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.