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THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE.
A Novel.
by
G. M. ROBINS,
Author of "Keep My Secret," "A False Position," etc.
"What so false as truth is,
False to thee?
Where the serpent's tooth is,
Shun the tree--
Where the apple reddens,
Never pry--
Lest we lose our Edens,
Eve and I!"
_A Woman's Last Word._
Montreal:
John Lovell & Son,
23 St. Nicholas Street.
Entered according to Act of Parliament in the year 1889, by
John Lovell & Son, in the office of the Minister of Agriculture
and Statistics at Ottawa.
THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE.
CHAPTER I.
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.
_Mort d'Arthur._
Anyone who has read the _Mort d'Arthur_ can hardly fail, if he traverse
the Combe of Edge in early summer, to be struck by its resemblance to
the fairy Valley of Avilion.
A spot still by good fortune remote from rail, and therefore lying fresh
and unsullied between its protecting hills, waiting, like the pearl of
great price, to reward the eye of the diligent seeker after beauty. It
seems hard, at first glance, to believe that the rigors of an English
winter can ever sweep across its sunny uplands.
"Where falls not rain, nor hail, nor any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns
And bowery willows, crowned with summer sea."
As regards the falling of rain and hail, and the buffeting of winds, it
is to be supposed the place does not, literally speaking, resemble the
mystic Isle; but it was a fact, as Allonby had just elicited from the
oldest inhabitant, that snow had only three times lain on the hills
within his memory.
To the young man himself, as he sat in a patch of shade just outside the
rural inn, with a tankard of cider in his hand, and his long legs
extended in an attitude of blissful rest, it seemed as if the remainder
of the description must be also true.
Up over his head, the sky was blue--how blue! An unseen lark trembled
somewhere in its depths, and its song dropped earthwards in trills of
melody.
It was that loveliest season of the English summer which comes before
the cutting of the grass. All up the sides of the valley the meadows
were ripe for the scythe; the dark-red spires of the sorrel and the
white stars of the ox-eye daisy bent softly in the warm south breeze.
Down below the level of the eye, in the very heart of the Combe, a
fringe of reeds and little willows marked the lowly course of the
brook. No one who noted its insignificant proportions would have
guessed--unless he were a true disciple of Isaak Walton--what plump
trout glided over its clear gravel bed.
In the fine pasturage of the glebe meadows, the red-brown cows were
gathered under a tree, out of the hot sparkle of the sun. The orchards
had lost their bewildering glory of bloom, except just here and there,
where a late apple-tree shoot was still decorated with coral-tinted
wreath.
And beyond the orchards was the crown of summer sea--
"The liquid azure bloom of a crescent of sea,
The silent sapphire-spangled marriage-ring of the land,"
thought Allonby, who was altogether in a Tennysonian frame of mind that
morning. He could not help it. The fresh loveliness of his surroundings
impressed him with a dreamy delight, and he loved nothing so well as the
luxury of yielding to his impressions. He was filled with a blending of
indescribable emotions, longings, desires; wondering how anyone managed
to live in London and yet retain any powers of mind and thought.
"I have been here two days," he sighed, "and my range of ideas is
stretching, stretching, like the handkerchief in the fairy-tale which
stretched into a gown. My horizon is widening, my standard of perfection
is rising; I shall either die, if it goes on much longer, or become a
totally different person. Farewell, my old self, with your trivial
daubs, your dingy studio, your faded London models. Let us go in for the
shearing of sheep under burning skies, for moon-rise on the waters of an
endless sea, for the white, dusty perspective of the village street, or
for Mary, the maid of the inn!"
Mr. Allonby, as will have been gathered from this fragment, was not a
strikingly coherent thinker; but to-day he was certainly more
wool-gathering than usual, and he had not even strength to be angry with
himself for the same.
"Temperament," he went on, lazily "national temperament, is entirely
the result of climatic influence. I fancy I've heard that sentiment
before--I have a dim idea that I have heard it frequently; but I have
never till this moment realised it thoroughly. I now give it the
sanction of my unqualified assent. They say of us, that no Englishman
understands how to _flaner_. How the devil could anyone _flaner_ in the
shades of a London fog? Is east wind conducive to lounging in the
centres of squares? or a ceaseless downpour the best accompaniment to a
meal taken out of doors? No, indeed! Give me only a landscape like the
present, and six weeks of days such as this, and I will undertake to
rival the veriest _flaneur_ that ever strolled in a Neapolitan market.
How sweet-tempered I should grow, too! Even now I recall, dimly as in a
dream, the herds of cross and disagreeable people who struggle into
omnibuses at Piccadilly Circus. Why, oh, why do they do it? Do they
really imagine it worth the trouble? Why don't they tear off their
mittens and mackintoshes, fling away their tall hats, their parcels,
their gamps, and make one simultaneous rush for the Island Valley of
Avilion?"
And, as he thus mused, arose straightway before his imagination--which
was keen--a vision of such a crowd as emanates, on a wet night, from a
Metropolitan railway-station--of such a crowd pouring from an imaginary
terminus, and flocking down that poetic village street, inundating the
grass-grown curve of beach in the bay, swarming in a black herd up the
warm red sides of the peaceful cliff.
"Jove!" he ejaculated, under his breath, "how they would spoil the
place!"
And he checked his philanthropic desire that all his fellow Londoners
should come to learn lounging in this ideal village. His beatific
musings were broken into by the appearance of the inn-keeper's young
daughter, "Mary, the maid of the inn," as he had named her, though her
parents had christened her Sarah.
She came walking awkwardly through the cool dark passage, and poked her
pretty, tow-colored head round the doorway, to obtain a side scrutiny of
her father's guest, who was an object of great interest to her.
"Me mother said I was t'ask yer if yer was goin' to get your dinner
aout, same as yesterday, or if yer'd get yer dinner here to-day?"
This question brought Allonby's thoughts home to a sense of forgotten
duty. The spot he had yesterday selected, whence to paint his projected
picture, was a mile along the valley, and the day was passing; so far he
had been conspicuously successful in his efforts to become a lounger.
"I wonder if your mother would tie me up some dinner in a handkerchief?"
said he. "I had none yesterday, because it was too far to come back."
Then, as the girl disappeared, he rose, stretched, and told himself that
he was a fool to have put off his tramp till the hottest hour of the
day, when it would be quite impossible to get an inch of shade, either
side of the way.
However, he had come to Edge Combe brimful of good resolutions, and he
meant at least to try to keep them, in spite of the strange fermentation
which seemed to be taking place in his brain. As he shouldered his
camp-stool and other paraphernalia, it occurred to him to bestow a
smiling pity on a poor fool who could allow all his ideas of life to be
revolutionized by a sudden plunge from London dirt and heat into the
glamor of a Devonshire summer.
"However," he reflected, "it won't last. I've been overturned in this
way before. Look what an ass I made of myself in Maremma! It doesn't
increase one's self-respect to recall these things. But after all,
either I am a singularly unappreciative person, or my insular prejudices
are very strong, or--I like best to imagine this third--there is a
something in the fickle beauty of an English summer which surpasses even
Italy. I don't think anything there ever moved me quite as the Valley of
Avilion does. There is something so pure, so wholesome, in this
sea-scented, warm air. There is no treachery, no malaria lurking under
the loveliest bits of foliage--no mosquitoes either," he suddenly
concluded, somewhat prosaically, as he lifted his soft cloth helmet, and
wiped his big forehead. "Only one drawback to an English summer," he
continued, as he started on his way, with his dinner tied up in a blue
handkerchief and began to tramp, with long strides, along the curve
road, with its low stone wall, which skirted the deep blue bay. "Only
one drawback, and that one which enhances its beauty, and makes it all
the more precious: one is never sure of keeping it for two days
together. Its uncertainty is its charm."
He paused and keenly surveyed the purple and hazy horizon. No signs, as
yet, of the weather breaking; all was fair, and all was very, very hot.
He rested his dinner on a stone, and again passed his handkerchief over
his brow. The swish, swish of the scythes in the long grass made him
glance up. The mowers were mowing the steep hill to his right, and the
long sweep of their muscular arms was fine to see, as they advanced,
step by step, in regular order, the fragrant crop falling prostrate in
their path.
"It's a grand day!" cried Allonby, in the joy of his heart.
"Ay, sir, and it'll be a grand week. We'll du all we've got to du before
the rain comes."
This was said with a cheery authority which gladdened Allonby afresh,
and seemed to put a final touch to his riotous delight. Scarcely a
moment before he had affirmed that the uncertainty of the weather was
what pleased him; but the dictum of this rural prophet was none the less
encouraging and reassuring.
Just beyond the mowers, under a clump of very fine ash-trees, stood the
forge, and in its shadow the furnace roared, and the sparks leaped out.
The young man must needs pause here again to enjoy the contrast of the
fierce dark fire on the one side, and on the other the musical trickle
of a limpid rill of water, which fell from a spout, and dropped into a
roughly hewn stone basin, shooting and sparkling in the light.
As he stood, absorbed in gazing, the shrill call of some bird came
clearly to his ear, and made him glance up. He was standing at the foot
of a very steep hill thickly grown with trees, and high up, between the
leaves, he could descry peeps of a long white house, and a sunny
terrace, blazing with geraniums. His keen eyes noticed at once a big
brass cage wherein doubtless a cockatoo was enjoying the sunshine, and
then he saw a little lady in white come slowly along, with a wide black
straw hat to shield her from the sun. He was far-sighted enough to know
that the little lady was middle-aged and wore spectacles, but she had a
sweet and pleasant countenance, and at once Allonby longed to know what
favored mortal this was who made her home in Avilion.
How lovely was that sunny terrace! How soothing the cry of that unseen
bird! What a lovely wicker-chair that was which stood so invitingly
just in the shadow of the porch! A great longing to enter these
precincts, to penetrate into the mysteries of that dusky, cool interior,
took possession of him, and he had gazed for many minutes before it
occurred to him that he must present something the appearance of a
little street urchin, flattening his nose against a confectioner's
window.
Turning sharply, he saw that the grimy smith, with his blue eyes looking
oddly from his blackened face, was standing at the door of the smithy,
regarding him with much curiosity.
"Good morning," said Allonby. "That's a pretty house up the hill there.
Who lives in it?"
"The Miss Willoughbys," was the answer. "It's the only big house in the
village, sir."
Allonby breathed freely. He had dreaded lest he should receive for
answer that Mr. Stokes the tanner, or Noakes the varnish-maker, dwelt in
that poetic house; but no! All was in keeping with the valley of
Avilion. The Misses Willoughby! He said to himself that the name might
have been made on purpose.
With a strong effort he tore himself away, and continued his tramp in
the broiling sun, and still, as he went up the valley, between the steep
banks of harts-tongue, over the musical brooks, he could hear the hot
and sleepy cries of the bird on the terrace growing ever fainter and
fainter.