ever come? Wasn’t he a presumptuous -ass even to dream of such a moment as possible? or--granting the -moment--to dream of its fruition? Wouldn’t it be nipped in the bud -instantly? frozen to a mere shrivelled atom of a miserable moment? John -shivered at the thought. Then consolation took him kindly by the hand. -At all events here was the eighth meeting, with the moment not yet even -in bud. Who could tell as to that budding? - -And so he turned into the avenue. - -He passed under the oaks and copper beeches, the roadway now dappled -with gold among shadows, as the sunlight penetrated the branches -overhead. To the right, in the distance, were undulating stretches of -moorland. He fancied he could descry the silver-stemmed birch he had -seen on his first morning’s walk. Before him he had a view of smooth -green lawns, of brilliant flowerbeds, backgrounded by the old grey -Castle itself. To the left the parkland sloped gently upwards to a wood -of beeches,--a serene, cool, silent place, a veritable haunt of dryads. - -Between the avenue and the wood was a great oak tree, stretching wide -branches above the rough grass. Rumour had it that here was the scene -of that old-time tragedy. Though unknowing of this rumour, John yet -felt something almost sinister about the twisted, gnarled branches, -and massive trunk of the great tree. There was a hint of secrecy about -it, the dumb knowledge of some tragedy. Almost involuntarily he turned -across the grass towards it. - -There was no question as to its great age. For generations it must have -stood there, weathering storm and sunshine. Some seven feet or so from -the ground there was a hole in the trunk, large enough to admit of the -passage of a man’s head. Scanning the hole, John noticed a rusty nail -at one side. He wondered, idly enough, why it had been placed there. -From the hole, he glanced up at the branches. Truly there was something -almost sinister in the great limbs. They were distorted, twisted, as if -in agony. Again he had the unreasoning sensation of secrecy. It was an -extraordinary sensation, an absurd sensation. - -He could fancy the spirit of the tree striving to find expression in -speech. There was a curious feeling that somewhere, just beyond, in -the spirit world, perhaps, there was the key to some riddle. It was an -almost impalpable feeling; he barely realized it; only somewhere, in -his deepest inner consciousness, it stirred slightly. - -Below the tree was a small mound. Rumour also had it that here Gelert, -the wolf-hound, faithful as his ancient namesake, was buried. Again, -John had had no hint of this rumour. But he looked at the mound with -curiosity. Then, suddenly, he threw off the slight oppression that was -upon him, retraced his steps to the avenue. - -Arrived at the big door, John pulled the bell, a twisted iron thing -whose voice sounded faintly in some remote region. The door was opened, -and John saw into the hall, dark and shadowed. He had a glimpse of -bowls of roses, of a big straw hat lying on a table, green chiffon -around the crown. A pair of long crinkled gloves lay near it. So, for -an instant, John stood, his foot ready to cross the threshold. - -“Her ladyship is not at home.” The butler’s bland voice fell like a -douche of cold water on John’s heart. - -Now, I don’t know whether John’s face fell in proportion to his -heart, and the butler, more human than the majority of butlers, saw -the falling, or whether his next statement came in the mere ordinary -routine of matters. Anyhow, - -“But Miss Delancey is at home, and her ladyship will return shortly,” -followed closely on the former speech. - -John’s heart leaped to at least ten degrees above the point from which -it had fallen. The speech had not even come as a query regarding his -desire to enter, it had come as simple statement of fact. - -John stepped across the threshold. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII - -ON THE TERRACE - - -SHE came to him in the hall. - -Underneath her cordial ease of manner was the tiniest hint of shyness, -a sort of half-forgotten breath of extreme youngness, I might almost -say of childishness. Yet, very assuredly, there was nothing _gauche_ -about the reception. The hint merely served to emphasize her youth. -If John thought about her age at all, he probably placed her at about -twenty-two or thereabouts, which, I take it, was pretty near the mark. -But I don’t fancy the thought entered his mind. It was enough for him -that there she was, sitting opposite to him in the dusky hall. A ray of -sunlight, falling through an open window, caught the burnished copper -of her hair, turning it to vivid flame. It looked a thing alive and -palpitating, a burning aureole around her face. - -And now that the eighth meeting was accomplished, John found -himself suddenly tongue-tied, at a loss for any of those suitable -little phrases fitting to the occasion. Nothing is so infectious as -embarrassment, however slight, more particularly if there be any degree -of sympathy between the two. Certainly it proved infectious in this -case. Words halted, phrases came disjointedly, disconnectedly. - -John cursed himself inwardly for a fool, a procedure which, you may -rightly guess, did not vastly aid matters. And then, suddenly, Rosamund -got up from her chair. - -“Won’t you come and see the garden,” she suggested. - -It was an inspiration. John followed her with alacrity. - -They came out on to a wide terrace. A stone balustrade ran its full -length, a balustrade covered with climbing roses,--crimson, pink, -white, yellow, and a pale purple-lavender. A queer rose this last, -reminding one of the print gowns worn by one’s grandmothers. Beyond the -balustrade was a sunk lawn, and beyond that again the parkland, while -further still was the shimmering blue of the distant sea. - -“How you must love it!” - -The words escaped almost involuntarily from John’s lips. The next -moment he would have recalled them. To remind her of the beauty of what -she was about to lose, must surely be to emphasize the sense of that -loss. - -“Love it!” She turned towards him with a little laugh. “It--it just -belongs.” - -John was silent. Rosamund leaned upon the balustrade, half-sitting, -half-standing. - -“You needn’t mind saying what is in your thoughts,” said she. And there -was a little whimsical smile in her eyes. “Of course you can’t help -thinking about the fact that we are going to lose it all, any more -than I can help thinking about it. It makes freedom of speech just a -trifle difficult, if all the time you are feeling it is a subject to be -carefully avoided. Granny and I speak of it quite naturally now.” - -“I’d like to tell you how sorry I am,” said John. - -“Thank you,” she said simply. - -There was a little pause. She gazed out towards the sea. To the right, -a headland jutted out into its blueness. Sea-gulls circled in the quiet -air, tiny specks in the distance. Boats, white and red sailed, made -lazy way with the tide. - -Suddenly she turned impulsively towards him. - -“I fancy,” said she, “that I’m going to tell you something.” - -“Do!” said he, his eyes upon her. - -“You’ll laugh.” - -“Not a smile even.” - -“Hmm!” she debated. “An over-dose of seriousness _might_ be even worse -to face than laughter.” - -“This is not fair,” protested John. “I can’t measure a smile to the -hundredth part of an inch. I can, at least, promise not to mock at you. -Won’t that do?” - -She laughed. - -“Yes; I believe it will. Well, it’s this.” Her voice dropped to -seriousness. “I have a quite unreasoning feeling that we shan’t leave -here after all. I can’t explain the feeling, and I am fully aware of -the almost absurdity of it. I haven’t spoken of it to any one else. I -can’t tell my grandmother, or Father Maloney. It might raise a faint -hope which reason tells me will be doomed to disappointment. And -yet--well, it seems almost that if one could only stretch out one’s -hand a little way, through a kind of fog, one would find the key to the -whole riddle. It must sound absurd to you, of course.” - -John’s mind swung instantly to his own sensation of less than twenty -minutes ago. - -“No,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t sound at all absurd.” - -She looked at him quickly. - -“You speak almost as if you thought--” She broke off. After all it was -an absurd imagination. - -“I have thought the same,” said John smiling. - -“You!” She was amazed. - -“Yes; as I came across the park just now.” - -“Oh!” - -Again there was a little silence. - -“I wonder--” she said musingly. “Do you think there’s the faintest -possible chance?” - -“There’s always the faintest possible chance,” John assured her. “Oh, -I’ll grant it’s the faintest possible, and heaven alone knows where it -will spring from. But it’s there, I know it’s there. And we’ve both -felt it.” - -She nodded. - -“I’m glad you’ve felt it too. It adds a little bit more hope, even -while I’m almost laughing at myself. Only--what is it we’ve both felt?” - -“I don’t know,” said John. “I don’t know an atom. I think I get nearest -the mark when I say that it seems as if, somewhere, there’s a dumb -voice striving for expression. At least that is the only way I can -describe the sensation to myself.” - -“And all the time,” she added, “there’s a feeling of quietness in -the atmosphere, the quietness that precedes something very important -happening.” - -“I know,” said John. - -“Ah, it’s tantalizing,” she sighed, “the inward knowledge of that, and -yet the knowledge of one’s own impotence.” - -Her brow was wrinkled in a little frown, half of annoyance, half of -something like regretful amusement. It was an adorable little frown, -and John longed, ardently longed, to smooth it away. His heart beat and -thumped, the while it cried warningly that the time was not yet. And -from somewhere near at hand came the liquid note of a pigeon. - -“Go slow slowly, go slow slowly,” it seemed to remind him. - -“Oh, yes, we’re impotent enough,” assented John, and a trifle gloomily. - -“Isn’t it all melodramatic?” she laughed. - -“Horribly,” agreed John. - -“It’s an extraordinary conglomeration,” she pursued. “Setting, -old-world; drama, early Victorian; period, twentieth century. Do you -suppose that any one who didn’t _know_ about it, would believe it?” - -“Not an atom,” John assured her promptly. “If any one, I for instance, -were to write a novel dealing with it, I’ll be bound I’d be considered -to have strained the long arm of coincidence to breaking point. That’s -the queer thing about truth. It’s always a thousand times, a million -times, queerer than fiction.” - -“It’s from precisely that--the very queerness of it,--that I can -derive some small modicum of consolation,” she assured him gravely. -“I feel, on occasions, that I am not myself at all, but merely a -heroine in a book. Only, if I were, I might be tolerably certain of a -happy-ever-after ending. I might say indisputably certain, considering -the style of the plot. Here it is nothing but a toss-up.” - -“Oh, no.” John shook his head. “I wouldn’t give mere chance quite such -a free hand.” - -“You mean that there’s a real plan behind it all?” she demanded point -blank. - -“Oh, well!” said John. There was a slightly quizzical smile in his eyes. - -“Of course I know there is truly,” responded she, smiling in her turn. -“But----” - -“But me no buts,” retorted John. “Chance isn’t a free agent, and you -know it; though I’ll allow he has an extraordinary appearance of acting -on his own account now and again. But that’s merely his guise. If he -didn’t appear clad in that fashion, we’d misname him; and I’ve an -idea he’s curiously tenacious of his personality. People, you know,” -continued John slyly, “are apt to believe in his omnipotence.” - -She laughed. - -“I’ve believed in him myself before now,” owned John, having a -sudden memory of a black and white goat. “Only subsequent reflection -invariably shows one that he isn’t acting on his own account, as he -would have us believe.” - -“I fancy you’re right,” said she reflectively. “If one really considers -the seemingly haphazard happenings, one does see that there is always -a connecting link backwards and forwards. Nothing--no happening--is -entirely isolated.” - -“It is not,” said John. “Only sometimes the connecting link is so fine -as to be almost imperceptible.” - -John had in mind a tiny faint link, so faint that it was only in the -light of subsequent events that it had become visible. If, on a certain -March afternoon, he had not yielded to a sudden inspiration to enter -the Brompton Oratory, would he now have been standing in this garden? -Was not that the tiny, almost imperceptible link with all the events of -the last ten days? Oh, he had reason enough for his assured statement, -he had proved it to the hilt. - -He wanted, he badly wanted, to tell her, to speak of that tiny -connecting link. But reason again assuring him that to do so would be -to drag the moment too abruptly forward, he thrust the desire aside. -And then, from the distance, came the sound of a silver gong. - -Rosamund got up from the balustrade. - -“Tea,” said she. “Granny must have returned.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX - -AN UNEXPECTED LETTER - - -JOHN sat down to breakfast at about nine o’clock, or thereabouts, the -following Wednesday morning. It was the Feast of Our Lady’s Assumption; -he had been to Mass at Delancey Chapel. - -A letter was lying in his place. He took it up, and opened it. Here are -its contents. - - “DEAR JOHN,--Unexpected business has brought me over to London. It - seems a thousand pities to go back to Ireland without seeing you. - Could you get rooms for me at your sequestered spot for ten days or - so? Send me an early wire if possible, and I’ll come down by the train - arriving tomorrow evening. - - “Your affectionate sister, - ELIZABETH DARCY.” - -Now, it is very certain that, from the time of our Mother Eve, women -have played an important part in the affairs of mankind, either for -good or ill. But it is equally certain that John had not the faintest -conception of the part Elizabeth would play in the life of at least one -person by this her proposed visit. - -“Elizabeth suggests coming down for a few days,” said John tentatively, -and helping himself to bacon. - -“Elizabeth?” echoed Corin, gazing enquiringly at John. - -“My sister, Mrs. Darcy. I forgot you didn’t know her.” - -“By all means advocate her coming,” quoth Corin. “I shall be delighted -to make her acquaintance.” - -“I wonder--” began John, and stopped. - -“Well?” queried Corin. - -“I wonder whether Mrs. Trimwell has another room. Elizabeth suggests -that I should take rooms for her. She wants an early reply.” - -“Then my suggestion,” remarked Corin calmly, “is that you ask Mrs. -Trimwell. On the whole it would be simpler and more practical than -merely wondering.” - -“Brilliant man!” responded John genially. And he rang the bell. - -Mrs. Trimwell, it appeared, had not. She was profuse in her apologies -for the lack of accommodation. You would have imagined that she was -entirely to blame for the fact that the White Cottage possessed merely -three bedrooms and a cupboard, so to speak. Tilda and Benny--aged -four--slept in the cupboard. - -“But there’s the Green Man what isn’t seven minutes’ walk from here, -and though I’ll not vouch for the cooking myself, a bit of bacon and a -cup of coffee for breakfast is what any idiot might rise to, it being -pleasanter for the lady not to be afoot too early, and the beds I -believe is clean, while for other meals she’ll natural take them along -of you.” - -Of course Chance--so-called--had a hand in the arrangement. If -Elizabeth had both slept and breakfasted at the White Cottage, I’ll -vouch for it that matters would not have happened precisely as they -did; indeed, they would probably have been totally different. - -John finished his breakfast, and then took a telegram to the -post-office. - -He was genuinely, undeniably pleased that Elizabeth was coming. He had -a sensation of something like exultation in the thought. She was so -extraordinarily reliable. Never under any circumstances did Elizabeth -“let you down,” to use a slang phrase. There was never the smallest -occasion to remind Elizabeth that the intimate remarks you made to her -were confidences. It was a foregone conclusion in her eyes. She would -no more dream of repeating them than she would dream of tampering with -another person’s letters. Also, so reflected John, she never reminded -you that you had made them, unless it was entirely obvious that you -desired to be so reminded. She never glossed over any difficulty, but -faced it squarely with you. The only people who were ever disappointed -in Elizabeth were those who looked for a maudlin sympathy from her, who -desired her to fight their battles, when she was fully aware that they -alone could fight them. Yet Elizabeth was entirely feminine, from the -top of her glossy brown hair, to the tip of her dainty shoes. John, -perhaps more than any one else in the world, understood and appreciated -both her strength and her femininity. It was therefore with a feeling -of intense satisfaction that he dispatched his telegram. - -“Things move when Elizabeth’s around,” reflected John. - -And then he walked on to the Green Man. - - * * * * * - -John, on the platform of Whortley station, surveyed the people there -collected with idle interest. - -It was market day in Whortley. Stout market women, clutching empty, -or partially empty, baskets, sat on benches, their feet squarely -planted on the ground. Leather-gaitered men, whose clothes gave forth -a powerful aroma of horses and cattle, strolled up and down, and -talked in groups. Children, hot and tired, and consequently slightly -irritable, bickered with each other, or poked sticks at bewildered -and exhausted hens in crates. Somewhere in the back regions of the -station a couple of refractory oxen were being driven into trucks. -An atmosphere of almost aggressive patience pervaded the much-tried -porters. - -“’Eat may be mighty good for the ’arvest,” remarked one motherly -looking woman, wiping her face with a large white handkerchief, “but I -do say as ’ow it’s a bit trying to the spirit, and likewise the body.” - -“It’s the tempers of most people it gets at,” replied her neighbour -succinctly. - -To which remark John responded with an inward and fervent acquiescence. -There was no denying the heat; there was no denying the sultriness of -the dusty platform. - -John strolled down to its further end. - -Behind the town the sky was crimsoning to sunset. The roofs of the -dingy houses were being painted red-gold in its light. The smoke from -a factory hung like a veil in the still air, lending mystery to the -atmosphere. The buildings lay in a web of colour,--blue, grey, purple, -and gold. A cynic might have likened the sunset glory to the glamour -with which some foolish people endow a merely sordid existence. In a -measure, too, his simile might have been justifiable; but, whereas he -would have scoffed, John, with something of the same simile in mind, -thanked God for the gift of imagination. - -And then, far to the right, he caught a glimpse of white smoke above a -dark serpent of an oncoming train. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX - -ELIZABETH ARRIVES ON THE SCENE - - -“RURALIZING,” quoth Elizabeth, “agrees with you.” - -They were driving in a vehicle politely termed a Victoria. It was not -unlike a good-sized bath-chair. It was driven by a one-armed boy. -Seeing the driver, Elizabeth had had a moment’s qualm of heart. Then -she had seen the horse. - -“Oh, it’s a pleasant enough spot,” responded John, “and--and restful.” -He coloured the merest trifle beneath his tan. - -“Restfulness,” said Elizabeth gravely, “is delightful.” - -But she wasn’t deceived, not a bit of it. Neither the pleasantness -of Malford, nor its restfulness was accountable for that particular -exuberance in John. It was a subtle, indefinable exuberance, which no -amount of mere bodily health could cause. It emanated from his mind, -his spirit; it surrounded him; he was bathed in it. He might pretend -to its non-existence; he might pretend--allowing it--that it was the -mere outcome of a country life, but Elizabeth was not deceived. - -“Have you met the Delanceys?” she demanded. - -“Oh, yes,” he responded airily enough. “They’re--you’ll like them. -That rumour you got hold of was correct enough, by the way. There is a -claimant. He’s proved his claim. It’s a mere matter of courtesy on his -part that he is not already in possession. He will be by the end of the -autumn.” - -Elizabeth sat up. - -“An American?” she said. - -“An American,” said John. “At least he hailed originally from the -States. He has been living in Africa since his boyhood.” - -“I suppose he’s quite impossible?” said Elizabeth frowning. - -“On the contrary,” owned John reluctantly, “he isn’t at all impossible, -at any rate not in one way. Of course he’ll be entirely unsuited to his -surroundings, but he is quite a decent fellow in himself.” - -“Brr!” breathed Elizabeth, and there was a hint of impatience in the -sound. “A kangaroo is a decent animal in itself, but you don’t want it -in your drawing-room. What do the Delanceys think about it?” - -“Oh,” quoth John, “they accept the inevitable. There’s a strong hint -of the French aristocrats’ attitude towards the guillotine, in their -manner; lacking, however, the scorn.” - -“I see.” Elizabeth fell into meditation. - -“I don’t think even you can reconstruct matters,” said John smiling. -“You see, the whole thing turns on that missing document.” - -“The whole thing,” said Elizabeth, “is so blatantly melodramatic as to -be barely respectable.” - -John laughed. - -“Wait till you see Lady Mary,” he said. “She saves the situation -completely.” - -Elizabeth was silent. Then: - -“Where is the man now?” she asked. - -“Staying at the Green Man,” said John. “I’ve had to take a room there -for you. You’ll breakfast at the inn, and have the rest of your meals -with us. I am sorry there isn’t another room at the White Cottage.” - -“Don’t apologize,” said Elizabeth gaily. “I came down to picnic. It’s I -who should apologize for thrusting myself upon you.” - -“That,” said John decidedly, “is pure nonsense.” - -They were ascending a hill by now. Twilight was falling rapidly. Bats -flew through the dusk, their shrill queer note breaking the silence. A -great white owl flew noiselessly, like a huge moth, across a field. The -road was a white line between dark hedges. - -Coming to the top of the hill, wide stretches of moorland lay around -them. Far off on the horizon was a strip of silver-grey sea. In the -middle distance was a hill, wood-covered, dark towers rising among the -trees. - -“Delancey Castle,” said John. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI - -IN THE EARLY MORNING - - -IF, as I remarked at the beginning of a preceding chapter, John thought -it a funny world, it is very certain that David would have fully -endorsed his opinion; and, further, he would have considered himself -the queerest person in it. - -Now, this was purely owing to the fact that he had suddenly found -himself a stranger to himself. It was, in a manner, as if he had lived -in blindness with a man for years, having, perhaps, without fully -recognizing the fact, some mental conception of him. Then, on being -miraculously restored to sight, he had discovered that the reality was -totally at variance with that same mental conception. - -The recovery of sight had come gradually. It had not been an -instantaneous miracle. At the first he thought, doubtless, if he -considered the fact at all, and he was probably only partially aware -of it, that the variance between the reality and what his partially -restored sight beheld, was due to his own faulty vision. Now, with -clear sight restored, he beheld a complete stranger, and it left him -bewildered. He didn’t know the man at all. He didn’t even recognize his -speech. It is small wonder that he was bewildered; it is small wonder -that he spent solitary hours in a futile attempt to reconstruct his -preconceived notions of the man. - -I believe that the moment when David got a first blurred glimpse of -this stranger, was in Father Maloney’s odd little parlour. He had had -another glimpse of him at the Castle; and since then, little by little, -the glimpses had resolved themselves into full vision. And through it -all, with it all, was a queer sense of vibratory forces at work. - -It was in the parlour, also, that the first vibration had struck upon -him--a quite definite vibration, though inexplicable. It had rung -clearly for a brief space, gradually growing fainter, till he wondered -if it had indeed rung, or was merely imagination on his part. It had -been repeated at the Castle, and had left no doubt in his mind. Since -then it had been renewed at intervals, ringing each time longer and -louder. I can best describe it as some kind of mental telephone call, -though he was, at present, at a complete loss as to the message waiting -to be delivered. - -“The fact is, David P. Delancey,” he remarked more than once, “that -somehow your moorings have been cut, and the Lord only knows where you -are drifting.” - - * * * * * - -Very early in the morning, the sun not far above the horizon, and the -trees casting long shadows on the grass, David set out for a walk. - -It was by no means the first time that he had risen thus betimes. -The clean, fresh spirit of the morning appealed to him, also its -detachment. It seemed, at that hour, so extraordinarily aloof from the -affairs of men, wrapped, in a sense, in its own quiet meditations. -Later the sun, the little breezes, the sweet earth scents seemed to -give forth warmth, freshness, and fragrant odours for the benefit -of mankind. At this hour it was wrapped in meditation, a meditation -approaching ecstasy. - -He went softly, fearing almost to disturb the stillness, yet he did -not altogether feel himself an intruder. There was, in a strange sense, -something of communion between his spirit and the spirit of the silent -morning, in spite of its detachment. - -The route he had chosen led first across the moorland,--wide stretches -of purple heather. He walked without indulging in any special train of -thought. His eyes were open to the details of nature around him, his -brain alert to absorb them in pure pleasure. - -Gorse bushes, scattered among the heather, showed golden blossoms -backgrounded by a blue sky. Their sweet scent came faintly to him. -Later in the stronger warmth of the sun, the scent would gain in power -and fulness. In the distance, scattered copses lay misty blue patches -on sun-gold hillsides. Both far and near was an all-absorbing peace. - -He hadn’t a notion how far he walked, nor for how long. Unconsciously -he circled, coming at length to a gate, leading into a larch wood. - -David turned through it. Here the sun filtered through the branches, -flung spots of gold on the red-brown earth of the pathway, on the -emerald of the moss lying in great patches among bracken, fern, and -bramble. Twigs and branches, at one time wind-torn from the trees, lay -in the path, silver-grey, lichen-covered. It was all intensely silent, -intensely still. David, stepping by chance on a dried twig, heard it -snap with the report of a small pistol in the silence. The loneliness -appealed to him; the enchantment of the quiet wood led him on. - -Gradually, imperceptibly, his thoughts left externals, turned inwards. -Still aware of all that lay around him, they were no longer merely -idly diffused upon it; they drew together, focussed. Accustomed to -think, though vaguely, in terms of simile rather than in words, he saw -in the quiet of the wood something of the quiet which at present held -his own life and being. In a sense he suddenly felt himself sleeping, -his eyes closed on all that lay behind him. Yet while sleeping, he -knew, too, that presently must come awakening. It was in his power, he -now felt, to awake at the moment to the old life, as he knew it, to -reconstruct his mental conception of that stranger, as it was in his -power to retrace his steps. Yet it was almost as if something external -to himself waited with him, to withdraw gently should he turn back, to -remain with him should he go forward. So for a space of time--a space -not measured by the ticking of a clock--David waited. Then suddenly he -moved onward down the glade. - -And now he knew that his heart was beating fast, pulsing with some -curious excitement, though he had not realized it before. His breath, -too, was coming rather quickly, like that of a man who has been -running. Gradually breathing and heart-beating became normal; yet still -the dream sense lingered with him, and he did not want to dispel it. - -The path led him into a cuplike hollow among the trees, a moss-grown -place, full of deep shadows and a pleasant coolness. On the other -side of the hollow the path ascended, through a beech-wood here, -silver-green trunks in strong contrast to the deep red of the pathway. -Though quiet, this wood was vivid, full of stronger colour than was -that on the other side of the hollow. - -Coming out at last from among the trees, David found himself on an -expanse of grass, on one side skirted by the wood, on the other -bordered by a hedge of yew, close and thick and dark. Turning to the -left, he walked over the grass, till presently the hedge gave place to -a low wicket gate. Here he paused, looking over. - -Beyond the hedge was a grey stone building, and beyond the building -were grey towers. He knew now where he was. It was the chapel of -Delancey Castle facing him. He stood for a moment or so, his hand -resting on the gate. - -Suddenly the chapel bell broke the silence. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII - -THE NOTE OF A BELL - - -THE bell rang three strokes, with a pause between each. There was a -longer pause. Then once more came its threefold note. - -The sound struck strangely on David’s ear, and more strangely still on -his heart. With the sound he became extraordinarily aware of some vital -Presence near at hand. Something that suffused the whole atmosphere -with Its Personality. - -Somehow the quiet of the morning, its meditation, its silent ecstasy, -seemed to have been leading up to that moment. It seemed to him now -that here was the moment for which the morning had been waiting, and he -with the morning. Neither did the moment pass; it remained, prolonged, -expanded. Time again vanished; there was no time, there was nothing but -himself and that extraordinary mystical sense which was suffusing the -atmosphere. - -He made no attempt to explain it; he couldn’t have explained it had he -tried. It was something beyond words, beyond reason, beyond feeling, -even, in the ordinary sense of the term. It was not actually in his -mind that he was aware of it at all, but in something far deeper. -In one way it was as if the notes of that bell had struck on some -deep recess of his soul, setting free some tiny spring of hidden -knowledge and sweetness; and yet he knew that it was not by virtue of -that knowledge and sweetness that the mystical sense suffusing the -atmosphere had been translated into terms of fact. It was external to -them; it was actual, real, palpitating. He knew that it would have been -there had the well of his inner consciousness remained untouched. Only -somehow, in some extraordinary manner, it had sprung up to meet it; and -the tiny freed spring had been caught into great waters, submerging him -in a sweetness he could not understand. - -I don’t know how long David stood by the wicket gate; but, at last, -barely conscious of his surroundings, he turned from it along the grass -sward. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII - -THE GREEN MAN - - -THE parlour at the Green Man is the parlour pure and simple. It calls -itself by no grand-sounding title. You eat there, you sit there to -smoke and talk--if you do not sit in the garden, and you write there. - -It has five round tables, deal, and covered with strong white cloths. -It has rush-bottomed chairs; it has casement windows; it has a great -fireplace with oak settles on either side of it. For the rest, the -walls are buff-washed, and hung with coloured prints, mainly of a -sporting nature. The floor is red stone, with three mats on it. The -mats are made of small loose strips of coloured stuff. The window -curtains are of highly coloured chintz. - -The front door of the Green Man stands flush with the cobbled pavement. -Above the door swings the square sign with the name painted thereon. -It is a question, in Malford, from whence that name has originated. The -oldest inhabitants of the place, in particular Mrs. Joan Selby, who has -passed her ninetieth birthday, will tell you that it is in honour of -the Little People, who, long years since, footed it in the moonlight on -the grassy hill behind the house. She will declare that she had it from -the present owner’s great-grandfather himself, that the first visitor -to the house, when it was yet unnamed, was a little man, clad in green, -red-capped, who promised luck in his own name and that of his Tribe. - -This, you may believe, is looked upon as sheer superstition by the -younger and more enlightened of the inhabitants of Malford. There is -one ribald wag, who declares that the name originated through the -verdant propensities of a former owner. - -But for my part I lean to the first theory. And if you had ever sat in -the moonlight on the grassy hill behind the house, had seen the dark -green of the fairy rings among the brighter green of the field, had -heard the rippling of the stream at the foot of the hill, had seen the -pale gold of the massed primroses, had smelled their sweet fragrant -scent, had seen the misty shimmer of countless bluebells, then, I -fancy, you also would have been of my way of thinking. - - * * * * * - -Elizabeth sat at one of the round tables by an open casement window. - -It looked on to a grass terrace bordered by brilliant galadias. Beyond -the galadias was a tiny stream, rippling, amber-coloured, over rounded -stones. Beyond the stream was a grassy hill, sloping upwards to a -beech-wood. Beyond that again was the blue sky. - -“It really is extraordinarily pleasant,” said Elizabeth. - -And then she turned to her coffee pot. The coffee poured into a blue -and white cup, she was stirring it thoughtfully, when the door opened. - -A man paused for the merest fraction of a second on the threshold. It -evidently came as a bit of a surprise to him to find the room already -occupied. - -Elizabeth looked at the man. The man looked at Elizabeth. - -She saw a big man in loose tweeds, shabby tweeds, which had seen much -service. She saw a square-faced man, with a mat of darkish red hair. - -He saw a glossy-haired, brown-haired woman, a woman with a palely -bronzed skin, beneath which there was an underglow of red, a woman -with red lips finely moulded, with a square chin, with a delicately -chiselled nose, with steady grey eyes in which there was an under-note -of something akin to laughter. She wore a cream-coloured cotton dress. -A pink la France rose was tucked into the front of her gown. - -David, used to the rapid assimilation of details, saw all this at a -glance. Then he crossed to the table in the other window. It had been -laid so that it faced hers, and fearing lest he should appear guilty of -an obtrusive staring, he gazed out of the window. - -The arrival of his breakfast providing occupation for hands and eyes, -David turned to the table. A moment later he found that the sugar had -been forgotten. - -Now, the Green Man is devoid of bells. In some ways it is distinctly -primitive. A brass knocker on the front door announces the arrival of -visitors. For the rest your own vocal cords are employed. - -Ordinarily David would have gone to the door and shouted, but the -presence of Elizabeth causing some absurd little diffidence in his -mind, he sipped his coffee unsweetened. To a sweet-toothed man -non-sugared coffee is peculiarly unpalatable. He set down his cup with -a half-grimace, and glanced round the room. By good luck there might be -a sugar bowl on an unoccupied table. There was not. - -Elizabeth had noticed the former hesitation; she had likewise noticed -the slight grimace, and the present unavailing glance around the room. -Two and two were put rapidly together in her mind. She gave her own -sugar bowl a slight push. - -“Here is some sugar,” said she in her pleasant voice. - -It was a most trifling incident. At the moment David merely said “Thank -you,” and availed himself of the proffered bowl. Twenty minutes later, -meeting in the garden by the stream, it gave a slight excuse for -speech. It gave Elizabeth the excuse for speech. You may be sure David -would never have ventured on it. - -“What a dreamy spot!” said she, turning with a smile. - -If you knew Elizabeth well, you would know that this was one of her -favourite adjectives. It summed up at once beauty, picturesqueness, -colour, and entire enjoyment of anything. - -“It is good,” said David briefly. - -Elizabeth’s eyes twinkled. She liked the speech. It was in this -fashion, so we are told, that God regarded His Creation,--that is -before Mother Eve, beguiled by the old Serpent, had upset matters. Yet -after all, in spite of his upsettings, there are times and places which -yet fill us with some faint sense of that pristine perfection. - -Of course Elizabeth knew perfectly well who he was. That may well go -without saying. But, in spite of John having said that he was a decent -fellow, he wasn’t in the remotest degree like her mental conception of -him. - -She had pictured him a big man--which he truly was, also a bluff man, -a jovial man, a talker, a bit loud-voiced, perhaps a trifle assertive, -at all events very confident of himself, and all these things he was -not. It had not taxed Elizabeth’s intuition very vastly to perceive -that, contrary to all her expectations, there was an extraordinary -diffidence about him. He wasn’t the least certain of himself, he wasn’t -the least jovial nor loud-voiced, while something in his eyes,--well, -I have mentioned his eyes before. Somehow Elizabeth’s mind swung to -her little dusty-haired, grey-eyed Patrick in Ireland. She saw him in -the throes of grappling with one of those world problems to which the -cleverest of us can find but a poor answer, heard a small voice say -wearily: - -“Mummy, there is some things what is very difficult to understand.” - -Of course it was an absurd comparison. What had this big man in common -with the perplexities of a childish mind? Nevertheless for a brief -space she _had_ thought of Patrick. - -“You can almost,” said Elizabeth, “see the Good Folk come trooping down -that hill. - - “Up the airy mountain, - Down the rushing glen, - We daren’t go a-hunting - For fear of little men; - Wee folk, good folk - Trooping altogether; - Green jacket, red cap, - And white owl’s feather!” - -she quoted. - -“I like that,” Said David, “what is it? Is there any more?” - -Patrick had once said nearly these very words. - -“It’s called,” said Elizabeth below her breath, “‘The Fairies,’ and it -is by William Allingham. Of course he ought never to have called it -that. The Little People hate that name. It’s a marvel, understanding as -much as he did, that he didn’t know. And there are five more verses.” - -“Tell me,” said David. - -“Oh!” laughed Elizabeth. But she went on. - - “Down along the rocky shore - Some make their home, - They live on crispy pancakes - Of yellow tide foam; - Some in the reeds - Of the black mountain lake, - With frogs for their watch dogs - All night awake. - - “High on the hill-top - The old King sits; - He is now so old and grey - He’s nigh lost his wits. - With a bridge of white mist - Columbkill he crosses, - On his stately journeys - From Slieveleague to Rosses; - - Or going up with music - On cold starry nights - To sup with the Queen - Of the gay Northern Lights. - - “They stole little Bridget - For seven years long; - When she came down again - Her friends were all gone. - They took her lightly back - Between the night and morrow, - They thought she was fast asleep, - But she was dead with sorrow. - They have kept her ever since - Deep within a lake, - On a bed of flag-leaves - Watching till she wake. - - “By the craggy hillside - Through the mosses bare, - They have planted thorn-trees - For pleasure here and there. - If any man so daring - As dig them up for spite, - He shall find their sharpest thorns - In his bed at night. - - “Up the airy mountain - Down the rushing glen, - We daren’t go a-hunting - For fear of little men; - Wee folk, good folk. - Trooping altogether; - Green jacket, red cap, - And white owl’s feather.” - -“They don’t sound altogether friendly,” said David as she stopped. - -“Oh,” she assured him, “they are only unfriendly towards those who -dislike and fear them. Those who fear them have to be constantly -propitiating them. There’s nothing they hate like fear, and therefore -they demand toll from cowards. For those who love the Little -People--you should hear my small son Patrick talk about them,” she -ended. - -David looked a trifle bewildered. - -“Do you truly believe--” he began. - -She looked at him, half-laughing, half-serious. - -“Honestly I don’t know,” she said. “I’m living in the depths of -Ireland, and all that kind of thing is infectious. Sometimes I laugh at -myself for giving it a moment’s thought, and the next I’m saying, there -must be _something_ in it. As for Patrick, you’d as easily shake his -belief in me as his belief in the Good People. After all, who knows? He -says _he_ does. But then children may have the key to a door of which -we know nothing, or, at the best, but fancy we have caught a glimpse.” - -There was a little silence, broken only by the sound of running water. - -“And now,” said Elizabeth, “I must unpack. I was too lazy last night. -My evening frock will be crushed out of all recognition.” - -David pricked up his ears. - -“I didn’t know people wore evening dress in the country,” said he. - -Elizabeth laughed. - -“John--my brother, Mr. Mortimer--does,” she replied. “I believe he’d -sooner go without his dinner than omit dressing for it.” - -“Mr. Mortimer!” ejaculated David. “Do you mean that?” The gravity of -his tone seemed unwarranted by the triviality of the question. - -“Mean it? Of course I do,” replied Elizabeth. - -And then she saw his face. - -“What on earth does it mean?” thought Elizabeth to herself. - -“Glory be to God, you’ve done it now!” Father Maloney would have -exclaimed. - -Already her presence was making itself felt. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV - -ELIZABETH GIVES ADVICE - - -“I’VE seen the interloper,” said Elizabeth. - -She was walking with John by the river. He had called for her at the -Green Man, and had proposed a walk. - -“Yes?” said John. There was enquiry in his tone. - -“He isn’t,” said Elizabeth, “in the remotest degree what I imagined -him, except for his size. He--well, it is extraordinarily difficult to -describe him.” - -“You feel that?” - -“There’s something so childlike about him,” pursued Elizabeth. “If I -were to attempt to put into words what I mean, he seems to me like a -child, who had started out to get something, entirely sure that he -wanted it; and then, when he found it in his grasp, he discovered it to -be totally different from what he imagined it. He expected a sort of -toy, and he has found an enormous responsibility. He doesn’t know what -to make of it. He is utterly perplexed, and it hasn’t occurred to him -that the simplest plan would be to renounce it.” - -John opened eyes of wonder. - -“I always knew you were shrewd, my dear Elizabeth,” he remarked, “but -how you have arrived at these conclusions in so brief a space of time, -beats me altogether.” - -“Then you think I’m right?” she demanded. - -“I am pretty sure of it. But the thing is, that he sees the -responsibility without exactly recognizing it, and, as you say, the -simple way out of the difficulty hasn’t occurred to him in consequence.” - -Elizabeth mused, looking at the running water. - -“But that’s not all,” she went on. “There’s more I can’t fathom. These -are merely material difficulties to grapple with. He is faced with -something deeper. You can call me absurd if you like. I daresay I am -being a little _exalté_, but he has a look in his eyes as if he had -caught a glimpse of the Vision Beautiful, and he is a bit bewildered.” - -“Oh, no,” said John quietly, “I’ll not call you absurd.” - -Elizabeth cast a quick look at him and lapsed into silence. The second -problem was already absorbing her vastly more than the first. It was -infinitely greater, the issue infinitely more important. To the first -problem, when David had once grasped it fairly, there was so simple a -solution, did he but choose to take it. In any case, however, it was, -to her mind, on another plane. It didn’t belong to the same category -as this second problem. Of course you may say that the mental problem -existed solely in Elizabeth’s imagination. But then she did not think -it did; nor, you will realize, did John. - -Suddenly she spoke again, and quite irrelevantly to her former remarks. - -“What particular interest has--Sir David, I suppose I must call him, in -dress clothes?” - -“Dress clothes?” queried John bewildered. - -“Dress clothes,” reiterated Elizabeth. “I happened to say--quite idly, -you understand,--that you’d sooner go without your dinner than not -dress for it. He asked me if I meant that, and when I replied that I -did, I saw at once that, far from being the little trivial matter I had -believed it, it was, to him, of the most vital and grave importance.” - -“Oh, my dear Elizabeth!” John’s eyebrows went up. He gazed at his -sister in comical dismay. - -“Well?” demanded Elizabeth. “You would.” - -“Oh, I daresay,” said John ruefully. “But--well, the man hasn’t a dress -suit. Apparently he doesn’t possess such a thing, and Father Maloney -swore that it was an entirely unnecessary article in the country. -Corin and I dined at Delancey Castle in morning dress to keep him in -countenance. And now you--” he broke off. - -Contrition, profound and utter contrition, wrote itself on Elizabeth’s -face. - -“I ought to have guessed there was something momentous in the -question,” she said remorsefully, “and yet how could I! How small I -must have made him feel!” - -“And what a cheat he must think Father Maloney!” said John grimly. -“He’ll believe we were all laughing at him in our sleeves.” - -“You needn’t rub it in,” groaned Elizabeth. “These kind of horrid -little _contretemps_ make one feel guiltier and more remorseful than -quite a good-sized venial sin. You needn’t tell me I’ve no business to -feel like that. Of course I haven’t. But kindly remember it’s only in -my feelings and not in my reason, I’m experiencing the sensation. What -can I do? Tell him I was only joking?” - -“He’ll not believe you,” John assured her, “though certainly your -remark was, I trust, not intended to be taken in deadly earnest. -Perhaps,” continued John hopefully, “it may open his eyes a little more -to his unsuitability for the position of head of Delancey Castle.” - -“It may,” said Elizabeth succinctly, “but all the same I wish I hadn’t -lent a hand to the operation. It’s nearly as bad as forcing open the -eyes of a two-days-old kitten. I’d far sooner have left the business to -time.” - -“Time,” remarked John gloomily, “is an old cheat. You never know what -he will be up to. He has a way of contracting hours into briefest -seconds when you want their full value, and of expanding them into an -eternity when you’ve no use for them. Oh! he’s a wily beggar is Time.” - -Elizabeth laughed. - -“What is it?” she asked. “Hadn’t you better make a clean breast of it?” - -“Of what?” demanded John evasively. - -“The exact manner of Time’s trickery,” responded Elizabeth. “Or -anything else you please. Of course I know there’s something on your -mind.” - -“You profess to be a reader of minds?” - -“Not a bit of it,” smiled Elizabeth. “Only, having eyes in my head, -I use them. Also, having been endowed with a certain amount of -intelligence I use that also. And adding the two together----” - -“You have guessed?” queried John. - -“A dim guess,” said Elizabeth, “and one which will find no outlet in -speech without further proof.” - -She sat down on a tree trunk. - -“Let us rest,” said she. - -John stretched himself on the grass at her feet. - -“Well,” he said, “perhaps your guess is right.” - -“There is someone?” she demanded, promptly forgetting her former -announcement. - -John nodded. - -“Ah!” Elizabeth’s eyes gleamed. “And of course it can only be the one -someone. I am glad.” - -“So would I be,” returned John, “if it weren’t such a one-sided affair.” - -“You mean that she doesn’t--” Elizabeth broke off, dismay in voice and -eyes. - -“Oh, I don’t know,” said John gloomily. “How can I tell? She’s -friendly, she’s--she’s adorable, but--” He flung out his hand, as who -should say, “And there’s the whole of it.” - -“You haven’t asked her?” - -“Asked her!” John’s tone was almost scornful. “Where’s your intuition, -my dear sister? Wouldn’t you see me in permanent radiant joy, or black -despair, if I had? As it is, I am swinging from the one to the other, -and the swing of the pendulum stays down infinitely longer than it -stays up. There’s old Time at his games.” He pulled at the rushes by -the river bank. - -“But,” quoth Elizabeth calmly, “why don’t you ask her?” - -“Ask her! I have not known her a fortnight yet. I have only seen her -eight times.” - -“It has been enough for you,” said Elizabeth, still calmly. - -“For me, yes,” allowed John. “But for her! There’s the crux of the -matter. What have I got to offer her?” His tone was despairing. - -Elizabeth looked at him. There was the gleam of a tender smile in her -eyes. - -“Just the one thing,” she said softly, “that is of the smallest value. -Yourself.” - -“But--” began John. - -Elizabeth interrupted him. - -“Listen,” she said, and there was a curious earnestness in her voice, -“if she doesn’t care for you yourself, nothing else you could offer -would have the smallest value in her eyes. At least, not if she’s the -woman I take her to be. And she must be that woman, or I don’t for a -moment believe you would love her. Oh, John, dear, don’t you understand -that women, the right kind of women, don’t want the external things a -man can give? They want him himself, and the things that are part of -him, the things without which he wouldn’t be himself at all. I mean -love, loyalty, friendship. I don’t believe the majority of people have -a notion how important the last is. That is why there are so few ideal -marriages.” - -“Hum!” mused John. - -“It’s true,” said Elizabeth. - -“Then what is your advice?” demanded John. - -“Ask her, of course.” Elizabeth’s tone was refreshingly certain. -“You can’t expect her to propose, can you? How do you know that Time -isn’t playing exactly the same tricks with her? Ask her,” reiterated -Elizabeth, “at the very first opportune moment.” - -“That,” said John laughing ruefully, “is precisely what I have been -waiting for.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV - -THE BURDEN OF CONVENTIONALITY - - -OF course you will have realized that Elizabeth’s surmise regarding -David was entirely correct. - -When he made his material embarkation at Cape Town he hadn’t the -faintest conception of the mental voyage on which he was embarking, -or I am pretty sure he would never have set foot on the ship’s deck, -or, at all events would have done so with misgiving. And he had had -none. Gay as a schoolboy in quest of adventure, and determined as that -youngster, he had watched the African coast recede from his sight, had -seen Table Mountain dwindle to a mere speck, had turned his face in the -direction of his new enterprise. - -First had come the tracing up of his family in America, a tedious -enough job, leading him eventually to Brussels. - -His arrival in London had brought further business in its train, -interviewing solicitors; producing the proofs collected through months -of research; answering endless, and what appeared to him totally -irrelevant, questions. Next there had been waiting,--waiting in shabby -little rooms in Chelsea, when he beguiled the weary hours by walks on -the Embankment, in Battersea Park, or on Hampstead Heath, anywhere away -from the interminable hum of traffic, from the ceaseless stream of -people. - -More than once he had asked himself what on earth he had done it for? -Why he had left the quiet, the sunshine, the colour, the wide spaces -of the veldt, for the noise, the fog, the greyness, the confinement -of London. More than once he had called himself a fool for his pains, -cursed the day idleness had taken him to rummage in the old chest in -the storeroom. - -Then, the swing of the pendulum lifting him towards the anticipation -of fulfilled hope, his gloom would be dispelled. After all, he would -assure himself, it was his birthright for which he was enduring -hardship. Only a fool or a weakling would have refused to take up -the clue he had inadvertently discovered. Then, gloom once more -overwhelming him, he would demand of himself: Was it his birthright? -After all didn’t this same birthright lie in the wide untrammelled -spaces of the veldt, the unconventional surroundings, the life of -freedom? Wasn’t he attempting to exchange it for a mess of red pottage? - -But, with the arrival of the long-looked-for document, legal phrases -and all, doubts again dispersed. He had laboured, he had toiled, he had -achieved. There was no question now about that birthright. It was his. -He held it as surely in his grasp as he held that piece of foolscap -paper. - -Naturally the first thing to do was to go and have a look at it. He -had refrained from so doing till his rights thereto had been assured. -He bade a far from reluctant farewell to his shabby rooms, and a not -overclean landlady, took the train forthwith to Whortley, arrived at -Malford, and the Green Man. - -And then gradually, imperceptibly, all his doubts had returned, -returned, too, in so subtle a manner, that he hardly recognized them -for doubts. He was merely bewildered, non-understanding of himself. - -It seemed to him totally absurd that he should not be entirely -delighted at the thought of his inheritance, yet, if the truth be -known, it was beginning to hang like a somewhat weighty millstone round -his neck. And the exceeding simple solution of cutting the string that -held it there, never dawned upon him. - -Perhaps, unconsciously, he felt that to do so would be to shirk -responsibility; but it is very certain that he was already devoutly -wishing that he had never sought responsibility. Elizabeth’s careless -little remark had added quite an appreciable weight to it. It is -astonishing how the merest fragment added to an already heavy load will -make it almost insupportable. It was, too, the absurdest fragment, -the most ridiculous fragment, but there it was, flung carelessly upon -him. Mentally, though vaguely, he saw a million other like fragments, -which he told himself shudderingly would be added. He saw at least -another ton load waiting for him. To those used to these burdens of -conventionality they would be a mere featherweight. But to him! - -He began to enumerate the list, to drag forth to clearer vision what he -was vaguely perceiving. To this end he recalled his dinner at Delancey -Castle. - -Dress clothes headed the list. True, they had not been present, but -then they should have been. His own ignorance would evidently be a -very formidable fragment. Well then, number one, dress clothes, stiff -collars and shirt fronts, and all the rest of the paraphernalia. Number -two, servants standing in the room while you eat. An abomination! -Number three, servants handing you food in silver dishes. An idiotic -custom! Why couldn’t they put the things on the table? Number four, -accept everything offered you as indifferently as possible. Avoid -thanking a servant. Well, with a bit of practice he might manage that. -Number five, water placed before you in glass dishes, which water you -were evidently not intended to drink,--he had grasped that much. A -purely silly convention. Number six, coffee in minute cups that slid -about on the saucers, and nowhere to put the elusive fragile things. -David went hot and cold at the remembrance. Number seven, no pipes in -the drawing-room. He groaned. This much his own experience had taught -him, and taught him within the space of a couple of hours. And Heaven -alone knew how many more fragments there might not be. - -Of course you might argue, and justly, why think of these conventions -at all? Brush them aside. Treat them as non-existent. He was his own -master. That is logical and sound reasoning. - -But no. To David’s mind it behooved him, in accepting the -responsibility, to accept with it all that appertained thereto. Herein -lay that touch of simplicity, that touch of childlikeness, which, -perhaps you may have perceived in him. Therefore it is small wonder -that civilization was bearing heavily upon him. - -Truly a sorry state for a man. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI - -CONSPIRATORS - - -ELIZABETH was talking to Mrs. Trimwell. - -She was sitting in a low chair by the open back door. The baby lay in -her lap, peacefully sucking a small pink thumb, round eyes gazing at -Elizabeth’s face the while. The baby was as at home with Elizabeth, as -Elizabeth was at home with the baby. - -Before them lay the garden,--cabbages, potatoes, and onions neatly -surrounded by flower borders. On a clothes-line, white pinafores and -little blue and pink cotton frocks swung gently in the breeze. - -Mrs. Trimwell was at the ironing-table, but it is very certain that the -work of her hands in no way impeded the action of her tongue. Every now -and then she turned from the table to the stove, exchanging a cooling -iron for one which she would momentarily hold in what appeared to -be dangerous proximity to her cheek. Then down it would go on to the -crumpled linen, which smoothed to snowy whiteness beneath the magic of -her touch. - -“I wouldn’t have said it to no one but you, ma’am,” remarked Mrs. -Trimwell, in conclusion, it would appear, to some foregoing speech, -“but I do say as how a helping hand at the moment would be a godsend to -the poor young gentleman.” - -Elizabeth looked entire agreement. - -“Yes,” quoth she. “But then, what right have _I_ to interfere.” - -“Lor’ bless you, ma’am,” ejaculated Mrs. Trimwell, “if we was all to -wait for our rights to make a move, I reckon there’d be precious little -moving. When you think you’ve got a right there’s a dozen folk will -tell you you haven’t got none. And when you’re for letting a job be, -they’ll all be giving you a shift towards it. And spending the time -arguing about it is mostly like talking over who’s got the best right -to throw a rope to a drowning man. It’s the handiest has got to do it, -I’m thinking, and let rights take their chance.” - -“But,” said Elizabeth, and her eyes were smiling, though her voice was -sufficiently grave, “supposing he doesn’t want any interference.” - -“There’s a deal of folk as don’t know what’s good for them,” remarked -Mrs. Trimwell dryly, “and maybe he’s one of the number, though I’m not -for that way of thinking myself. To my mind he has got hisself into a -bit of a boggle, and don’t know the way out, though ’tis as plain as -the nose on my face.” - -She folded a table-cloth with rapid dexterity. - -“But,” argued Elizabeth, and she patted the baby gently, “if I broach -the subject when he doesn’t want it broached, what will he think of me?” - -“Same as most men,” returned Mrs. Trimwell calmly, whisking a -handkerchief from a basket, “that women’s for ever busy over what ain’t -no concern of theirs. But Lor’ bless you, what does that matter! If -we’re so everlasting prudent as to wait for chances to be certainties, -we’ll miss giving a sight of help. There’s fifty chances in a month to -one certainty, and the chances want a friend’s hand to them a precious -sight more than the certainties.” - -Elizabeth looked down the garden. Slowly she patted the tranquil baby; -slowly she pondered on this last statement. She was disposed to see -quite a fair amount of truth in it. But then---- - -“What exactly do you advise?” Her eyes held a gleam of amusement. - -“Talk to him straight,” said Mrs. Trimwell briefly. “I’ll own I wasn’t -for having him miss his chances myself at first, but now--Lor’ bless -you! I see ’tis no chance but a trap he’s laid hold on, and he’ll be -caught sure enough before he’s done, if someone doesn’t speak.” - -“Y-yes,” demurred Elizabeth, the little gleam lighting to laughter, -“but how? What, for instance, would you say under the circumstances?” - -Mrs. Trimwell put her iron on the stove. She turned deliberately to -Elizabeth. Brows frowning she sought for inspiration. - -“Well, I can’t rightly say as I’m a good hand at fashioning speeches. -Leastways not the kind as’ll take with gentle-folk. But I reckon it’s -something after this way I’d speak.” - -One hand on hip, the other shaking an admonitory finger at an imaginary -young man, Mrs. Trimwell proceeded. - -“Young sir, seeing as how you ain’t got no friends handy to tell you -the truth, which may be unpalatable, but which I’m thinking you needs -the taste of, I’m speaking in the friend’s place. It don’t require no -mighty sharp sight to see that you’re as uneasy as a cat on hot bricks -in contemplating the situation before you, the situation being one -which you ain’t been brought up to, and as different from the life -you’ve led as chalk is from cheese. It ain’t no use trying to bend a -tree to new shapes when it’s full-growed, leastways if you do, you run -a pretty fair risk of breaking it, and that’s what’s going to happen to -you. ’Tisn’t as though you’d been took in childhood, when the bending -to new ways can be done without over much harm. Lor’ bless you, can’t -you see what you’re trying to do with yourself? ’Twill be like putting -a sea fish in one of them little glass bowls you see in shops for you -to try and get used to the ways of folks like them at the Castle. -They’s born to it, and don’t feel all the finiky little things that -comes as easy to them as breathing. It’s bigger things you’re wanting, -and by that I’m not meaning the size of the rooms, for you’ll find them -big enough at the Castle. It’s your mind you’ll be shutting up, and -your body too, for all the size of the place. You’ve found a cage, -that’s what you’ve found, and partly because it’s a glittery thing, and -partly because it’s yours, you’re feeling bound to live in it. Turn -your back on it, I says; leave it to them as doesn’t know the caging. -’Tis God’s earth is your heritage, and not the castles men folk have -built on it.” - -Mrs. Trimwell paused. - -“That’s the manner of talk I’d be giving him,” she announced. “It’ll -put things clear to him, and he’s not got them over clear in his mind -yet. ’Tis what he’s seeing though, half-blind like, and it’s a friend -he needs to open his eyes before ’tis too late.” - -Elizabeth gazed at her. There was admiration, frank and genuine -admiration, in her eyes. Of course Mrs. Trimwell had merely voiced her -own entire opinion, but quite probably it was on this very account that -the admiration was thus unstinted. There is the same curious pleasure -in finding another at one with you on a matter even slightly near your -heart, as there is in finding your own unexpressed and half-articulate -thoughts in the pages of some book. Also there was admiration for -the fact that Mrs. Trimwell had arrived at so rapid a conclusion. -Elizabeth totally forgot that her own conclusion had been even more -rapid. - -“I shall never,” said Elizabeth, “be able to speak with half your -verve.” - -Though totally ignorant of the last word, Mrs. Trimwell was aware that -same compliment was intended. - -“You’ll put it a sight more polished than I can,” she remarked bluntly. - -“He’d prefer the original speech,” smiled Elizabeth. - -“But he’ll not get it,” Mrs. Trimwell’s voice was grim. “I knows my -place.” - -Elizabeth raised amused eyebrows. - -“And all the time you’ve been assuring me that it isn’t a question of -rights,” she protested. - -“There’s rights and rights,” announced Mrs. Trimwell, “and ’tis you’ve -the bigger right than me. You’re gentle-folk, same as he, and he’ll -take it better from you. I’d speak fast enough, Lor’ bless you, if -there wasn’t you to do it.” - -She turned again to her ironing. - -Elizabeth again took to patting the small bundle of warmth in her lap. -Over the low hedge of the garden, she could see the churchyard, and the -white and grey headstones of the graves. From the old church came the -intermittent sound of hammering, and the occasional clinking of metal. -Pigeons wheeled against the blue sky, alighting now and again on the -church tower. Beyond the church stretched meadows, and the silver line -of a river twisting among them past rushes and pollard willows. - -A heat haze covered the landscape; it shimmered, elusively golden, -above the red-flagged path of the garden. A cat dozed on a bit of -sun-baked earth; it appeared the embodiment of feline contentment. -Elizabeth felt something of the same contentment. There was still that -little gleam of amusement in her eyes. - -Unquestionably she was a conspirator. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII - -CORIN TAKES A WALK - - -IT is, however, one thing to be a conspirator in intention, and quite -another to put your conspiracy into action. The opportunity perversely -refused to present itself, or, at any rate, to Elizabeth’s eyes it -refused to present itself, and that, after all, came to the same thing. -A dozen times at least she went over her prepared formula in her mind, -intending at each meeting to put it into words. - -And there were meetings enough. You might have imagined that David -sought them; that he knew, by some uncanny instinct, the exact moments -when Elizabeth would approach the Green Man. Of course, too, there -were the meetings at breakfast, but to Elizabeth’s mind these barely -counted. It was not a subject to be served up with coffee and eggs and -bacon; the hour, also, was unpropitious. She was never glib of speech -in the early morning. But then every hour seemed unpropitious. - -The whole difficulty of the matter lay in the fact that she was on the -outlook for an opportunity, that her formula was prepared. I defy any -one--at all events any one of Elizabeth’s truthful nature--to introduce -a pre-arranged subject casually and naturally. If you have ever tried -to do so yourself, you will hear the instant ring of falsity in your -words. - -“Oh, by the way----” - -And if you don’t begin in this fashion, how on earth are you going to -begin, I ask? - -Every meeting which passed without the subject being broached, lent -further difficulty to its broaching. And the moment the opportunity -had gone by, Elizabeth would upbraid herself for cowardice, would -speak confidently to her heart of next time. And when next time came, -the little dumb devil would sit maliciously on guard before her lips -allowing every word to pass them but those she desired to speak. - -The matter became almost farcical; it would have been farcical, but -that the days were slipping by. - -“It’s positively absurd,” Elizabeth told herself, half-laughing, -half-angry. - -But absurd or not, the little dumb devil was keeping close watch. - -And here it was that Fate or Providence stepped in in a purely -unexpected manner. Doubtless you, according to your views, will give -the credit to whichever pleases you. - -The intervention can hardly be termed direct. But then, that is -frequently the case. It is the side issues, which in themselves appear -of little or no importance, which have a momentous influence on the -graver and deeper questions of life. - -And here I am minded to quote the words reflected upon by the -sunny-hearted Pippa. - - “Say not ‘a small event!’ Why ‘small’? - Costs it more pain than this, ye call - A ‘great event,’ should come to pass, - Than that? Untwine me from the mass - Of deeds which make up life, one deed - Power shall fall short in or exceed!” - -Yet, if you should reply boldly in refutation of these words, Here, -in my life, is one deed, one action at least, which stands paramount -above all others, I would answer, True; but what of the so-called -tiny influences, the so-called minute events which led to it? Can you -eliminate any one of them, and then say with certainty that, without -it, the result would have been the same? And if you can not, how can -you declare that the apparently tiny event was of less importance than -the one you call great? - -However, let’s on to the matter in hand. - - * * * * * - -Corin found the joys of scraping plaster off walls beginning to pall. -Apparently he had come to an end of discovery. - -It is one thing to delve for new treasures, it is another to scrape for -hours on end to find a mere repetition of design. However delightful -masonry and herb Robert may be when it dawns freshly on the sight, -its continued contemplation waxes somewhat stale. To his judging, and -no doubt he judged rightly, there were still yards and yards of it to -be uncovered. Monotony, therefore, crept upon his soul. With a view, -then, to relaxing the monotony, and taking into consideration that the -sunshine without the church appeared infinitely preferable to the gloom -within, he laid down his tools this particular afternoon a full hour -before his customary time, and came out into the open. - -And here, for a moment, he paused. - -Before him, eight miles distant, lay Whortley, to be reached by road or -field, according to inclination. He ruled out that notion promptly. To -the right lay the river, the silver ribbon bordered by pollard willows; -to the left lay wood and moorland; behind him and the church lay the -sea. It was distant a mile or thereabouts, and the sun was distinctly -hot. But what of that! Wouldn’t the music of its voice on the shore, -the colour of its sparkling waters, the coolness of the little breeze -that would sweep across its surface, be well worth the tramp? - -“The sea for me!” cried Corin to his heart. “And that’s rhyme, and I’m -not sure that it isn’t poetry if you take into consideration the vision -it conjures up. In fact, taking that into consideration, I am sure that -it _is_ poetry.” - -Whereupon he wheeled around. - -First the route lay uphill towards Delancey Castle. It was a stiffish -climb. The sun, beating upon the white roadway, flung waves of heat up -from it. They shimmered before his spectacled, short-sighted eyes in -an irritating glaring dance. His round, cherubic face was glowing to a -deep crimson before he was half-way up the ascent. The vision he had -conjured up of the seashore might truly be poetical, but I question -the poetry in the appearance of the little man trudging towards that -vision. Yet this is unkind. Who are we to judge from appearances? Truly -may poetic aspirations be hidden beneath the most unlikely exteriors. - -At the top of the hill, Corin paused, looking reflectively down the -long avenue. Exhaustion rather than reflection prompted the pause, -nevertheless he gave vent to a sage one. - -“_Omne ignotum pro magnifico_,” he remarked, “by which token, I fancy, -our young American friend down yonder had a very different conception -of what he was going to find up here. He has found less magnificence -than irksomeness, I take it. Now, I wonder why karma----” - -But I refuse to follow Corin in his meditative flights in this -direction. It is sufficient to note that we see him, from the remark -I have given you, in like mind with three at least of our other -characters herein mentioned. - -His meditation on the mysteries of karma completed, and his exhaustion -being in part, at least, lessened, Corin pursued his way. His route -was level now, leading presently to a footpath across an expanse of -short grass. Here he came upon full view of the sea--blue, sparkling, -radiant, dotted with white- and red-winged sailing boats. - -Coming at length to a rough, descending track, he made his way down it. -It brought him into a cove, a place of white sand, smooth and gleaming. - -Truly here was all that his vision had expected. The grass-crowned -cliffs sloped down to the cove in rugged grey walls, samphire-covered. -Nor did the grey rocks stop abruptly on reaching the white sand, but -ran out into it, as if eager to gain to the sun-kissed water. Little -pools lay among them, mirrors reflecting the blue of the sky. In the -pools waved feathery fronds of sea-weed--pink, crimson, and brown; tiny -silver fish darted hither and thither; sea anemones stretched forth -dainty flower-like tentacles. - -“This,” remarked Corin to his soul, “was worth the tramp.” - -And he sat down on the warm white sand. - -There wasn’t a soul in sight; nothing but those white- and red-winged -boats, making a lazy headway with the tide, to remind him of his fellow -mortals, and they but added to the beauty of the picture. The water -broke in baby waves on the shore, with the faintest musical ripple. -Sea-gulls dipped to the shining surface, or floated smoothly in the -blueness above. Now and again a cormorant flew, black and long-necked -across the water. - -Some half-hour or so Corin sat there, basking and dreaming in the sun, -thinking, you may be pretty certain, of nothing, or at all events with -thoughts too diffused to be worthy of the name. - -And then, all at once, the antics of two birds roused him to sudden -interest. Gulls, he would have called them, yet assuredly their -manners were perplexing. Winging rapidly for a moment or so, they -dropped suddenly like stones to the water. Up again, they repeated the -manœuvre, and again, and yet again. - -“Now what,” remarked Corin aloud, addressing the apparent solitude, “do -those things call themselves?” - -“They,” said a voice behind him, “are gannets.” - -Corin turned. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII - -CONCERNING AN ARGUMENT - - -SEATED on a rock, some half-dozen yards or so in his rear, was David -Delancey, calmly gazing out to sea. - -“How long have you been there?” demanded an astonished Corin. - -“Oh, twenty minutes or thereabouts,” returned David. He got up from the -rock and came to seat himself nearer Corin. “I thought you were dozing.” - -“I was wide awake,” returned Corin with some dignity. - -It is not certain whether the imputation of sleepiness had hurt his -susceptible feelings, or whether it was merely irritation at finding -himself observed when he thought himself alone, at all events there was -the faintest trace of asperity in his manner. - -David regarded him perplexed. The slight asperity was obvious. But what -on earth had caused it? - -And then, whatever the cause, Corin felt a trifle ashamed. - -“But what,” he demanded, waving his hand seawards, “are the mad things -up to? What possible pleasure or profit can they find in tumbling head -first into the water? If it weren’t,” concluded Corin solemnly, “that -I conceive them to be brainless, I should imagine that they would be -suffering by now from violent headaches.” - -“Oh,” responded David laughing, “they are just diving.” - -“Just diving?” echoed Corin. “But why from such a height? Why don’t -they get lower to the water, first, if they want to dive?” - -“Ask me another,” said David, smiling lazily. “I suppose it’s habit, -nature, whatever you like to call it.” - -Corin shook his head, as who should say, given a free hand he’d instil -vastly better habits. Aloud he said: - -“This is an extraordinarily pleasant spot.” - -“It’s so jolly lonely,” said David musingly. - -“Therein,” remarked Corin, “lies one of its greatest attractions.” -And he quoted softly, “Il y a toujours dans le monde quelque chose de -trop--l’homme.” - -“What’s that?” demanded David bluntly. - -Corin obligingly translated. - -“Humph!” Obviously David demurred at this statement. “I don’t -altogether see what would be the good of the world being pleasant if -there weren’t someone to enjoy it.” - -“There would be,” said Corin, still softly, “always oneself.” - -David’s eyes twinkled. - -“I guess a world run for one individual alone would prove a bit over -isolated,” he remarked dryly. “Also, the question of which individual -might crop up.” - -Corin sighed. The man was really a little too literal. He shifted his -ground. - -“If,” he said didactically, “men lived together in harmony, the soul -would not crave for isolation.” - -Had John been present, it is probable that ribald laughter had greeted -this remark. He knew these moods. David did not. - -“That’s true enough,” he responded gravely, “but who is to set the -keynote? where’s your conductor of the band?” - -“If,” said Corin, addressing himself to the sparkling water, “each -man lived to the highest within him, there would be no need for any -conductor.” - -David frowned. He granted the high-soundingness of the statement, you -may be sure, but somehow it did not strike him as altogether practical. -He fell back on his band simile. - -“A fellow,” he remarked, “may fancy he’s got a jolly good tune to play, -and go at it for all he’s worth, but if it doesn’t fit in with the -rest, it stands to reason a jumble will follow. If you could get hold -of the right conductor, I fancy you’d do a precious deal better by -playing second fiddle, or even by striking a note on a triangle every -now and then, than by rattling off the best tune ever invented on your -own.” - -“My dear man,” cried Corin eagerly, “your theory is sound enough in -a way; but if a man really lives to the highest in him, he’ll merely -strike notes on a triangle if that’s his job.” - -David shook his head. - -“Maybe,” he said deliberately, “but there’s always human nature -to reckon with, and there’s a good bit of difference between a man -thinking a thing the highest, and it being the highest. You set out to -do a thing thinking it’s the right thing to do, and when you get a good -clinch on it, I’m blamed if you don’t begin to wonder if it was your -job after all.” - -Again Corin sighed, and with an almost aggressive patience. - -“If you have honestly believed it to be the right thing to do,” he -remarked carefully, “it is the right thing to do. Shakespeare never -made a truer statement than when he said, ‘There’s nothing either good -or bad, but thinking makes it so.’ There’s the sum of all religion.” - -“Then,” said David dryly, “religion is a mighty elusive thing to -tackle. There are some Indians--I forget which brand their religion -is--think it right to treat the poor little widows as scum on the -face of the earth, but I don’t fancy any amount of thinking can make -it right to treat any woman that way. There’s injustice somewhere if -that’s the way to deal with them.” - -“It’s karma,” said Corin succinctly. - -David pitched a pebble seawards. - -“I’ve heard you use that word before,” he remarked, “but for the life -of me I don’t know what you’re driving at.” - -Here was Corin’s chance. You may be sure he jumped at it. I’ve vowed -I’ll not follow his meditative flights in this direction, but I fear me -I’ll be bound to transcribe his speeches. - -“Karma,” quoth he, “shows us clearly the justice of the whole of the -so-called injustice of the world.” - -David grinned. - -“It’s not what you might call a little subject,” he remarked. - -“Yet,” retorted Corin, “it is simplicity itself. No evil suffered by -man, woman, or child is undeserved. It is suffered as punishment for -sin committed.” - -David looked down towards the sea. - -“A baby can’t sin,” he said quietly, “yet I’ve seen some poor little -beggars mishandled in a way that would make your blood boil.” - -Corin shrugged his shoulders. - -“I’ll allow that there are brutes in the world,” he admitted, “but -there’s no undeserved suffering. What such a child suffered, it -suffered for sins committed in a past life.” - -David turned an amazed face upon him. - -“Past life!” he ejaculated. - -“Of course,” said Corin calmly. “How do you interpret such suffering if -it isn’t inflicted for sins committed in a past life? Wouldn’t it be -horrible injustice otherwise? You don’t, I suppose, imagine the Powers -above to be unjust?” - -“No,” said David simply. “I’ve never gone as far as that.” - -“Then how on earth are you going to explain the apparent injustice of -the world?” cried Corin. “Can’t you see that it apparently reeks with -injustice?” - -“Oh, Lord, yes! I see that fast enough,” said David grimly. - -“Then how do you explain it?” demanded Corin. - -“I’ve never tried to,” said David quietly. - -“But, good heavens, man, what’s your intellect given you for if you -don’t use it?” almost shouted Corin. “Why, if I couldn’t see some plan -in what the Powers above had arranged, I’d have chucked up the sponge -long ago.” - -David looked silently towards the far-off horizon. There was a queer -little smile on his lips. - -“Well?” demanded Corin. - -David turned. - -“I guess,” he said slowly, “you’d think a soldier a mighty poor sort of -fellow who chucked up fighting because he didn’t understand the plans -of his general. I guess God isn’t going to give each of us a special -interview, and explain His plan of campaign, any more than a general is -going to call each private to his tent and explain his before he sends -him into battle. Of course if you figure out a plan in your own mind, -and fight thinking it’s the right one, it’s a precious deal better -than chucking up the sponge, but all the same, if you’re stuck on your -own plan, you may go beyond your job by a long chalk, and it’s best -to leave plans to your general. The only thing that matters is to get -your orders clear, and with the muddle around you that’s not over easy. -Anyhow, I don’t find it over easy.” - -“But,” remarked Corin coolly, “if, as you maintain, no private is -supposed to understand his general’s plan, and he is not to follow his -own judgment, from whom is he to receive orders?” - -“Officers,” returned David promptly. - -Corin snorted. It was not exactly an ill-bred snort, you understand; -nevertheless it was one. - -“And will you kindly tell me where those officers are to be found?” he -questioned loftily. “Look here, man, let’s drop simile for the moment. -If you maintain that we human beings are incapable of understanding the -plans of the Powers that be, how are we going to shape the course of -our actions? We’ve got to work on some scheme, if we don’t drift. Who’s -going to interpret that scheme to us, if we don’t interpret it for -ourselves?” - -“That,” returned David, “is exactly what I’m trying to figure out.” - -Corin looked at him commiseratingly. - -“My dear man,” he said gently, “you’ll find that your figuring will -bring you to but one conclusion. You’ve got to interpret for yourself. -If you go off to ask other people, what will you find? Every man will -tell you that his way is the right way. A Calvinist will talk of -predestination, a Congregationalist will talk of conversion, a Catholic -will tell you to go and confess your sins to a priest, and a member -of the established Church of England--well, the Lord only knows what -he’ll tell you. It’ll be a toss-up on the special species you light on.” - -“But,” said David firmly, “there must be truth somewhere.” - -“Of course there is,” returned Corin magnificently. “There’s a modicum -of truth in every religion. Divest them of their forms and you’ll get -vastly nearer the whole truth. I tell you, there’s the Divine in every -man. The various churches have set up God as a kind of bogey wherewith -to frighten naughty children. God exists, but not separate from us, as -the churches teach, a judge to allot punishment or reward to a feeble -humanity; He exists in each one of us. Each one of us is an actual part -of the Divine, and thereby is his own arbitrator, ruler, and judge. -And, that being so, it is absurd to imagine that we are incapable of -understanding the Divine plan. Of course we understand it. To believe, -to know, that, is merely common-sense.” - -David was silent. - -“Isn’t it?” urged Corin. - -David turned towards him. - -“Well, if you really want my opinion,” he said slowly, “I’m blamed if I -don’t call it merely pride.” - -Corin stared. - -“Well, of all the--” he began. - -He got no further. Where was the use of arguing with a man who -voluntarily padlocked his intellect within an iron box, so to speak. It -would be mere waste of breath, a futile expenditure of his energies. -Yet, so reflected Corin, he had thought so much better of him. Ah, -well, the advance guard of a movement cannot expect to have the ruck -too closely in his wake. It is only when the path through superstition -has been laid fair and open, that one can expect the common herd to -follow. - -“You’re a very young soul,” he said indulgently. - -David gazed imperturbably out to sea. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX - -A DUMB DOG-- - - -OF course there had been nothing out of the way about the meeting, -nothing particularly extraordinary about the conversation, for all that -Corin, in spite of terming the matter simple, was convinced of its -depth. Yet, in some inexplicable way, it was a momentous meeting to -David. And the kernel of the whole thing lay, neither in what Corin had -said, nor in what he had said, but somehow in his own unspoken thoughts -during the conversation. - -I don’t believe he could have put the actual thoughts into words. He -could not even formulate them very distinctly in his own mind, but all -the same there had been a curious crystallizing process going on within -him. Little half-formed thoughts, tiny almost insignificant incidents -of the past ten days, had drawn together with a strange magnetic -attraction into a concrete whole, though he was not, even now, fully -aware what that concrete whole represented to him. - -But there it was, a tangible, definite something awaiting explanation. -He could handle it now, so to speak, without knowing to what purpose it -was to be put; it was massed together, where formerly it had been mere -particles, each too minute and separate to be caught and fingered. Yet, -lying where it did, in the inmost recesses of his soul, the question -was whether he could ever bring it sufficiently to the surface to show -it to another, and he believed that, without some external aid, he -would never arrive at its full significance. - -Those who possess the gift of words are truly to be envied. With a few -brief sentences they are able to elicit sympathy, criticism, judgment, -understanding, whatever their need may be. The dumb dog is helpless. At -the best, he has but a few stammering phrases to his tongue, perhaps -but an inarticulate word or two, often no word at all. - -You can’t blame his fellow mortals if they fail to understand his need: -it is given to few to interpret the language of the mute. - - - - -CHAPTER XL - -SPEAKS-- - - -ELIZABETH came into the garden of the Green Man the morning following -the aforementioned conversation, with determination in her heart, and -her formula on her lips. - -She saw David sitting on a wooden bench near the stream. He had left -the parlour some ten minutes previously. - -He was looking at the running water. Even at the distance he was from -her, Elizabeth was aware of a certain tenseness, a certain keyedness in -his attitude. He seemed waiting, expectant. - -She went across the grass towards him, her step making no sound on the -soft turf. She was within a couple of yards from him before he saw her. -He got up from the bench. - -“Mrs. Darcy,” he said in a queer hesitating voice, “if I can, I want to -talk to you.” - -Elizabeth noticed that he did not say, “If I may.” - - - - -CHAPTER XLI - -AT SOME LENGTH - - -ELIZABETH sat down on the bench beside him. Her whole demeanour said as -plainly as speech: - -“Take your own time. I have nothing on earth to do but listen to -you. Nothing will give me greater pleasure. This is what I have been -wanting.” - -It is astonishing what confidence such an attitude will give. -Confidences--hesitating confidences, at all events--will take flight -before the least trace of urgency. If you think you’ve got to be in a -hurry to show them, they hide like shy children in the inmost recesses -of your soul, and no amount of coaxing will bring them forth to the -light of day. You may, by dint of violent effort, force them forth, so -to speak; but, coming unwillingly, they show no trace of their true -personality. You barely recognize them yourself; a stranger will not -recognize them at all, unless he be the one in a million endowed with -an almost uncanny gift of insight. And such a one, to my thinking, will -never hurry confidences. - -“Do you mind my smoking?” asked David. - -“Not a bit,” returned Elizabeth cheerily. - -David pulled pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket. Busy with them, he -spoke. - -“I am a bad hand at talking,” said he. “Words are slippery kind of -things, and slide out of my mind as soon as I think I’ve got them fixed -there; so, if I talk in a muddle, perhaps you’ll forgive me. I can’t -even get what I want to say very clearly to myself.” - -He paused to light his pipe. Then went on: - -“I fancy I’ll have to talk a bit in kind of symbols. I see things -that way myself better than in actual descriptive words. You know, of -course, my reason for being here?” - -“I do,” responded Elizabeth. - -David was silent for a moment. - -“Well,” he said presently, pulling at his pipe, “when I set out on this -job, I didn’t think much about the right or wrong of it. It was simply -there. It got up and stood before me suddenly, and I said to myself, -That’s what I’m going for. I went for it. There’s no need to go into -details. It wasn’t an easy undertaking, but I brought it through. What -I set out to get is mine. It’s there. I’ve only got to put out my hand -and take it.” - -“Yes,” said Elizabeth, as he stopped. - -“Well,” said David frowning, “now comes the difficult part to put -into words. What I’m going to say may sound rubbish; but, for the -life of me, I don’t think it is. I’m going to get to symbols now. Can -you figure to yourself a man finding a mighty powerful telescope; -and, looking through it, he sees a sack of gold lying in a place some -thousands of miles away, and he knows that the sack is his for the -seeking. Well, he doesn’t think much about the wisdom of the search, -or its difficulties, or what he’s going to do with the gold when he -gets it. He just knows it’s there, and it’s his if he can get to it. It -isn’t easy to find, and there are other people who think they’ve got -the right to it. But anyhow he gets there, and establishes his claim. -He’s got nothing to do now, but put in his hand and take everything -that is in the sack. It seems simple enough, doesn’t it?” - -“It does,” said Elizabeth smiling. The naïveté of his words amused her. - -“But,” went on David, “just as he’s waiting to take possession of -the whole thing, he suddenly gets a glimpse of something else, a bit -further on. Now, he doesn’t for the life of him know exactly what it -is, or what use he’s going to make of it, only there’s some kind of -voice telling him all the time that it’s worth going for. That’s pretty -nearly all he knows about it. Common-sense seems to say to him, ‘Empty -your sack first, and then go on and have a look.’ But way back in his -mind he has three thoughts,--one is that he hasn’t any darned use for -the gold in the sack, he doesn’t know what to make of it--you remember -I’m speaking in symbols; the second is that somehow it will be a bother -carrying it along with him on this other quest; and the third is a -queer sort of idea as to whether the gold is really his after all. Of -course everybody tells him it is. Even the folk, who originally had the -handling of it, are bound to say it must be, and yet he doesn’t feel -dead sure. Do you see what I’m driving at?” - -“Perfectly,” said Elizabeth. - -“Well,” he demanded, “what does it all mean?” - -For a moment Elizabeth was silent. - -“Can’t you tell me a little more?” she suggested. “Haven’t you the -smallest idea what this other quest is?” - -David hesitated. - -“Not an atom clearly,” he said slowly, “at least--” he stopped. - -Again there was a silence. There was no sound but the rippling of the -water, and the humming of insects. Occasionally a dragon-fly darted -across the surface of the stream with a flash of silver wings. Beyond -the grassy slope of the fields opposite them stood the trees of the -wood, dark green, deep shadows lying beneath them. - -And in the silence Elizabeth waited. - -Presently David began to speak, shyly, difficultly. - -“When I was a very little chap, I used to read Tennyson. Do you know -the bit, - - “‘... I heard a sound - As of a silver horn from o’er the hills...’?” - -Elizabeth nodded. - - “‘... O never harp nor horn, - Nor aught we blow with breath, or touch with hand. - Was like that music as it came; and then - Stream’d through my cell a cold and silver beam, - And down the long beam stole the Holy Grail, - Rose-red with beatings in it, as if alive, - Till all the white walls of my cell were dyed - With rosy colours leaping on the wall...’” - -Her words fell softly into the silence. - -“That’s it,” said David, his cheeks flushing. “I used to care for that -a lot,” he went on slowly. “I used to play I was one of those knights -going in search. But it’s years since I’ve thought of the poem, or had -any of those fancies. Perhaps working around knocks them out of one’s -head. Now, what I am going to say will sound pure nonsense. One day, -here, in a wood, the whole thing came back to me.” - -“Yes?” said Elizabeth gently. - -“I came up through the wood to the edge of the park,” said David, “and -I found myself by the Castle Chapel. A bell rang. I can’t in the least -explain what happened then, but I might have been a little chap again, -fancying myself near the end of my quest, only it was about a thousand -times more real. Well, it’s just that. What I played at as a little -fellow has got hold of me again.” He stopped. - -“Yes,” said Elizabeth again, and very softly. - -“I’ve tried to tell myself it’s nonsense,” went on David, “but it’s no -good. And it doesn’t seem like play now. I can’t explain. Of course -reason tells me I’m being a bit mad, but the thought has got hold of -me and won’t let me go. Mr. Elmore talked to me yesterday, down on the -beach. He talked what seemed to me a good deal of rubbish, though I’ll -grant it sounded all right in one way. I told him what I thought about -it. But what we both said is beside the matter. It’s just that all the -time this idea was gripping me tighter and tighter. It was as if the -quest was real. Everything--the sea, the rocks, the birds, the sun, the -wind--was telling me so. I wanted to speak to someone about it. Somehow -I felt I could tell you. It seems so real, and yet-- What do you make -of a fantastic idea like that?” There was almost a wistful note in his -voice. - -Elizabeth’s eyes were shining. Perhaps there was the faintest hint of -tears in them. - -“I don’t think it is fantastic,” she said quietly. “I--I know it isn’t.” - -“You know it is real?” asked David wonderingly. - -“I know it is real,” she said. “There are others who could tell you -probably a great deal better than I can; yet you’ve asked me, so I will -do my best. The story of King Arthur and his knights seeking the Holy -Grail, is a beautiful story, a wonderful story. It was a marvellous -quest. It was the quest far the holiest purely material thing that -ever existed. And yet there is Something more wonderful even than it, -Something always present upon the earth which may be found by all who -seek It. I think you have been given a glimpse of that Quest.” - -David looked at her silently. - -Elizabeth drew in her breath. - -“Christ in the Blessed Sacrament,” she said. - -A silence fell on the words. Elizabeth’s heart was beating quickly. -David was looking at the water. - -“When the bell rang,” went on Elizabeth, speaking simply, almost as -she would have spoken to a child, “it meant that Christ had come to -the altar within the chapel. He was lying there as helpless as when -He was nailed to the Cross. It needs, perhaps, as great faith to see -Him there, under His white disguise, as it did to see God in the -Man nailed to the tree of shame. Yet the one stupendous marvel is as -true as the other. Up there, in the wood, you recognized the miracle, -without realizing what it was that you recognized.” - -Once again fell silence. The wonder had been spoken, the miracle, which -day by day, at countless altars, is silently performed, before which -the very angels themselves stand watching in reverent awe. - -It was a long time before David spoke again. At last he said: - -“Yet what bearing has--has _that_ on the other question,--the question -of my accepting this inheritance? Why do I imagine that my acceptance -might, in a measure, hinder this quest? There are, by the way, quite -a dozen ordinary reasons which have cropped up to make me dislike -the thought of accepting. I’ll grant that they are, no doubt, stupid -reasons, which most people would consider barely worth consideration, -but there they are. By themselves I might face them fairly, weigh them, -and come to a decision; but added to them, all the time, has been this -other thought. Now the point is,” went on David, leaning forward, and -speaking with frowning deliberation, in the effort to make his meaning -clear, “which is really influencing me? Am I making this queer thought -the pretext for wanting to be rid of the whole business, when it’s -really that I shirk the thought of the restrictions this new mode of -life must bring? Or is the thought of these restrictions merely a side -issue, which should be ignored while I figure out the other question? -And, from every reasonable standpoint, it hasn’t the smallest bearing -on the case. It seems absurd to suppose that it has. Then there’s -the third idea that I mentioned, the idea that the whole thing is a -mistake, and that I haven’t any right to the place at all. But that can -really be ruled out; there’s so much proof to the contrary. It’s odd -to me to analyse like this; and yet, for the life of me, I can’t help -doing it.” - -Elizabeth listened, turned the matter in her mind, and spoke. - -“Let’s get hold of the business from a purely reasonable and sensible -standpoint first,” quoth she. “You’ve made a bid for this inheritance -which you believed to be yours. It is proved, from a legal point of -view, that it is yours. Now tell me what you think of it,--from the -merely sensible standpoint, remember.” - -“There isn’t one,” laughed David. “At least, I don’t believe any one -would dream of calling it sensible. But we’ll call it the material -standpoint. The fact is that I’m not in the least dead sure that I want -the thing now. It would mean a mode of life entirely foreign to me. I -should feel cramped and caged.” - -“Well?” smiled Elizabeth triumphantly. - -His statement so entirely coincided with her own and Mrs. Trimwell’s -views. Also Mrs. Trimwell’s exceeding simple solution of the problem -was before her mind. - -“Well,” echoed David, “naturally the simple solution of the difficulty -would be to chuck the whole thing.” - -“Exactly,” nodded Elizabeth, delightedly, encouragingly. - -“But,” continued David, “there’s another side to the matter. Supposing -I marry-- I don’t feel drawn to marriage I own,--but supposing I do, -supposing I have a son, won’t he possibly turn on me? Won’t he ask -what earthly right I had to renounce what wasn’t mine alone, but which -belonged to him as well? Won’t he ask why on earth I raked up the -whole business if I was going to funk it in the end? Won’t he say, ‘You -made a fight for a thing which was yours and mine. You got it. If it -had been yours alone you would have had every right to chuck it up. But -it wasn’t. You had no right to throw away what belonged to me.’” - -Elizabeth was dumb. Truly had this aspect of affairs not dawned upon -her. For a minute, for two minutes, she was faced with a new problem. -Then suddenly, eagerly, she sprang at its solution. - -“Legally,” she announced, “in strict justice, the inheritance may be -yours. In equity I don’t believe it is at all.” - -“What do you mean?” asked David. - -“The whole thing,” said Elizabeth firmly, “turned on that missing -document. Those old letters--my brother has told me about them--proved -that there had been such a document. From the legal point of view those -letters were worthless, but only from the legal point of view. Taking -them into consideration, you could renounce the property at once with a -clear conscience. Indeed,” pursued Elizabeth judicially, “if you want -to act from the merely conscientious point of view, disregarding the -strict legality of the matter, it would be, to my mind, the only thing -to do.” - -David gazed at her. - -“I never thought of those letters,” he said slowly. - -“Never thought of them!” cried Elizabeth. “Why they were the crux of -the whole business, the only standpoint the present owners had to work -from.” - -“Oh, I see that now you’ve said it,” replied David. “But, honest injun, -I’ve only just seen it clearly. Perhaps you will hardly believe me, but -it’s true. I left the details of the affair to the solicitors. I began -to get a bit sick of the job after I’d got hold of the clues. I gave -them all I’d collected, and told them to bring the matter through. I -knew of the letters, of course, but somehow never thought of the point -of view you’ve put forward. It seems incredible, but I didn’t.” - -“I can quite believe that,” said Elizabeth thoughtfully. - -Oh, she understood fast enough. She could understand the nature that -went hot-foot to the vital issue, disregarding side lights on it, not -from callousness, but merely because they sank into insignificance -before the one big thought. - -“Well?” demanded David. - -“Oh,” smiled Elizabeth, “are you asking me to be judge? Well, at all -events, you must be jury. If I sum up, you’ve got to weigh the case and -give the casting vote, remember.” - -She stopped, collecting her thoughts. - -“Well,” she said after a minute, “you’ll allow that now you are seeing -matters from a different standpoint. You could--at least you think you -could--say to this imaginary son of yours: ‘My dear boy, legally I had -the possession in my hands. Morally there was sufficient ground for -me to give it up if I chose.’ You see I am not driving home the moral -necessity of renouncement. I am leaving a choice.” - -“I see,” smiled David. - -“Well,” pursued Elizabeth, “given the freedom in that choice, we find -the matter a trifle less complicated. Let’s deal first with the purely -sensible side. Could you get used to the restrictions you fancy the -possession would entail? Is the possession worth it?” - -“In a measure it is,” said David, answering the last question first. -“It isn’t the title, or the place for the grandeur of the thing. It’s -the linking up with the past. _That_ holds me,--the oldness of it. I -suppose, too, I _could_ get used to the restrictions in time.” - -“Well,” said Elizabeth slowly, “now we come to the more subtle aspect -of affairs. You’ve an idea that the possession may hinder you in your -quest. You must grant the quest real. I _know_ it is. Now, I can’t see -the smallest reason why it should prevent you actually finding what you -seek. It couldn’t. But I fancy,” went on Elizabeth thoughtfully, “that -there may be two reasons for that idea of yours. The first, and most -obvious, seems that there is probably a bigger moral obligation to give -up the possession than appears on the surface of things, in fact that -the possession _isn’t_ yours, and that this queer idea is a sort of -inner voice telling you so. The other reason--well, that’s only an idea -of mine. You can leave it at the first reason.” - -“Why don’t you tell me the second reason?” demanded David. - -“Because it isn’t a reason,” said Elizabeth. “At least it isn’t -properly one. It’s an idea. And--well, anyhow I couldn’t exactly -explain it to you.” - -“All right,” laughed David. “Well then, it comes to this,--legally -the thing is mine. Morally even, I’m not _bound_ to give it up--we’ve -allowed that, remember,--but weighing against it is a quite absurd -feeling that I’d better give it up. I’m putting aside mere material -inclinations. That sums up the case, doesn’t it?” - -“It does,” said Elizabeth. - -David knocked the ashes from his pipe. - -“What would you do?” he asked. - -“No,” protested Elizabeth, “that isn’t fair. You’re trying to shift the -rôles. Your summing up is merely a repetition of mine. I refuse to act -as jury, and pronounce the verdict.” - -“The jury always talk the matter over,” said David aggrievedly. -“There’s never a jury of one man.” - -Elizabeth sighed. - -“Oh, well,” she said resignedly. - -“Doesn’t it seem an absurd thing to do--to give it up?” queried David. - -“Y-yes,” she hesitated. - -“Wouldn’t any one say I was pretty mad to do it?” he demanded. - -“The world would,” said Elizabeth loftily. - -“Well, we live in it,” announced David calmly. “Doesn’t the reason for -giving it up appear far-fetched?” - -“To those who don’t understand,” allowed Elizabeth. She was feeling -rather disappointed at his arguments. - -“Then the common-sense point of view would be to hang on to it?” argued -David. - -“I suppose so,” agreed Elizabeth depressed. - -“I am glad you agree with me,” reflected David. - -“But I don’t,” protested Elizabeth. - -“Oh!” David raised amazed eyebrows. “You’ve agreed to everything I’ve -said.” - -“I know,” said Elizabeth. “I can’t help it. It’s true. It is -common-sense. And yet----” - -“Well?” queried David. - -“Oh,” sighed Elizabeth, “where’s the use of arguing the matter if you -feel like that about it.” - -“Only I don’t.” - -“What do you mean?” - -“I don’t _feel_ like that at all,” announced David calmly. “The points -of view I’ve put forward express the workings of my intellect, not my -feelings.” - -“Yes?” queried Elizabeth. - -“And on the whole I prefer my feelings.” - -“You mean----?” - -“That I’m going to give up the whole thing.” - -Elizabeth looked at him. - -He really was rather an amazing young man. - -And then the door in the house behind them opened. Elizabeth turned. - -“Why!” said she surprised. “It’s Father Maloney.” - -He came quickly across the grass. It was obvious that something was -amiss. - -“Forgive me for troubling you,” he began breathlessly. “I have come to -ask your help. Antony is lost.” - -“Antony!” exclaimed David and Elizabeth in one breath. - -Half a dozen words from Father Maloney sufficed as explanation; half a -dozen more from the two promised all possible aid. - -Father Maloney returned to the Castle. David and Elizabeth set off on -the search. - - - - -CHAPTER XLII - -A QUESTION OF IMPORTANCE - - -THAT which is frequently termed coincidence is, as everyone knows, -seldom an isolated event; it is the fact that two or more events, -neither of them, perhaps, of any precise and definite importance, occur -simultaneously, each event having some particular bearing on the other. -If the events should chance to be more than two, the coincidence is -termed extraordinary; and if they should chance to be several, and, -also, individually of some importance--well, then I pity the man who -narrates them to an unsympathetic audience. If he isn’t branded a -liar out and out, he will, at least, be thought to be possessed of an -imagination which is first cousin to one. If he isn’t despised, he will -be pitied,--pitied, too, with a patronizing commiseration which will -make his blood boil. Asseveration of the truth of his statement will -be worse than useless. It will merely call forth a smile, a kindly -condescending smile, which says plainer than spoken words: - -“Oh, yes, we know you _believe_ it to be true. But these things _don’t_ -happen.” - -And if, in the face of that exasperating smile he should venture on -protest, he will at once receive the gently amazed reply: - -“My dear fellow, I never said I doubted your word.” - -A reply which will leave him helpless, though fuming. - -Of course it is foolish to care. Truth is truth, and there’s the end -on’t. But he does care. He knows his statement has been marvellous, -incredulous; he knows, too, that he has probably been a fool to mention -it. But having done so, he wants belief. The man who will remark with -inner conviction, “Truth is stranger than fiction,” would be a godsend -to him at the moment. But the man who will say that of another’s -narrative is a _rara avis_. He reserves it as the Amen to his own. - -Yet, in spite of knowing all this, it is my lot to narrate certain -extraordinary coincidences in the forthcoming pages. Therefore I can -only trust that my audience will be a trifle less incredulous than the -majority of audiences. Perhaps if it weren’t for one of the events, -which certainly smacks of the miraculous, I might have more hope. - -However, to proceed. - -You have been given one event in the preceding chapter. - -The second concerns Antony. - -It was the nursemaid who did the mischief, since, in one sense, it must -certainly be termed mischief. It all arose from an ill-advised remark. -Possibly exasperation caused it. We’ll give her the benefit of the -doubt. It is true that Biddy being, at the moment, a victim to severe -toothache, extra work had been laid on Louisa’s shoulders. Had Biddy -been present, you may be very sure that the remark had not been made. - -Antony had taken the loss of his title calmly. This was hardly -surprising. After all, it made extraordinarily little difference. It -was seldom that he heard it, and then only from the lips of comparative -strangers. “The little master,” was infinitely more familiar to him, -and there was still no earthly reason for changing that mode of -address. The prospect of a new home was also taken philosophically; -there was, indeed, a certain amount of excitement about it. - -But one Friday morning--to be accurate, it was the very morning of the -somewhat momentous conversation recently referred to--further enquiry -entered his mind. - -“If I aren’t Sir Antony, what are I?” he demanded of a busy nursemaid. - -“Nobody particular,” replied Louisa, who, hunting for some mislaid -article, had no mind to give to problems. - -Antony demurred. - -“I must be somebody,” he argued. - -“Everybody is somebody,” retorted Louisa, “but it don’t mean they’re -anybody of importance.” - -Antony pricked up his ears. - -“What’s importance?” he demanded. - -“Bless the child!” cried Louisa, “why, you was important when you was -Sir Antony. Now you’re of no more account than a beggar boy.” - -Antony flushed. Resentment rose hot within his soul. - -“I aren’t a beggar boy,” he announced with dignity. - -“Precious like one,” muttered Louisa, rummaging in a drawer. - -Antony planted himself squarely in front of her. - -“Louisa, I aren’t a beggar boy. Say I aren’t a beggar boy.” - -Now at that precise moment Louisa ran a pin into her finger. It must be -confessed that it was a painful prick. - -“You are a beggar boy,” she retorted, her finger to her mouth. “Nothing -but a beggar boy.” The tone of the concluding words verged on the -malicious. Then she bounced out of the room to seek elsewhere for what -she had lost. - -Antony walked over to the window. - -His face was flushed, and his eyes were troubled; indeed there was a -suspicion of moisture about them. He felt a distinct uneasiness at the -statement. The only modicum of comfort lay in the fact that it had -certainly been prompted by ill-temper. Yet even that fact brought but -small assurance with it. Two or three experiences had shown him that -crossness occasionally urged truth to the fore, when kindness would -shield you from its unpleasantness. - -Memory, stirring uneasily, awoke. - -There was the time when Buffey died. Buffey was the Irish terrier. At -first he had been merely told that Buffey had gone away. Continual, and -perhaps over-persistent questioning, had elicited the fact of Buffey’s -demise. Biddy had been cross when she told him, and she was sorry -afterwards. But, still, it had been the truth. No subsequent regret -could alter that fact. Possibly this was the truth now. - -From possibility, the thing became a certainty. He remembered glances -at him, whispers--unnoticed at the time--of “poor little Antony”; -conversations checked at his approach. They came back to him now, not -fully, but vaguely, holding significance. Probably Granny couldn’t -prevent this any more than she could prevent Buffey dying. And she had -told him she couldn’t help that. - -He began to experience a strange terror. - -There is no dread as terrible as the dread a child suffers at the -hint of some unknown calamity. He feels it must strike, but does not -know at which moment, nor from which quarter the blow will fall. In -most childish sufferings there is always a certain consolation in the -knowledge of protection by some older person. But when there is reason -to suppose that these natural protectors are powerless to aid, terror -indeed presses hard. - -It pressed hard on Antony now. - -The room seemed too small to hold it. Blindly he turned from the -window, ran stumbling from the nursery, down the stairs, and out into -the garden. He ran past the flower beds, and the sun-dial, and the -close-clipped yew hedges, till he found himself in a small paddock. -There he sat down under the hedge and began to review the situation. - -A beggar boy! - -He had no precise understanding of what the words meant, nevertheless -he fancied they were closely akin to the description of Hans Anderson’s -little match girl, who warmed her blue fingers at the matches till she -died. The story was at once fascinating and terrifying. Aunt Rosamund -had read it to him only once. After the one reading she had suggested -the Little Tin Soldier, Thumbelina, or the Ugly Duckling. Nevertheless -the story had remained with him. - -Rags, cold, and burnt matches, and finally dying! His lips quivered, -and tears came into his eyes. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIII - -MOLLY ARRANGES AFFAIRS - - -“HULLO!” said a voice. - -Antony turned. - -Molly’s dark head appeared above the bushes behind him. - -“What are you crying for?” demanded Molly. - -“I aren’t crying,” said Antony. And we may hope that the Recording -Angel turned a deaf ear. - -“You--” began Molly. But, after all, she was tactful. “I ’spect it’s -just the sun in your eyes,” she remarked airily. - -“It’s--it’s very sunny,” said Antony blinking. - -Molly continued to look at him over the hedge. He looked at Molly. - -And then Antony took a resolve. Perhaps instinct told him that a burden -shared is a burden half-lightened. - -“I’m a beggar boy,” he announced succinctly. - -“A beggar boy!” shrilled Molly. She was frankly amazed. - -Antony nodded. He was experiencing a kind of gloomy joy at her -astonishment. - -Molly gazed at him. Then: - -“Indeed you’re not at all,” she snorted incredulously. - -“I am,” said Antony, gloomily cheerful. - -Molly cogitated, puzzled. Then her fertile imagination leaped to the -solution. Of course it was make-believe! - -“What fun,” cried she, on a top note of pleasure. “But what are you -sitting there for if you are? Beggars go along the roads and beg.” - -Antony looked alarmed. - -“Oh, but perhaps I needn’t _begin_ just yet,” he protested. - -“Why not!” cried Molly. You may be sure that she saw herself assisting -in the rôle. “It’s a lovely day. Let’s start off at once.” - -Antony had qualms of conscience. It was forbidden to go beyond the -grounds. - -“P’raps Granny wouldn’t like it,” he demurred. “P’raps I’d better ask -her first. I think I haven’t got to be one this d’rectly minute, you -know.” - -Again Molly was frankly puzzled. - -Then, once more, her brow cleared. She saw in the matter, though -vaguely, some threat of possible punishment for misdemeanours. But -here, assuredly, was actual opportunity to hand. It was too good to be -let slip. - -“Indeed, never mind,” she urged. “If they’ll be making you into a -beggar any time, let’s just be beggars now, to show them we like it. We -do like it,” she concluded, loftily magnificent. - -“But,” argued Antony, “it won’t be nice to be a beggar.” - -“Nice!” echoed Molly ecstatic. “Nice! why ’twill be real beautiful, it -will. We’ll go in bare feet, and we’ll eat blackberries,--there’s a -few ripe already,--and we’ll get apples from the orchards. Sure, it’s -flint-hearted they’d be,” cried she on a note pathetic, “if they’d -begrudge the bite of an apple to two hungry children. And we’ll be -sleeping under a haystack, and we’ll paddle in the river, and--oh, -we’ll have fine times, we will that.” - -The river won the day. - -Have you, I wonder, the faintest conception of its allurement? Can -you see the water, clear as amber, rippling past mossy stones, feel -its delicious freshness against bare feet, hear the gurgling music -of its voice? Can you see the dragon-flies skimming its surface, -the ragged-robin massed on its banks, the rushes standing proud and -spearlike at its edge? - -Anyhow Antony could. - -He saw it all at a glance,--an irresistible, alluring prospect. He got -up from the ground. After all, he would not be alone. - -“Come down to the gate,” said Molly, her eyes gleaming. And then she -slithered back into the field. - -Going across the field two minutes later, she spoke. - -“After we’ve paddled, we’ll walk to Stoneway, and beg along the road.” - -“All right,” said Antony, but without much enthusiasm. - -Anyhow there was the river first. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIV - -AN ODD SENSATION - - -IT is, of course, impossible for a small boy to disappear from the face -of the earth without a good deal of uneasiness being felt regarding his -disappearance. - -By midday the uneasiness had approached to something like alarm. The -gardens, the paddocks, the park, had been searched unavailingly; -inquiry had been made of every villager. No clue was forthcoming; no -possible reason for the disappearance. - -A conscience-stricken Louisa kept a discreet silence on the -matter. There was, to her mind, no occasion to incriminate herself -unnecessarily. The cause could afford no solution of the effect; or, at -any rate she told herself it could not, which, after all, came to the -same thing as far as her silence was concerned. - -A distraught Rosamund finally made swift way to the White Cottage, -there to seek aid from John. - -Father Maloney went off to the Green Man to find David. He saw the -scouting propensities he conceived men of his type to possess, standing -them in good stead at the moment. Having enlisted his services, and -likewise those of Elizabeth, as already seen, he set off once again for -the Castle. - -The day was as hot as the previous days had been. The earth lay panting -and breathless. There was something almost ominous about the brazen -blueness of the sky, the extraordinary stillness that hung over the -earth. - -Father Maloney, breasting the hill, wondered vaguely whether the -world would ever again breathe in comfort. Personally he considered -asphyxiation a not remote possibility. - -And then, all at once, he became aware of a subtle change in the -atmosphere. It wasn’t that the sky was less blue, or the air less -heavy, or the sun less brilliant. And, having said what it was not, -I find myself at a loss to say what it was. It lay more in a curious -foreboding, a certain indefinable prescience of change. - -“I believe,” said Father Maloney, addressing himself to the sky, “that -we are going to have a storm.” - - - - -CHAPTER XLV - -THE OAK FALLS - - -AN hour later he was certain of the fact. - -Sitting in the hall with Lady Mary he saw the clouds covering the sky. -Black, ominous, they rolled swiftly up, blown, it would appear, before -a strong wind. Down below the air was breathless. There was a curious -feeling of suspense in the atmosphere. - -“There’s going to be a heavy storm,” said Lady Mary, following the -direction of his eyes. - -“Well, I’m thinking there’ll be a--” he began. And then he stopped. A -heavy rumble had broken the stillness. - -“It’s coming,” said Lady Mary. And she got up, crossing to the window. - -“Glory be to God!” muttered Father Maloney watching her. - -Once more came the growl, like the low roar of some angry beast. There -was a pause. And then in one sudden flash the gloom of the hall was -turned to a blinding white light, a light appalling, terrible. It was -followed by a thunderous crash, a crash that shook the whole place, -echoing and reverberating in the distance. - -Lady Mary turned a white face from the window. - -Then came a sound of steps in the gallery overhead, the steps descended -the stairs. Biddy appeared, white and shaking. - -“My Lady,” she stammered, “’tis the great oak is struck. I saw it fall -from the nursery window. And the child--” She broke off. Her face was -working. - -“Tut, tut, tut,” said Father Maloney. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVI - -TOLD IN THE STORM - - -“THE storm,” said John, “will be upon us in a moment.” - -Rosamund had found him by the gate of the White Cottage. Half a dozen -words had put the happening before him. Two minutes had sufficed to -inform Mrs. Trimwell that his return might be delayed. Three minutes -saw him again beside Rosamund. - -With no earthly clue to guide them, with north, south, east, west, to -choose from, it was, so it seemed, a pure toss-up which route they -should pursue. - -After a moment’s consultation they set out for the willows and the -river, deciding to take their way down stream. It was no less unlikely -than any other road, though it certainly cannot be termed more likely. - -Conversation, you may well believe, was non-existent; eyes and ears -alert, they pursued their way. Hope at first held some sway in their -hearts, but an hour’s fruitless walking brought it to a low ebb. - -“I think we had better turn back,” said Rosamund. “He would never have -come further than this.” - -It was then that John made the aforementioned remark. - -“The storm will be upon us in a moment.” - -As he spoke came the first low growl of thunder; a moment later a -louder, deeper growl. A gust of wind swept the river, bending the -rushes, breaking the still surface of the water into a thousand moving -fragments. Then two or three big raindrops fell. - -John glanced round quickly. Some three hundred yards lower down -the river was a rough shed, a thing built of logs, and roofed with -corrugated iron. Possibly it was used as a shelter for the men who cut -the willows, which abounded in the sedgey meadows. - -“Quick,” he cried indicating it. And they set off at a run. - -They weren’t a moment too soon. They had barely reached it, when the -sky, seen through the opening of the shed, became a sea of white light, -through which tore a blinding zig-zag, a veritable river of fire; a -reverberating crash broke above them. And then the rain came down. It -fell like bullets on the iron roof of the shed, deafening, terrifying. -The wind tore with insensate fury at the wooden walls, rushed through -the opening in a swirl of madness, lashing the rain before it. - -“Oh, Tony!” cried Rosamund. And she hid her face in her hands. - -John saw the gesture, though the words were lost in the deafening noise -around them. - -Wisdom, prudence, waiting, fled out into the storm, escaped on the -wings of the gale. - -He caught her hands in his. - -What he said was as lost as her own cry. But, after all, perhaps there -was no need to hear the words. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVII - -AFTER THE RAIN - - -“IT really was a providential storm,” said John. - -The clouds had broken; the rain, though still falling, was descending -in a silver shower, sparkling in sunlight. The wind had sunk to a cool -fresh breeze. - -“Providential!” Rosamund raised amazed eyebrows. - -“Providential,” echoed John firmly. “You are thinking of Antony, who is -by this time, I trust, safely returned to the bosom of his family, or -at all events in some shelter as friendly as ours. I am thinking of the -courage the storm brought in its wake.” - -“Oh?” she queried. - -“You mustn’t,” said John pathetically, “pretend that you don’t -understand me. Explanations would be painful. I should stand confessed -as a coward of the deepest dye.” - -“Nonsense,” she smiled. And then she looked towards the opening of the -shed. “Come,” she laughed; “the rain has nearly stopped.” - -They came out into the open. - -“The country,” said John, “has had its face washed, and is thankful.” -Then he pointed to the northeast. “Look,” he said, “our benediction!” - -A double-arched rainbow stretched across the sky, brilliant, luminous, -backgrounded by the retreating clouds. They paused, to look. Scientists -may find excellent explanations of this wonder; but to some, at least, -it will ever stand for what it has stood through age-old centuries--the -symbol of hope. - -John might have remained gazing indefinitely, or, at all events, -until the brilliant arc had faded had not Rosamund brought him to a -remembrance of things present. - -“Come,” she said. “Antony.” - -John turned. - -“The rogue!” he laughed. “But, all the same, I am enormously in his -debt.” - -They made their way back along the river bank. Eyes were still alert, -ears open to any sound. But there was no longer the same anxiety, -the same foreboding. Doubtless the storm had been, in a measure, -responsible for both. Physical conditions have a way of intermingling -themselves so closely with mental conceptions, that you are really at a -loss to separate the two. Indeed, you don’t attempt to separate them; -you don’t perceive the physical conditions as existent, you perceive -only the mental conceptions. Hence arises depression, that slate-grey -state of the soul, in which the mind puts on black spectacles, and -through them views the world in general, and its friends in particular. - -Now, with the fresh breeze fanning their faces, with the world around -them emerald green, silver, blue, and gold, with, above all, declared -love singing joyously in their hearts, the two viewed the prospect -through the most rose-coloured spectacles imaginable. Tragedy, even the -remotest hint of tragedy, seemed unthinkable, impossible. - -Doubtless you, also, will be of their way of thinking. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVIII - -IN SEARCH - - -STRICTLY speaking the discovery of the truant was due to Mrs. Trimwell. -David and Elizabeth were merely her agents in the matter. - -It came about in this way. - -They had set off hot-foot on the search. Passing the White Cottage, -they had seen Mrs. Trimwell at the garden gate. She greeted their -approach with eagerness. It was obvious that she had certain -information to impart, information which she considered of the first -importance. Therefore, with politely restrained impatience, they paused -to hear it. - -“Them two,” she announced, with a faint trace of injury in her voice, -and meaning John and Rosamund, “was gone before I could as much as -get a word in edgeways, else I’d have given them a notion on the -matter. You mark my words there ain’t never no mischiefness nor -troublesomeness afoot but what Molly Biddulph ain’t at the bottom of -it. Find Molly and you’ll be finding the little master.” - -Elizabeth smiled patiently. - -“Exactly,” she remarked, “but, without wishing to be pessimistic, I -really cannot see that it will be in the smallest degree easier to find -Molly than to find Master Antony.” - -Mrs. Trimwell looked at her pityingly. - -“Bless you, ma’am, I wasn’t going to give you a notion what was that -jumbled there wasn’t no end to take hold of to unwind it by, so to -speak. It’s little use a notion of that sort would be. I see Molly -going by here about half-past seven or thereabouts, with a tin can, -a brown paper parcel, a willow stick with a bit of string to it, and -saying her prayers out of a morsel of a book.” - -“Yes?” queried Elizabeth; while David looked his doubts. For the life -of them they could see no connection between Molly passing the cottage -at that hour, and any possible clue to the matter on hand. - -Mrs. Trimwell smiled oracularly. She perceived their doubts well enough. - -“The little book,” quoth she “meant that Molly was off to Mass. I -ain’t known Molly from babyhood for nothing. The parcel meant as she -was taking her dinner with her, being off on the spree like for the -day. The tin and the willow stick means fishing in the river. Not that -she ever catches anything as I knows on.” - -“Oh!” said Elizabeth. She was beginning to see light. David laughed. - -“Like as not she’ll have happened on the little master,” announced -Mrs. Trimwell, “and took him along with her. Leastways I for one don’t -believe he’s ever gone off on his own account. You try the river, and -up the river, mind. I see Miss Rosamund and Mr. Mortimer going off down -the river. ’Tis too wide and open there for Molly. She’ll go for the -shallower parts up to Hurst Lea Woods, I’ll be bound.” - -Here at least was something to go on, some conceivable possibility. -Nay, to Elizabeth’s mind, and to David’s mind, it began to present -itself in the light of a probability. At all events for present -purposes it might be desirable to regard it as such. - -“You go to Hurst Lea Woods,” nodded Mrs. Trimwell emphatically once -more. - -“We will,” agreed David briefly. - -A moment later they were on their way. - -Taking their route first through the village, they presently turned -sharply to the right, past a smith’s forge, where a big cart horse -was being newly shod, and down a lane. Here, again to the right, they -came upon a stile set in a blackberry hedge. Surmounting it, they -found themselves in a meadow, while facing them, blue and hazy in the -distance lay Hurst Lea Woods. So far, at least, their course was clear. - -A quarter of an hour’s walking brought them to the river, and the woods -on its opposite bank. To the left lay the moorland which it skirted; -to the right lay meadows through which it flowed; and, some mile or -so distant, the high road between Malford and Whortley. Here the river -passed beneath a stone bridge, again seeking the meadows, through which -it made a great bend southwards. Bending again to the left along its -meadow route, it finally, with another southward bend, emptied itself -into the sea, at a small village some five miles to the east of Malford. - -Here, below the woods, it ran amber-coloured and shallow, brown -stones cropping up above its surface. Rushes and ferns bordered it; -ragged-robin grew in great pink patches in the meadows lying along its -southern bank. On its northern bank were the woods stretching upwards, -dark, shadowed, mysterious. - -Elizabeth and David came to a simultaneous halt, and looked around. - -“Apparently,” remarked Elizabeth, “they are not here.” - -The remark seemed somewhat over-obvious. - -David went across the short grass to the very margin of the river, and -looked right and left. - -“It would seem,” said he smiling, “that you are right.” - -All around lay the drowsy summer silence, broken only by the faint -humming of insects, and the ripple of water against the stones. - -“What,” demanded Elizabeth, “is the next move?” - -“Up stream,” said David promptly. - -“Why so certain?” asked Elizabeth. - -David looked at her with something of the smile one might give to an -inquiring child. - -“Will you,” he said, “look down stream, and then look up stream; and I -fancy you will perceive the answer yourself.” - -Elizabeth looked down stream. - -Here, as already mentioned, the river ran smoothly, bordered by the -flat meadow and the wood. Some hundred yards distant the wood gave -place to grass land, flat and open. Up stream the ground became uneven, -rough, covered with blackberry bushes and small trees. The river itself -was interspersed with little rocks, while sight of it extended not more -than fifty yards ahead. - -“You mean that up stream there are possible surprises,” suggested -Elizabeth. - -“Precisely,” said David. “No one, man, woman, or child, turns to the -obvious when there is the unknown to explore, possible adventure ahead.” - -Elizabeth laughed. - -“I bow to your judgment,” said she. - -They turned up stream. - -It was rough enough walking here. The river lay in a sort of gorge, the -wood on one side, the moorland on the other. A mere track ran along its -right bank, a narrow grass path. There was no sign of footprints. The -grass was short and springy, taking no definite impress on its surface. - -David was obviously the leader of the expedition. He had taken complete -control of it, not masterfully, you understand, but merely because it -belonged to him by right to do so. He was in his natural element. - -Elizabeth was conscious of totally new characteristics in him. All -trace of the child in false surroundings had vanished. The man element -had appeared in him, and had appeared strongly. There was a new -strength in him, a new decision. There was a curious air of confidence -about him, also a certain indefinable joyousness. It seemed an almost -incredible change, considering the brief space of time in which it had -been accomplished, nevertheless it was actual, real. - -For the most part they pursued their way in silence. The sky, as you -may well guess, was gradually growing darker. Clouds had already -blotted out the sun. - -Suddenly David gave a little exclamation. He bent to the ground, and -picked up something from beneath a blackberry bush. He turned it over, -then held it triumphantly towards Elizabeth. After all, it was only a -piece of brown paper. - -“But,” demurred Elizabeth, “is it _the_ piece?” - -David pointed to writing upon it. - -“Mr. Murphy Biddulph, Malford,” read Elizabeth aloud. And then she -laughed. - -David lifted up his voice and coo-ed, a long, far-reaching note. -Striking some distant rock, it was flung back to him in echo, but no -other cry came in response. - -“They’ve gone a pretty tramp,” said David. - -He looked around. A short distance ahead the wood levelled and thinned. -A gateway into it led to a wider path. A tree-trunk fallen across the -river, which here was nothing but a fair-sized stream, made approach to -the gate easy. David made for the tree-trunk. Giving Elizabeth a hand -across it, they went towards the gate. - -David looked at the ground, then pointed silently. A dark patch on the -earth, just under the gate, showed where water had been recently spilt. - -“Molly has upset some of the contents of her can in climbing the gate,” -laughed David. - -There was triumph in his eyes. There is a good deal of pleasure -to be found in successful scouting, let alone the importance, or -non-importance of its issue. - -They surmounted the gate and made off down the path. After some five -minutes or so walking, it led to a second gate, this one giving on to -a road. David opened it and they went through. Here, in the dust, were -small footprints, easily discernible as going leftwards. - -“Who would have dreamed of their coming this distance!” exclaimed -Elizabeth. - -“It seems to me,” quoth David succinctly, “that from all accounts it -is wiser to dream vividly and extensively where Miss Molly Biddulph is -concerned.” - -And they set off down the road. - -They hadn’t gone more than a hundred paces, when the first low mutter -of thunder broke upon their ears. There was a second rumble, louder, -more insistent. Then came the wind. It swept the dust along the road in -a cloud, thick and blinding, and a few drops of rain fell. - -The next instant the sky was transformed into a sea of fire, and a -crash like the crash of cannon-balls broke above them. Then the rain -came down. - -David caught hold of Elizabeth dragging her beneath a hedge. - -“Is it safe?” gasped Elizabeth. - -“It would strike the trees first,” said David, “and there are none on -this side of the road.” - -Elizabeth crouched down. The rain slashed upon the roadway, churning -the dust into a sea of mud. To right and left all vision was blotted -out in the downpour, even the hedge opposite was almost obliterated. - -“Are you getting very wet?” asked David solicitously. - -“Hardly at all,” said Elizabeth cheerfully. “This hedge seems specially -constructed to give shelter.” - -“Then,” said David, “I am off in search.” - -As he spoke there came the sound of pattering feet on the road, and the -next instant, abreast them, came two flying, drenched, little figures, -the girl with white scared face, the boy frankly sobbing aloud. - -David darted towards them. - -“Antony, Molly,” he cried. - -At the sound of his voice the two came to a halt. Joy, rapturous joy, -illumined their woe-begone faces. - -“Oh, it’s you, it’s you,” cried Antony. - -The next moment they were beneath the friendly shelter of the hedge; -while Molly, with a marvellously rapid transition from depression to -confidence, was taking a lively interest in the storm. - -“Isn’t it splendid!” she cried exultantly. “Isn’t the rain just hitting -the earth!” - -“It’s hit you pretty considerably, I fancy,” said David coolly. - -“Oh, I’ll be drying,” responded Molly calmly. “Is Master Antony wet?” - -“You can hardly imagine him to be dry,” remarked David. “If you stand -under a shower-bath you generally get a trifle damp. And this--I guess -fifty shower-baths would be nearer the reckoning than one.” - -“A million _I_ think,” said Molly, snuggling a wet hand through -Elizabeth’s arm. “_Isn’t_ it lovely!” - -“To speak candidly,” said Elizabeth, “I could admire it better in a -less cramped position, and if the rain were a little, just a trifle, -less--wet.” - -“Isn’t rain,” demanded Antony interested, “always wet?” - -He was beginning to take a cheerier outlook on life. - -“I believe it is,” remarked David reflectively, “but there are times -when it appears infinitely wetter than others. This is one of them. Are -you _very_ wet?” he asked Elizabeth. - -“On the contrary,” returned Elizabeth cheerfully, “owing to the -position I mentioned, I am quite dry. If I were to relax it, however, I -should doubtless become excessively wet.” - -“We are all like beggars now,” said Molly gleefully. - -David pricked up his ears. - -“Beggars?” he queried politely. - -Molly looked a trifle embarrassed. In a manner of speaking she had -given herself away. - -“Well, we are,” she replied airily, after a moment. “Sitting under -hedges and things, you know.” - -“It _isn’t_ very nice,” said Antony. - -“Nobody sensible could ever imagine it was,” remarked Elizabeth. She -fancied she saw a glimmer of light on the escapade. - -“Must it always be horrid?” asked Antony. There was an ominous quaver -in his voice. - -“Always,” said Elizabeth firmly. - -She had, you will realize, no intention of aiding a repetition of -today’s little drama. - -David was watching Antony’s face. - -“What’s the trouble?” he demanded. - -Antony choked. - -“Tell me,” urged David. - -Antony was silent. - -“Tell me,” coaxed David again. - -“I--I _are_ a beggar,” owned Antony. - -David laughed, a laugh at once incredulous and consoling. - -“Now who,” he demanded, “has been telling you that nonsense?” - -“Isn’t it true?” asked Antony. - -“Not a bit of it. Who on earth made you think it was?” - -“L-Louisa,” stammered Antony. - -David said something under his breath. - -“Tell us all about it,” he said consolingly. - -Then the whole story came forth, aided in the telling by a dexterous -question or two. - -“Idiot,” muttered David, arriving at the kernel of the matter. - -“I didn’t mean to be naughty,” said Antony quaveringly. - -“You weren’t naughty.” David’s voice was assuring. “It was Louisa who -didn’t understand. You aren’t a beggar boy; you never were a beggar -boy. You are,” David’s voice was firm, “exactly the same as you always -have been.” - -Elizabeth’s heart was singing a curiously joyful song, considering -what extraordinarily little difference the announcement made to her -individually. - -“Exactly,” said David again, “as you always have been.” - -“Deo gratias,” whispered Elizabeth below her breath. - -“And here,” said David, “comes the sun, to laugh at you for your fears, -and dry us all.” - -The clouds had broken. Through the rifts between them the sun poured -forth, sparkling on diamond-hung hedges and trees, turning the pools -in the roadway to little mirrors of fire. The rain became the thinnest -veil of silver, presently mere scattered drops. - -Elizabeth unbent herself, and stood upright. - -“I wonder,” she said smiling, “if my back will ever feel quite straight -again.” - -And then she pointed to the sky. - -“Look,” said she, “the rainbow!” - - - - -CHAPTER XLIX - -THE FALLEN OAK - - -FATHER MALONEY came down the steps of Delancey Castle. News of the -wanderers might by this time have reached the village. With a view to -making inquiries, he had taken his departure. - -The storm had passed; only leaves and twigs scattered on the lawn, -battered rose bushes, marigolds beaten to the earth, showed what its -fury had been. - -He turned into the park. As he came abreast the great oak, he paused. -Split from apex to base it lay upon the ground, its branches strewn for -yards around,--the oldest tree in the park, the king of centuries, a -devastated wreck. - -A lump rose in Father Maloney’s throat. He was not given to -superstitions, but I fancy he saw an omen in the fallen monarch. -Considering the happenings of the last few weeks, it was hardly -surprising. - -He crossed the grass, picking his way among the fallen branches, till -he came to the very base of the tree itself,--a jagged, deplorable -stump, a pitiable remnant. - -“Sic transit gloria mundi,” he said sorrowfully. And then he stopped. - -“Glory be to God!” he ejaculated, and stood staring at the débris -before him. - -It was some seconds before his brain began to take in the possible -significance of what he saw, and even when the significance dawned on -him, it is certain that he did not grasp its probable magnitude. - -“Glory be to God!” he ejaculated again, and bent towards the ground. - -Two minutes later he was trotting, with vastly more haste than dignity, -once more in the direction of the Castle, a small iron box tightly -tucked under his arm. - - - - -CHAPTER L - -A MIRACLE - - -“’TIS a miracle! ’Tis nothing but a miracle!” cried Father Maloney, for -perhaps the fiftieth time. - -He stared at the yellow parchment upon the table in front of him. It -was real, it was tangible. He could touch it, finger it, even read the -crabbed writing upon it; and yet, for the life of him, he could hardly -bring his brain to believe that he was not dreaming. - -“To think,” he ejaculated, “that it has lain there under our very -noses, so to speak, and us wondering and worrying all these weeks. -Well, well!” - -Lady Mary looked silently at the yellow parchment. Words, so far, had -failed her. The bigness of the thing, gripping her, had held her silent. - -“’Tis plain enough what the old Sir Antony was up to, when Henry came -upon him, the scoundrel,” said Father Maloney. “And the secret kept all -these years! ’Tis a miracle has brought it to light now.” - -Lady Mary raised her head. - -“And perhaps too late,” she said quietly, voicing the fear at her -heart; a fear which, with the last hour, had been waxing stronger. - -“Too late!” cried Father Maloney cheerily, “not a bit of it. If it’s -two miracles is needed, God will be working them; though I’m thinking -there’ll be no miracle in bringing the boy home. He’s hiding safe -enough somewhere, and will be found before sun-down, I’ll be bound.” - -“Perhaps,” said Lady Mary very low, and unheeding his words, “I didn’t -give up everything whole-heartedly. Perhaps I still held to it in my -mind. If I did, it was for him, and not for myself. And now he is gone.” - -“Rubbish,” said Father Maloney. - -“Is it?” asked Lady Mary. - -Father Maloney put his hands upon the table and looked across at her. - -“Weren’t you doing your best to accept God’s will in the matter?” he -demanded. - -Lady Mary smiled faintly. - -“I believe so,” she said. - -“Then if you did your best, you may be sure God took it as such, and -wasn’t holding you to account for any little weakness which was but -part and parcel of human nature. I’m thinking He knows the human side -of us well enough, and doesn’t look at it too closely when we’re trying -to do His will. He’ll not have been taking a trifle of fretting into -consideration, when your heart was set the right way. You needn’t be -thinking He was waiting to pounce down and punish you because you -didn’t throw the Castle over to that young fella with devil a bit may -care in your heart. Sure, it’s giving Him the things the human side -of us is fretting after that counts. Don’t you go fearing God likes -punishing people. Where’s your faith at all?” - -“But supposing--” began Lady Mary. - -“I’m not supposing at all,” broke in Father Maloney. “The child’s safe -enough. And if he isn’t--though surely ’tis in my heart he is--’tis no -punishment to you. Glory be to God! Who do you think loves him best, -our Blessed Lord, or you? I tell you he’s as safe in His keeping, -storm or no storm, as if he was in his bed this very minute with you -on one side of him, and Biddy on the other. ’Tis all for talking about -the Love of Christ we are, and when it comes to the test, it’s precious -little believing we show. And I’m as bad as any of ye.” - -“Then you are anxious,” said Lady Mary quietly. - -Father Maloney blew his nose. - -“Anxious! of course I’m anxious,” he said half-testily. “Who wouldn’t -be anxious with a bit of a boy out in the weather we’ve had. ’Tis -against all sense I shouldn’t be anxious. But he’ll come home right -enough,” he ended obstinately. - -And then suddenly the cloak of quiet dignity, the gentle control, fell -from Lady Mary. - -“Oh, Father,” she cried, “go on saying that. Say it again and again. -I don’t mind how often you say it. Somehow,” her lips were trembling -piteously, “it makes it seem true.” - -For the moment she was nothing but a frightened old woman, fear -gripping her close. - -“There, there,” said Father Maloney soothingly speaking as he would -speak to a child, “aren’t I understanding every bit of what you’re -feeling. But remember you’ve got Michael, whatever happens. And -whatever happens is the very best thing possible; though, for that -matter, as I’ve told ye--” He broke off, listening. - -And then, through the open window, came the sound of voices, Rosamund’s -plainly distinguishable, and a child laughing. - -“Glory be to God!” cried Father Maloney, the laugh finding triumphant -echo in his voice. “What did I tell you, at all!” - - - - -CHAPTER LI - -AND SO THE STORY ENDS - - -“AND that,” said David, concluding a little speech, “is all.” - -A curious silence fell upon the room. Rosamund and John looked at each -other; Lady Mary had her hands folded over an old piece of parchment; -Elizabeth was watching her; Father Maloney looked at David. - -“You mean,” said Father Maloney, breaking the silence, “that you wish -to give up your claim to the whole thing?” - -“That’s so,” said David pleasantly. - -“And what,” demanded Father Maloney, “has brought you to this -conclusion?” - -“Simply,” said David smiling, “that I have seen that fishes live best -in water, as birds live best on land. This,” he waved his hand around -the hall, “isn’t my element.” - -Lady Mary rose quietly from her chair, and thrust something into a -drawer of her desk. Then she turned to David. - -“Is that your sole reason?” she asked. - -David coloured. - -“For practical purposes,” he replied. - -Lady Mary looked straight at him. - -“In my grandson’s name,” she said, a little smile trembling on her -lips, “I accept your generous offer in the spirit in which you make it.” - -Father Maloney stared. - -“Glory be to God!” he ejaculated inwardly, “she doesn’t mean to tell -him. She’s a wonderful woman, is Lady Mary. A wonderful woman!” - -And then suddenly a bell rang out, pulled by the stalwart arm of the -under gardener. - -Father Maloney started. - -“Bless my soul,” he cried, “’tis time for Benediction.” - -And he bolted towards the dining-hall, which, as I told you long ago -led to the chapel. - -Lady Mary looked at the little group. - -“We’re all coming,” said Elizabeth with fine assurance. - -And then Lady Mary led the way. - -Said John in a low voice to Rosamund: - -“I have at least three thanksgivings to make.” - -“I think,” she replied, looking at him, “that so have I.” - -Said David in a low voice to Elizabeth: - -“What are you thinking about?” - -“I am thinking,” quoth she smiling, “that there is a folly which is -very very wise.” - -And then they all went in to Benediction. - - - - -_A Selection from the Catalogue of_ - -G. P. 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