CORIN TAKES A WALK
IT is, however, one thing to be a conspirator in intention, and quite
another to put your conspiracy into action. The opportunity perversely
refused to present itself, or, at any rate, to Elizabeth’s eyes it
refused to present itself, and that, after all, came to the same thing.
A dozen times at least she went over her prepared formula in her mind,
intending at each meeting to put it into words.
And there were meetings enough. You might have imagined that David
sought them; that he knew, by some uncanny instinct, the exact moments
when Elizabeth would approach the Green Man. Of course, too, there
were the meetings at breakfast, but to Elizabeth’s mind these barely
counted. It was not a subject to be served up with coffee and eggs and
bacon; the hour, also, was unpropitious. She was never glib of speech
in the early morning. But then every hour seemed unpropitious.
The whole difficulty of the matter lay in the fact that she was on the
outlook for an opportunity, that her formula was prepared. I defy any
one--at all events any one of Elizabeth’s truthful nature--to introduce
a pre-arranged subject casually and naturally. If you have ever tried
to do so yourself, you will hear the instant ring of falsity in your
words.
“Oh, by the way----”
And if you don’t begin in this fashion, how on earth are you going to
begin, I ask?
Every meeting which passed without the subject being broached, lent
further difficulty to its broaching. And the moment the opportunity
had gone by, Elizabeth would upbraid herself for cowardice, would
speak confidently to her heart of next time. And when next time came,
the little dumb devil would sit maliciously on guard before her lips
allowing every word to pass them but those she desired to speak.
The matter became almost farcical; it would have been farcical, but
that the days were slipping by.
“It’s positively absurd,” Elizabeth told herself, half-laughing,
half-angry.
But absurd or not, the little dumb devil was keeping close watch.
And here it was that Fate or Providence stepped in in a purely
unexpected manner. Doubtless you, according to your views, will give
the credit to whichever pleases you.
The intervention can hardly be termed direct. But then, that is
frequently the case. It is the side issues, which in themselves appear
of little or no importance, which have a momentous influence on the
graver and deeper questions of life.
And here I am minded to quote the words reflected upon by the
sunny-hearted Pippa.
“Say not ‘a small event!’ Why ‘small’?
Costs it more pain than this, ye call
A ‘great event,’ should come to pass,
Than that? Untwine me from the mass
Of deeds which make up life, one deed
Power shall fall short in or exceed!”
Yet, if you should reply boldly in refutation of these words, Here,
in my life, is one deed, one action at least, which stands paramount
above all others, I would answer, True; but what of the so-called
tiny influences, the so-called minute events which led to it? Can you
eliminate any one of them, and then say with certainty that, without
it, the result would have been the same? And if you can not, how can
you declare that the apparently tiny event was of less importance than
the one you call great?
However, let’s on to the matter in hand.
* * * * *
Corin found the joys of scraping plaster off walls beginning to pall.
Apparently he had come to an end of discovery.
It is one thing to delve for new treasures, it is another to scrape for
hours on end to find a mere repetition of design. However delightful
masonry and herb Robert may be when it dawns freshly on the sight,
its continued contemplation waxes somewhat stale. To his judging, and
no doubt he judged rightly, there were still yards and yards of it to
be uncovered. Monotony, therefore, crept upon his soul. With a view,
then, to relaxing the monotony, and taking into consideration that the
sunshine without the church appeared infinitely preferable to the gloom
within, he laid down his tools this particular afternoon a full hour
before his customary time, and came out into the open.
And here, for a moment, he paused.
Before him, eight miles distant, lay Whortley, to be reached by road or
field, according to inclination. He ruled out that notion promptly. To
the right lay the river, the silver ribbon bordered by pollard willows;
to the left lay wood and moorland; behind him and the church lay the
sea. It was distant a mile or thereabouts, and the sun was distinctly
hot. But what of that! Wouldn’t the music of its voice on the shore,
the colour of its sparkling waters, the coolness of the little breeze
that would sweep across its surface, be well worth the tramp?
“The sea for me!” cried Corin to his heart. “And that’s rhyme, and I’m
not sure that it isn’t poetry if you take into consideration the vision
it conjures up. In fact, taking that into consideration, I am sure that
it _is_ poetry.”
Whereupon he wheeled around.
First the route lay uphill towards Delancey Castle. It was a stiffish
climb. The sun, beating upon the white roadway, flung waves of heat up
from it. They shimmered before his spectacled, short-sighted eyes in
an irritating glaring dance. His round, cherubic face was glowing to a
deep crimson before he was half-way up the ascent. The vision he had
conjured up of the seashore might truly be poetical, but I question
the poetry in the appearance of the little man trudging towards that
vision. Yet this is unkind. Who are we to judge from appearances? Truly
may poetic aspirations be hidden beneath the most unlikely exteriors.
At the top of the hill, Corin paused, looking reflectively down the
long avenue. Exhaustion rather than reflection prompted the pause,
nevertheless he gave vent to a sage one.
“_Omne ignotum pro magnifico_,” he remarked, “by which token, I fancy,
our young American friend down yonder had a very different conception
of what he was going to find up here. He has found less magnificence
than irksomeness, I take it. Now, I wonder why karma----”
But I refuse to follow Corin in his meditative flights in this
direction. It is sufficient to note that we see him, from the remark
I have given you, in like mind with three at least of our other
characters herein mentioned.
His meditation on the mysteries of karma completed, and his exhaustion
being in part, at least, lessened, Corin pursued his way. His route
was level now, leading presently to a footpath across an expanse of
short grass. Here he came upon full view of the sea--blue, sparkling,
radiant, dotted with white- and red-winged sailing boats.
Coming at length to a rough, descending track, he made his way down it.
It brought him into a cove, a place of white sand, smooth and gleaming.
Truly here was all that his vision had expected. The grass-crowned
cliffs sloped down to the cove in rugged grey walls, samphire-covered.
Nor did the grey rocks stop abruptly on reaching the white sand, but
ran out into it, as if eager to gain to the sun-kissed water. Little
pools lay among them, mirrors reflecting the blue of the sky. In the
pools waved feathery fronds of sea-weed--pink, crimson, and brown; tiny
silver fish darted hither and thither; sea anemones stretched forth
dainty flower-like tentacles.
“This,” remarked Corin to his soul, “was worth the tramp.”
And he sat down on the warm white sand.
There wasn’t a soul in sight; nothing but those white- and red-winged
boats, making a lazy headway with the tide, to remind him of his fellow
mortals, and they but added to the beauty of the picture. The water
broke in baby waves on the shore, with the faintest musical ripple.
Sea-gulls dipped to the shining surface, or floated smoothly in the
blueness above. Now and again a cormorant flew, black and long-necked
across the water.
Some half-hour or so Corin sat there, basking and dreaming in the sun,
thinking, you may be pretty certain, of nothing, or at all events with
thoughts too diffused to be worthy of the name.
And then, all at once, the antics of two birds roused him to sudden
interest. Gulls, he would have called them, yet assuredly their
manners were perplexing. Winging rapidly for a moment or so, they
dropped suddenly like stones to the water. Up again, they repeated the
manœuvre, and again, and yet again.
“Now what,” remarked Corin aloud, addressing the apparent solitude, “do
those things call themselves?”
“They,” said a voice behind him, “are gannets.”
Corin turned.