The car rushed on.... The straight road under the thick tapestry of
leaves would take us directly to the parkland of Malmanor; through the
opening at the end, for Carmion Wood ends sharply, we could see in the
far distance, lying in the hollow of the county like an ancient pink
jewel in a green bowl, the vast Elizabethan pile of Malmanor Hall.
The car rushed on....
“Bang!” said the car, but Tarlyon said worse than that as he pulled up.
“This,” I said, as we looked at the flattened back tyre, “this comes of
taking short cuts.”
The matter with Tarlyon was that he had had no luncheon and was hungry.
Now George Tarlyon is my greatest friend, but this I had against him,
that he swore too much. Like many other men, decent men, he swore too
much and too often. I can say “damn” with any man, I have said “bloody,”
and will again when it is organic to the occasion, but what humorous
writers in the magazines call scientific swearing does not amuse me. I
do not wish to seem superior, but it just does not amuse me. In the
Middle Ages men swore mightily on the names of the Trinity and the
Saints, but then they believed mightily in the Trinity and the Saints.
Now men swear and curse on the names of everything and believe in
nothing. It is the habit of the modern world; it is the habit of being
in a hurry; it is the habit of unholiness. And it had grown on my
friend, George Almeric St. George Tarlyon, who was otherwise a
reasonable sort of man.
To put on the spare tyre was only the work of a few minutes; and again
the car rushed on ... and from behind us came a cry. I looked back, and
there, twenty yards behind us, stood and screamed a woman by the
roadway.
Tarlyon was really remarkably fluent as he reversed. He was hungry, you
see.
“We must have dropped something,” I suggested.
We drew abreast of the gesticulating woman on the coarse grass by the
road. She was just a slip of an aged woman, and her hair was made of
bits of grey string, and her eyes leapt hysterically out of a little,
lined face. “Come, come!” she was screaming. “Come, come quick!” She
smelt old, that woman.
The car had scarcely stopped abreast of her when she turned and
scampered away along a little lane between the tall, still trees. It was
extraordinary, the way she ran, that little old woman! “Come, come
quick!”
Well, there was nothing to do but to follow.
“The girl’s mad,” snarled Tarlyon, as he strode after the little old
woman. But striding was no use, it was a running job, and it was a hot
day.
It was an untidy, tangled path up which she was leading us--and how
quickly she ran, that little old woman, stumbling over her uncertain
feet and frantic gestures, while we ploughed on behind her through the
lush of the wood in August. It was an amazingly hot day; the Press for
the last week or so had been full of surprise and congratulation as to
the amazingly hot days we were having, and we had now an unrivalled
opportunity of testing the veracity of the Press, but we would much
rather have forgone it. At that moment, following that little old woman
up that tangled path in Carmion Wood, George Tarlyon and I were probably
the wettest men in England outside of a swimming-bath.
“What the devil is it all about?” muttered Tarlyon, and was not soothed
by my suggesting that I thought it was all part of his idea of a short
cut to Malmanor--while the little old woman still screamed at us to come
quick, quick.
“Quick, quick....” And at her heels we burst out on to a clearing in the
wood. The sun lay on that clearing like a carpet of gold.