THE FALLEN OAK
FATHER MALONEY came down the steps of Delancey Castle. News of the
wanderers might by this time have reached the village. With a view to
making inquiries, he had taken his departure.
The storm had passed; only leaves and twigs scattered on the lawn,
battered rose bushes, marigolds beaten to the earth, showed what its
fury had been.
He turned into the park. As he came abreast the great oak, he paused.
Split from apex to base it lay upon the ground, its branches strewn for
yards around,--the oldest tree in the park, the king of centuries, a
devastated wreck.
A lump rose in Father Maloney’s throat. He was not given to
superstitions, but I fancy he saw an omen in the fallen monarch.
Considering the happenings of the last few weeks, it was hardly
surprising.
He crossed the grass, picking his way among the fallen branches, till
he came to the very base of the tree itself,--a jagged, deplorable
stump, a pitiable remnant.
“Sic transit gloria mundi,” he said sorrowfully. And then he stopped.
“Glory be to God!” he ejaculated, and stood staring at the débris
before him.
It was some seconds before his brain began to take in the possible
significance of what he saw, and even when the significance dawned on
him, it is certain that he did not grasp its probable magnitude.
“Glory be to God!” he ejaculated again, and bent towards the ground.
Two minutes later he was trotting, with vastly more haste than dignity,
once more in the direction of the Castle, a small iron box tightly
tucked under his arm.