ROSES
Macheson woke with the daylight, stiff, a little tired, and haunted with
the consciousness of disturbing dreams. He sprang to his feet and
stretched himself. Then he saw the roses.
For a moment or two he stared at them incredulously. Then his thoughts
flashed backwards--where or how had he become possessed of them? A few
seconds were sufficient. Some one had been there in the night--most
likely a woman.
His cheeks burned at the thought. He stooped and took them hesitatingly,
reverently, into his hand. To him they represented part of the mystery
of life, the mystery of which he knew so little. Soft and fragrant, the
touch of the drooping blossoms was like fire to his fingers. Had he been
like those predecessors of his in the days of the Puritans, he would
have cast them away, trampled them underfoot; he would have seen in them
only the snare of the Evil One. But to Macheson this would have seemed
almost like sacrilege. They were beautiful and he loved beautiful
things.
He made his way farther into the plantation, to where the trees,
suddenly opening, disclosed a small, disused slate quarry, the water in
which was kept fresh by many streams. Stripping off his clothes, he
plunged into the deep cool depths, swimming round for several minutes on
his back, his face upturned to the dim blue sky. Then he dressed--in the
ugly black suit, for it was Sunday, and made a frugal breakfast, boiling
the water for his coffee over a small spirit-lamp. And all the time he
kept looking at the roses, now fresh with the water which he had
carefully sprinkled over them. Their coming seemed to him to whisper of
beautiful things, they turned his thoughts so easily into that world of
poetry and sentiment in which he was a habitual wanderer. Yet, every now
and then, their direct significance startled, almost alarmed. Some one
had actually been in the place while he slept, and had retreated without
disturbing him. Roses do not drop from the sky, and of gardens there
were none close at hand. Was it one of the village girls, who had seen
him that afternoon? His cheeks reddened at the thought. Perhaps he had
better leave his shelter. Another time if she came she might not steal
away so quietly. Scandal would injure his work. He must run no risks.
Deep down in his heart he thrust that other, that impossibly sweet
thought. He would not suffer his mind to dwell upon it.
After breakfast he walked for an hour or so across the hills, watching
the early mists roll away in the valleys, and the sunlight settle down
upon the land. It was a morning of silence, this--that peculiar,
mysterious silence which only the first day of the week seems to bring.
The fields were empty of toilers, the harvest was stayed. From its
far-away nest amongst the hills, he could just hear, carried on the
bosom of a favouring breeze, the single note of a monastery bell, whose
harshness not even distance, or its pleasant journey across the open
country, could modify. Macheson listened to it for a moment, and sat
down upon a rock on the topmost pinnacle of the hills he was climbing.
Below him, the country stretched like a piece of brilliant patchwork.
Thorpe, with its many chimneys and stately avenues, and the village
hidden by a grove of elms, was like a cool oasis in the midst of the
landscape. Behind, the hills ran rockier and wilder, culminating in a
bleak stretch of country, in the middle of which was the monastery.
Macheson looked downwards at Thorpe, with the faint clang of that single
bell in his ears. The frown on his forehead deepened as the rush of
thoughts took insistent hold of him.
For a young man blessed with vigorous health, free from all material
anxieties, and with the world before him, Macheson found life an
uncommonly serious matter. Only a few years ago, he had left the
University with a brilliant degree, a splendid athletic record, and a
host of friends. What to do with his life! That was the problem which
pressingly confronted him. He recognized in himself certain gifts
inevitably to be considered in this choice. He was possessed of a deep
religious sense, an immense sympathy for his fellows, and a passion for
the beautiful in life, from which the physical side was by no means
absent.
How to find a career which would satisfy such varying qualities! A life
of pleasure, unless it were shared by his fellows, did not appeal to him
at all; personal ambition he was destitute of; his religion, he was very
well aware, was not the sort which would enable him to enter with any
prospect of happiness any of the established churches. For a time he had
travelled, and had come back with only one definite idea in his mind.
Chance had brought him, on his return, into contact with two young men
of somewhat similar tastes. A conversation between them one night had
given a certain definiteness to his aims. He recalled it to himself as
he sat looking down at the thin blue line of smoke rising from the
chimneys of Thorpe.
"To use one's life for others," he had repeated thoughtfully--it was the
enthusiast of the party who had spoken--"but how?"
"Teach them to avoid like filth the ugly things of life--help them in
their search for the things beautiful."
"What are the things beautiful?" he had asked. "Don't they mean
something different to every man?"
Holderness had lifted his beautiful head--the boy with whom he had
played at school--the friend of his younger life.
"The Christian morality," he had answered.
Macheson had been surprised.
"But you----" he said, "you don't believe anything."
"It is not necessary," Holderness had answered. "It is a matter of the
intelligence. As an artist, if I might dare to call myself one, I say
that the Christian life, if honestly lived, is the most beautiful thing
of all the ages."
Macheson walked down to the village with the memory of those words still
in his brain. The bell was ringing for service from the queer,
ivy-covered church, the villagers were coming down the lane in little
groups. Macheson found himself one of a small knot of people, who stood
reverently on one side, with doffed hats, just by the wooden porch. He
looked up, suddenly realizing the cause.
A small vehicle, something between a bath-chair and a miniature
carriage, drawn by a fat, sleek pony, was turning into the lane from one
of the splendid avenues which led to the house. A boy led the pony, a
footman marched behind. Wilhelmina, in a plain white muslin dress and a
black hat, was slowly preparing to descend. She smiled languidly, but
pleasantly enough, at the line of curtseying women and men with doffed
hats. The note of feudalism which their almost reverential attitudes
suggested appealed irresistibly to Macheson's sense of humour. He, too,
formed one of them; he, too, doffed his hat. His greeting, however, was
different. Her eyes swept by him unseeing, his pleasant "Good morning"
was unheeded. She even touched her skirt with her fingers, as though
afraid lest it might brush against him in passing. With tired, graceful
footsteps, she passed into the cool church, leaving him to admire
against his will the slim perfection of her figure, the wonderful
carriage of her small but perfect head.
He followed with the others presently, and found a single seat close to
the door. The service began almost at once, a very beautiful service in
its way, for the organ, a present from the lady of the manor, was
perfectly played, and the preacher's voice was clear and as sweet as a
boy's. Macheson, however, was nervous and ill at ease. From the open
door he heard the soft whispering of the west wind--for the first time
in his life he found the simple but dignified ritual unconvincing. He
was haunted by the sense of some impending disaster. When the prayers
came, he fell on his knees and remained there! Even then he could not
collect himself! He was praying to an unknown God for protection against
some nameless evil! He knew quite well that the words he muttered were
vain words. Through the stained glass windows, the sunlight fell in a
subdued golden stream upon the glowing hair, the gracefully bent head of
the woman who sat alone in the deep square pew. She, too, seemed to be
praying. Macheson got up and softly, but abruptly, stole from the
church.
Up into the hills, as far away, as high up as possible! A day of sabbath
calm, this! Macheson, with the fire in his veins and a sharp pain in his
side, climbed as a man possessed. He, too, was fleeing from the unknown.
He was many miles away when down in the valley at Thorpe some one spoke
of him.
"By the bye," Gilbert Deyes remarked, looking across the luncheon table
at his hostess, "when does this athletic young missioner of yours begin
his work of regeneration?"
Wilhelmina raised her eyebrows.
"To-morrow evening, I believe," she answered. "He is going to speak at
the cross-roads. I fancy that his audience will consist chiefly of the
children, and Mrs. Adnith's chickens."
"Can't understand," Austin remarked, "why a chap who can play cricket
like that--he did lay on to 'em, too--can be such a crank!"
"He is very young," Wilhelmina remarked composedly, "and I fancy that he
must be a little mad. I hope that Thorpe will teach him a lesson. He
needs it."
"You do not anticipate then," Deyes remarked, "that his labours here
will be crowned with success?"
"He won't get a soul to hear him," Stephen Hurd replied confidently.
"The villagers all know what Miss Thorpe-Hatton thinks of his coming
here. It will be quite sufficient."
Wilhelmina lit a cigarette and rose to her feet.
"Let us hope so," she remarked drily. "Please remember, all of you, that
this is the Palace of Ease! Do exactly what you like, all of you, till
five o'clock. I shall be ready for bridge then."
Lady Peggy rose briskly.
"No doubt about what I shall do," she remarked. "I'm going to bed."
Deyes smiled.
"I," he said, "shall spend the afternoon in the rose garden. I
need--development."
Wilhelmina looked at him questioningly.
"Please don't be inexplicable," she begged. "It is too hot."
"Roses and sentiment," he declared, "are supposed to go together. I want
to grow into accord with my surroundings."
Wilhelmina was silent for a moment.
"If you have found sentiment here," she said carelessly, "you must have
dug deep."
"On the contrary," he answered, "I have scarcely scratched the surface!"
Stephen Hurd looked uneasily from Deyes to his hostess. Never altogether
comfortable, although eager to accept the most casually offered
invitation to Thorpe, he had always the idea that the most commonplace
remark contained an innuendo purposely concealed from him.
"Mr. Deyes," he remarked, "looks mysterious."
Deyes glanced at him through his eyeglass.
"It is a subtle neighbourhood," he said. "By the bye, Mr. Hurd, have you
ever seen the rose gardens at Carrow?"
"Never," Hurd replied enviously. "I have heard that they are very
beautiful."
Wilhelmina passed out.
"The gardens are beautiful," she said, looking back, "but the roses are
like all other roses, they fade quickly. Till five o'clock, all of you!"