It was more than a month before the legend of the peacock trees was
again discussed in the Squire’s circle. It fell out one evening, when
his eccentric taste for meals in the garden that gathered the company
round the same table, now lit with a lamp and laid out for dinner in a
glowing spring twilight. It was even the same company, for in the few
weeks intervening they had insensibly grown more and more into each
other’s lives, forming a little group like a club. The American aesthete
was of course the most active agent, his resolution to pluck out the
heart of the Cornish poet’s mystery leading him again and again to
influence his flighty host for such reunions. Even Mr. Ashe, the lawyer,
seemed to have swallowed his half-humorous prejudices; and the doctor,
though a rather sad and silent, was a companionable and considerate man.
Paynter had even read Treherne’s poetry aloud, and he read admirably;
he had also read other things, not aloud, grubbing up everything in the
neighborhood, from guidebooks to epitaphs, that could throw a light on
local antiquities. And it was that evening when the lamplight and the
last daylight had kindled the colors of the wine and silver on the table
under the tree, that he announced a new discovery.
“Say, Squire,” he remarked, with one of his rare Americanisms, “about
those bogey trees of yours; I don’t believe you know half the tales told
round here about them. It seems they have a way of eating things. Not
that I have any ethical objection to eating things,” he continued,
helping himself elegantly to green cheese. “But I have more or less,
broadly speaking, an objection to eating people.”
“Eating people!” repeated Barbara Vane.
“I know a globe-trotter mustn’t be fastidious,” replied Mr. Paynter.
“But I repeat firmly, an objection to eating people. The peacock trees
seem to have progressed since the happy days of innocence when they only
ate peacocks. If you ask the people here--the fisherman who lives on
that beach, or the man that mows this very lawn in front of us--they’ll
tell you tales taller than any tropical one I brought you from the
Barbary Coast. If you ask them what happened to the fisherman Peters,
who got drunk on All Hallows Eve, they’ll tell you he lost his way
in that little wood, tumbled down asleep under the wicked trees, and
then--evaporated, vanished, was licked up like dew by the sun. If you
ask them where Harry Hawke is, the widow’s little son, they’ll just tell
you he’s swallowed; that he was dared to climb the trees and sit there
all night, and did it. What the trees did God knows; the habits of a
vegetable ogre leave one a little vague. But they even add the agreeable
detail that a new branch appears on the tree when somebody has petered
out in this style.”
“What new nonsense is this?” cried Vane. “I know there’s some crazy yarn
about the trees spreading fever, though every educated man knows why
these epidemics return occasionally. And I know they say you can tell
the noise of them among other trees in a gale, and I dare say you can.
But even Cornwall isn’t a lunatic asylum, and a tree that dines on a
passing tourist--”
“Well, the two tales are reconcilable enough,” put in the poet quietly.
“If there were a magic that killed men when they came close, it’s likely
to strike them with sickness when they stand far off. In the old romance
the dragon, that devours people, often blasts others with a sort of
poisonous breath.”
Ashe looked across at the speaker steadily, not to say stonily.
“Do I understand,” he inquired, “that you swallow the swallowing trees
too?”
Treherne’s dark smile was still on the defensive; his fencing always
annoyed the other, and he seemed not without malice in the matter.
“Swallowing is a metaphor,” he said, “about me, if not about the trees.
And metaphors take us at once into dreamland--no bad place, either. This
garden, I think, gets more and more like a dream at this corner of the
day and night, that might lead us anywhere.”
The yellow horn of the moon had appeared silently and as if suddenly
over the black horns of the seaweed, seeming to announce as night
something which till then had been evening. A night breeze came in
between the trees and raced stealthily across the turf, and as they
ceased speaking they heard, not only the seething grass, but the sea
itself move and sound in all the cracks and caves round them and below
them and on every side. They all felt the note that had been struck--the
American as an art critic and the poet as a poet; and the Squire, who
believed himself boiling with an impatience purely rational, did not
really understand his own impatience. In him, more perhaps than the
others--more certainly than he knew himself--the sea wind went to the
head like wine.
“Credulity is a curious thing,” went on Treherne in a low voice. “It
is more negative than positive, and yet it is infinite. Hundreds of men
will avoid walking under a ladder; they don’t know where the door of the
ladder will lead. They don’t really think God would throw a thunderbolt
at them for such a thing. They don’t know what would happen, that is
just the point; but yet they step aside as from a precipice. So the poor
people here may or may not believe anything; they don’t go into those
trees at night.”
“I walk under a ladder whenever I can,” cried Vane, in quite unnecessary
excitement.
“You belong to a Thirteen Club,” said the poet. “You walk under a ladder
on Friday to dine thirteen at a table, everybody spilling the salt. But
even you don’t go into those trees at night.”
Squire Vane stood up, his silver hair flaming in the wind.
“I’ll stop all night in your tomfool wood and up your tomfool trees,”
he said. “I’ll do it for twopence or two thousand pounds, if anyone will
take the bet.”
Without waiting for reply, he snatched up his wide white hat and settled
it on with a fierce gesture, and had gone off in great leonine strides
across the lawn before anyone at the table could move.
The stillness was broken by Miles, the butler, who dropped and broke
one of the plates he carried. He stood looking after his master with
his long, angular chin thrust out, looking yellower where it caught the
yellow light of the lamp below. His face was thus sharply in shadow, but
Paynter fancied for a moment it was convulsed by some passion passing
surprise. But the face was quite as usual when it turned, and Paynter
realized that a night of fancies had begun, like the cross purposes of
the “Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
The wood of the strange trees, toward which the Squire was walking, lay
so far forward on the headland, which ultimately almost overhung the
sea, that it could be approached by only one path, which shone clearly
like a silver ribbon in the twilight. The ribbon ran along the edge of
the cliff, where the single row of deformed trees ran beside it all the
way, and eventually plunged into the closer mass of trees by one natural
gateway, a mere gap in the wood, looking dark, like a lion’s mouth. What
became of the path inside could not be seen, but it doubtless led round
the hidden roots of the great central trees. The Squire was already
within a yard or two of this dark entry when his daughter rose from the
table and took a step or two after him as if to call him back.
Treherne had also risen, and stood as if dazed at the effect of his idle
defiance. When Barbara moved he seemed to recover himself, and stepping
after her, said something which Paynter did not hear. He said it
casually and even distantly enough, but it clearly suggested something
to her mind; for, after a moment’s thought, she nodded and walked back,
not toward the table, but apparently toward the house. Paynter looked
after her with a momentary curiosity, and when he turned again the
Squire had vanished into the hole in the wood.
“He’s gone,” said Treherne, with a clang of finality in his tones, like
the slamming of a door.
“Well, suppose he has?” cried the lawyer, roused at the voice. “The
Squire can go into his own wood, I suppose! What the devil’s all the
fuss about, Mr. Paynter? Don’t tell me you think there’s any harm in
that plantation of sticks.”
“No, I don’t,” said Paynter, throwing one leg over another and lighting
a cigar. “But I shall stop here till he comes out.”
“Very well,” said Ashe shortly, “I’ll stop with you, if only to see the
end of this farce.”
The doctor said nothing, but he also kept his seat and accepted one of
the American’s cigars. If Treherne had been attending to the matter he
might have noted, with his sardonic superstition, a curious fact--that,
while all three men were tacitly condemning themselves to stay out all
night if necessary, all, by one blank omission or oblivion, assumed that
it was impossible to follow their host into the wood just in front of
them. But Treherne, though still in the garden, had wandered away from
the garden table, and was pacing along the single line of trees against
the dark sea. They had in their regular interstices, showing the sea
as through a series of windows, something of the look of the ghost or
skeleton of a cloister, and he, having thrown his coat once more over
his neck, like a cape, passed to and fro like the ghost of some not very
sane monk.
All these men, whether skeptics or mystics, looked back for the rest of
their lives on that night as on something unnatural. They sat still or
started up abruptly, and paced the great garden in long detours, so that
it seemed that no three of them were together at a time, and none knew
who would be his companion; yet their rambling remained within the same
dim and mazy space. They fell into snatches of uneasy slumber; these
were very brief, and yet they felt as if the whole sitting, strolling,
or occasional speaking had been parts of a single dream.
Paynter woke once, and found Ashe sitting opposite him at a table
otherwise empty; his face dark in shadow and his cigar-end like the red
eye of a Cyclops. Until the lawyer spoke, in his steady voice, Paynter
was positively afraid of him. He answered at random and nodded again;
when he again woke the lawyer was gone, and what was opposite him was
the bald, pale brow of the doctor; there seemed suddenly something
ominous in the familiar fact that he wore spectacles. And yet the
vanishing Ashe had only vanished a few yards away, for he turned at that
instant and strolled back to the table. With a jerk Paynter realized
that his nightmare was but a trick of sleep or sleeplessness, and spoke
in his natural voice, but rather loud.
“So you’ve joined us again; where’s Treherne?”
“Oh, still revolving, I suppose, like a polar bear under those trees on
the cliff,” replied Ashe, motioning with his cigar, “looking at what
an older (and you will forgive me for thinking a somewhat better) poet
called the wine-dark sea. It really has a sort of purple shade; look at
it.”
Paynter looked; he saw the wine-dark sea and the fantastic trees that
fringed it, but he did not see the poet; the cloister was already empty
of its restless monk.
“Gone somewhere else,” he said, with futility far from characteristic.
“He’ll be back here presently. This is an interesting vigil, but a
vigil loses some of its intensity when you can’t keep awake. Ah! Here’s
Treherne; so we’re all mustered, as the politician said when Mr. Colman
came late for dinner. No, the doctor’s off again. How restless we all
are!” The poet had drawn near, his feet were falling soft on the grass,
and was gazing at them with a singular attentiveness.
“It will soon be over,” he said.
“What?” snapped Ashe very abruptly.
“The night, of course,” replied Treherne in a motionless manner. “The
darkest hour has passed.”
“Didn’t some other minor poet remark,” inquired Paynter flippantly,
“that the darkest hour before the dawn--? My God, what was that? It was
like a scream.”
“It was a scream,” replied the poet. “The scream of a peacock.”
Ashe stood up, his strong pale face against his red hair, and said
furiously: “What the devil do you mean?”
“Oh, perfectly natural causes, as Dr. Brown would say,” replied
Treherne. “Didn’t the Squire tell us the trees had a shrill note of
their own when the wind blew? The wind’s beating up again from the sea;
I shouldn’t wonder if there was a storm before dawn.”
Dawn indeed came gradually with a growing noise of wind, and the purple
sea began to boil about the dark volcanic cliffs. The first change in
the sky showed itself only in the shapes of the wood and the single
stems growing darker but clearer; and above the gray clump, against a
glimpse of growing light, they saw aloft the evil trinity of the trees.
In their long lines there seemed to Paynter something faintly serpentine
and even spiral. He could almost fancy he saw them slowly revolving
as in some cyclic dance, but this, again, was but a last delusion of
dreamland, for a few seconds later he was again asleep. In dreams he
toiled through a tangle of inconclusive tales, each filled with the same
stress and noise of sea and sea wind; and above and outside all other
voices the wailing of the Trees of Pride.
When he woke it was broad day, and a bloom of early light lay on wood
and garden and on fields and farms for miles away. The comparative
common sense that daylight brings even to the sleepless drew him alertly
to his feet, and showed him all his companions standing about the lawn
in similar attitudes of expectancy. There was no need to ask what they
were expecting. They were waiting to hear the nocturnal experiences,
comic or commonplace or whatever they might prove to be, of that
eccentric friend, whose experiment (whether from some subconscious
fear or some fancy of honor) they had not ventured to interrupt. Hour
followed hour, and still nothing stirred in the wood save an occasional
bird. The Squire, like most men of his type, was an early riser, and it
was not likely that he would in this case sleep late; it was much more
likely, in the excitement in which he had left them, that he would not
sleep at all. Yet it was clear that he must be sleeping, perhaps by some
reaction from a strain. By the time the sun was high in heaven Ashe the
lawyer, turning to the others, spoke abruptly and to the point.
“Shall we go into the wood now?” asked Paynter, and almost seemed to
hesitate.
“I will go in,” said Treherne simply. Then, drawing up his dark head in
answer to their glances, he added:
“No, do not trouble yourselves. It is never the believer who is afraid.”
For the second time they saw a man mount the white curling path and
disappear into the gray tangled wood, but this time they did not have to
wait long to see him again.
A few minutes later he reappeared in the woodland gateway, and came
slowly toward them across the grass. He stopped before the doctor, who
stood nearest, and said something. It was repeated to the others, and
went round the ring with low cries of incredulity. The others plunged
into the wood and returned wildly, and were seen speaking to others
again who gathered from the house; the wild wireless telegraphy which is
the education of countryside communities spread it farther and farther
before the fact itself was fully realized; and before nightfall a
quarter of the county knew that Squire Vane had vanished like a burst
bubble.
Widely as the wild story was repeated, and patiently as it was pondered,
it was long before there was even the beginning of a sequel to it. In
the interval Paynter had politely removed himself from the house of
mourning, or rather of questioning, but only so far as the village inn;
for Barbara Vane was glad of the traveler’s experience and sympathy, in
addition to that afforded her by the lawyer and doctor as old friends of
the family. Even Treherne was not discouraged from his occasional visits
with a view to helping the hunt for the lost man. The five held many
counsels round the old garden table, at which the unhappy master of
the house had dined for the last time; and Barbara wore her old mask of
stone, if it was now a more tragic mask. She had shown no passion after
the first morning of discovery, when she had broken forth once, speaking
strangely enough in the view of some of her hearers.
She had come slowly out of the house, to which her own or some one
else’s wisdom had relegated her during the night of the wager; and it
was clear from her face that somebody had told her the truth; Miles, the
butler, stood on the steps behind her; and it was probably he.
“Do not be much distressed, Miss Vane,” said Doctor Brown, in a low and
rather uncertain voice. “The search in the wood has hardly begun. I am
convinced we shall find--something quite simple.”
“The doctor is right,” said Ashe, in his firm tones; “I myself--”
“The doctor is not right,” said the girl, turning a white face on the
speaker, “I know better. The poet is right. The poet is always right.
Oh, he has been here from the beginning of the world, and seen wonders
and terrors that are all round our path, and only hiding behind a bush
or a stone. You and your doctoring and your science--why, you have only
been here for a few fumbling generations; and you can’t conquer even
your own enemies of the flesh. Oh, forgive me, Doctor, I know you do
splendidly; but the fever comes in the village, and the people die and
die for all that. And now it’s my poor father. God help us all! The only
thing left is to believe in God; for we can’t help believing in devils.”
And she left them, still walking quite slowly, but in such a fashion
that no one could go after her.
The spring had already begun to ripen into summer, and spread a green
tent from the tree over the garden table, when the American visitor,
sitting there with his two professional companions, broke the silence by
saying what had long been in his mind.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose whatever we may think it wise to say, we
have all begun to think of a possible conclusion. It can’t be put very
delicately anyhow; but, after all, there’s a very necessary business
side to it. What are we going to do about poor Vane’s affairs, apart
from himself? I suppose you know,” he added, in a low voice to the
lawyer, “whether he made a will?”
“He left everything to his daughter unconditionally,” replied Ashe. “But
nothing can be done with it. There’s no proof whatever that he’s dead.”
“No legal proof?” remarked Paynter dryly. A wrinkle of irritation had
appeared in the big bald brow of Doctor Brown; and he made an impatient
movement.
“Of course he’s dead,” he said. “What’s the sense of all this legal
fuss? We were watching this side of the wood, weren’t we? A man couldn’t
have flown off those high cliffs over the sea; he could only have fallen
off. What else can he be but dead?”
“I speak as a lawyer,” returned Ashe, raising his eyebrows. “We can’t
presume his death, or have an inquest or anything till we find the poor
fellow’s body, or some remains that may reasonably be presumed to be his
body.”
“I see,” observed Paynter quietly. “You speak as a lawyer; but I don’t
think it’s very hard to guess what you think as a man.”
“I own I’d rather be a man than a lawyer,” said the doctor, rather
roughly. “I’d no notion the law was such an ass. What’s the good of
keeping the poor girl out of her property, and the estate all going
to pieces? Well, I must be off, or my patients will be going to pieces
too.”
And with a curt salutation he pursued his path down to the village.
“That man does his duty, if anybody does,” remarked Paynter. “We must
pardon his--shall I say manners or manner?”
“Oh, I bear him no malice,” replied Ashe good-humoredly, “But I’m glad
he’s gone, because--well, because I don’t want him to know how jolly
right he is.” And he leaned back in his chair and stared up at the roof
of green leaves.
“You are sure,” said Paynter, looking at the table, “that Squire Vane is
dead?”
“More than that,” said Ashe, still staring at the leaves. “I’m sure of
how he died.”
“Ah!” said the American, with an intake of breath, and they remained for
a moment, one gazing at the tree and the other at the table.
“Sure is perhaps too strong a word,” continued Ashe. “But my conviction
will want some shaking. I don’t envy the counsel for the defense.”
“The counsel for the defense,” repeated Paynter, and looked up quickly
at his companion. He was struck again by the man’s Napoleonic chin and
jaw, as he had been when they first talked of the legend of St. Securis.
“Then,” he began, “you don’t think the trees--”
“The trees be damned!” snorted the lawyer. “The tree had two legs on
that evening. What our friend the poet,” he added, with a sneer,
“would call a walking tree. Apropos of our friend the poet, you seemed
surprised that night to find he was not walking poetically by the sea
all the time, and I fear I affected to share your ignorance. I was not
so sure then as I am now.”
“Sure of what?” demanded the other.
“To begin with,” said Ashe, “I’m sure our friend the poet followed Vane
into the wood that night, for I saw him coming out again.”
Paynter leaned forward, suddenly pale with excitement, and struck the
wooden table so that it rattled.
“Mr. Ashe, you’re wrong,” he cried. “You’re a wonderful man and you’re
wrong. You’ve probably got tons of true convincing evidence, and you’re
wrong. I know this poet; I know him as a poet; and that’s just what you
don’t. I know you think he gave you crooked answers, and seemed to be
all smiles and black looks at once; but you don’t understand the type.
I know now why you don’t understand the Irish. Sometimes you think
it’s soft, and sometimes sly, and sometimes murderous, and sometimes
uncivilized; and all the time it’s only civilized; quivering with the
sensitive irony of understanding all that you don’t understand.”
“Well,” said Ashe shortly, “we’ll see who’s right.”
“We will,” cried Cyprian, and rose suddenly from the table. All the
drooping of the aesthete had dropped from him; his Yankee accent rose
high, like a horn of defiance, and there was nothing about him but the
New World.
“I guess I will look into this myself,” he said, stretching his long
limbs like an athlete. “I search that little wood of yours to-morrow.
It’s a bit late, or I’d do it now.”
“The wood has been searched,” said the lawyer, rising also.
“Yes,” drawled the American. “It’s been searched by servants, policemen,
local policeman, and quite a lot of people; and do you know I have a
notion that nobody round here is likely to have searched it at all.”
“And what are you going to do with it?” asked Ashe.
“What I bet they haven’t done,” replied Cyprian. “I’m going to climb a
tree.”
And with a quaint air of renewed cheerfulness he took himself away at a
rapid walk to his inn.
He appeared at daybreak next morning outside the Vane Arms with all the
air of one setting out on his travels in distant lands. He had a field
glass slung over his shoulder, and a very large sheath knife buckled by
a belt round his waist, and carried with the cool bravado of the bowie
knife of a cowboy. But in spite of this backwoodsman’s simplicity, or
perhaps rather because of it, he eyed with rising relish the picturesque
plan and sky line of the antiquated village, and especially the wooden
square of the old inn sign that hung over his head; a shield, of which
the charges seemed to him a mere medley of blue dolphins, gold crosses,
and scarlet birds. The colors and cubic corners of that painted
board pleased him like a play or a puppet show. He stood staring and
straddling for some moments on the cobbles of the little market place;
then he gave a short laugh and began to mount the steep streets toward
the high park and garden beyond. From the high lawn, above the tree and
table, he could see on one side the land stretch away past the house
into a great rolling plain, which under the clear edges of the dawn
seemed dotted with picturesque details. The woods here and there on
the plain looked like green hedgehogs, as grotesque as the incongruous
beasts found unaccountably walking in the blank spaces of mediaeval
maps. The land, cut up into colored fields, recalled the heraldry of the
signboard; this also was at once ancient and gay. On the other side the
ground to seaward swept down and then up again to the famous or infamous
wood; the square of strange trees lay silently tilted on the slope, also
suggesting, if not a map, or least a bird’s-eye view. Only the triple
centerpiece of the peacock trees rose clear of the sky line; and these
stood up in tranquil sunlight as things almost classical, a triangular
temple of the winds. They seemed pagan in a newer and more placid
sense; and he felt a newer and more boyish curiosity and courage for the
consulting of the oracle. In all his wanderings he had never walked so
lightly, for the connoisseur of sensations had found something to do at
last; he was fighting for a friend.
He was brought to a standstill once, however, and that at the very
gateway of the garden of the trees of knowledge. Just outside the black
entry of the wood, now curtained with greener and larger leafage, he
came on a solitary figure.
It was Martin, the woodcutter, wading in the bracken and looking about
him in rather a lost fashion. The man seemed to be talking to himself.
“I dropped it here,” he was saying. “But I’ll never work with it again I
reckon. Doctor wouldn’t let me pick it up, when I wanted to pick it up;
and now they’ve got it, like they’ve got the Squire. Wood and iron, wood
and iron, but eating it’s nothing to them.”
“Come!” said Paynter kindly, remembering the man’s domestic trouble.
“Miss Vane will see you have anything you want, I know. And look
here, don’t brood on all those stories about the Squire. Is there the
slightest trace of the trees having anything to do with it? Is there
even this extra branch the idiots talked about?”
There had been growing on Paynter the suspicion that the man before him
was not perfectly sane; yet he was much more startled by the sudden and
cold sanity that looked for an instant out of the woodman’s eyes, as he
answered in his ordinary manner.
“Well, sir, did you count the branches before?”
Then he seemed to relapse; and Paynter left him wandering and wavering
in the undergrowth; and entered the wood like one across whose sunny
path a shadow has fallen for an instant.
Diving under the wood, he was soon threading a leafy path which, even
under that summer sun, shone only with an emerald twilight, as if it
were on the floor of the sea. It wound about more shakily than he had
supposed, as if resolved to approach the central trees as if they were
the heart of the maze at Hampton Court. They were the heart of the maze
for him, anyhow; he sought them as straight as a crooked road would
carry him; and, turning a final corner, he beheld, for the first time,
the foundations of those towers of vegetation he had as yet only seen
from above, as they stood waist-high in the woodland. He found the
suspicion correct which supposed the tree branched from one great
root, like a candelabrum; the fork, though stained and slimy with green
fungoids, was quite near the ground, and offered a first foothold. He
put his foot in it, and without a flash of hesitation went aloft, like
Jack climbing the Bean stalk.
Above him the green roof of leaves and boughs seemed sealed like a
firmament of foliage; but, by bending and breaking the branches to
right and left he slowly forced a passage upward; and had at last, and
suddenly, the sensation coming out on the top of the world. He felt
as if he had never been in the open air before. Sea and land lay in a
circle below and about him, as he sat astride a branch of the tall tree;
he was almost surprised to see the sun still comparatively low in the
sky; as if he were looking over a land of eternal sunrise.
“Silent upon a peak in Darien,” he remarked, in a needlessly loud and
cheerful voice; and though the claim, thus expressed, was illogical, it
was not inappropriate. He did feel as if he were a primitive adventurer
just come to the New World, instead of a modern traveler just come from
it.
“I wonder,” he proceeded, “whether I am really the first that ever burst
into this silent tree. It looks like it. Those--”
He stopped and sat on his branch quite motionless, but his eyes were
turned on a branch a little below it, and they were brilliant with a
vigilance, like those of a man watching a snake.
What he was looking at might, at first sight, have been a large white
fungus spreading on the smooth and monstrous trunk; but it was not.
Leaning down dangerously from his perch, he detached it from the twig on
which it had caught, and then sat holding it in his hand and gazing at
it. It was Squire Vane’s white Panama hat, but there was no Squire Vane
under it. Paynter felt a nameless relief in the very fact that there was
not.
There in the clear sunlight and sea air, for an instant, all the
tropical terrors of his own idle tale surrounded and suffocated him. It
seemed indeed some demon tree of the swamps; a vegetable serpent that
fed on men. Even the hideous farce in the fancy of digesting a whole man
with the exception of his hat, seemed only to simplify the nightmare.
And he found himself gazing dully at one leaf of the tree, which
happened to be turned toward him, so that the odd markings, which
had partly made the legend, really looked a little like the eye in a
peacock’s feather. It was as if the sleeping tree had opened one eye
upon him.
With a sharp effort he steadied himself in mind and posture on the
bough; his reason returned, and he began to descend with the hat in his
teeth. When he was back in the underworld of the wood, he studied the
hat again and with closer attention. In one place in the crown there was
a hole or rent, which certainly had not been there when it had last lain
on the table under the garden tree. He sat down, lit a cigarette, and
reflected for a long time.
A wood, even a small wood, is not an easy thing to search minutely;
but he provided himself with some practical tests in the matter. In one
sense the very density of the thicket was a help; he could at least see
where anyone had strayed from the path, by broken and trampled growths
of every kind. After many hours’ industry, he had made a sort of new map
of the place; and had decided beyond doubt that some person or persons
had so strayed, for some purpose, in several defined directions. There
was a way burst through the bushes, making a short cut across a loop
of the wandering path; there was another forking out from it as an
alternative way into the central space. But there was one especially
which was unique, and which seemed to him, the more he studied it, to
point to some essential of the mystery.
One of these beaten and broken tracks went from the space under the
peacock trees outward into the wood for about twenty yards and then
stopped. Beyond that point not a twig was broken nor a leaf disturbed.
It had no exit, but he could not believe that it had no goal. After some
further reflection, he knelt down and began to cut away grass and clay
with his knife, and was surprised at the ease with which they detached
themselves. In a few moments a whole section of the soil lifted like a
lid; it was a round lid and presented a quaint appearance, like a flat
cap with green feathers. For though the disc itself was made of wood,
there was a layer of earth on it with the live grass still growing
there. And the removal of the round lid revealed a round hole, black as
night and seemingly bottomless. Paynter understood it instantly. It was
rather near the sea for a well to be sunk, but the traveler had known
wells sunk even nearer. He rose to his feet with the great knife in his
hand, a frown on his face, and his doubts resolved. He no longer shrank
from naming what he knew. This was not the first corpse that had been
thrown down a well; here, without stone or epitaph, was the grave of
Squire Vane. In a flash all the mythological follies about saints and
peacocks were forgotten; he was knocked on the head, as with a stone
club, by the human common sense of crime.
Cyprian Paynter stood long by the well in the wood, walked round it in
meditation, examined its rim and the ring of grass about it, searched
the surrounding soil thoroughly, came back and stood beside the well
once more. His researches and reflections had been so long that he had
not realized that the day had passed and that the wood and the world
round it were beginning already to be steeped in the enrichment of
evening. The day had been radiantly calm; the sea seemed to be as still
as the well, and the well was as still as a mirror. And then, quite
without warning, the mirror moved of itself like a living thing.
In the well, in the wood, the water leapt and gurgled, with a grotesque
noise like something swallowing, and then settled again with a second
sound. Cyprian could not see into the well clearly, for the opening,
from where he stood, was an ellipse, a mere slit, and half masked by
thistles and rank grass like a green beard. For where he stood now was
three yards away from the well, and he had not yet himself realized
that he had sprung back all that distance from the brink when the water
spoke.