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.