the next two days were dies non as far as john was concerned, since never a glimpse did he obtain of white-robed figure or attendant knights, despite sun-baked rambles along dusty roads, deep lanes, and over purple moorland.
he began to carp at that freakish sprite chance. matters might have been so differently arranged by him. taking them in hand at all, they could have been conceived with so infinitely greater diplomacy. where, after all, had been the use of a mere goat? why could not a bull—a ferocious, snorting, pawing bull—have been brought on to the stage. a bull must have entailed some further acknowledgment of the heroic rescue. he might even have been slightly injured in the course of that same rescue. in that case inquiries would have followed as a matter of course, maybe even a visit of sympathetic and grateful condolence. [pg 93]but a goat! a mere goat! with time and safety in which to consider the situation, it had doubtless presented itself to the lady’s mind as one of ridiculous insignificance. her alarm was, probably, by now almost laughable in her own eyes; and, in the face of this calm consideration, john’s advance to the rescue would, therefore, have savoured somewhat what of an intrusion. verily had chance been freakish and ill-advised.
“could i but build me a willow cabin at her gates,” sighed john. “but to sit on the sun-baked road would undoubtedly gain one the reputation of a madman in these prosaic, self-contained days.”
nevertheless he wandered past those same gates more times than i will venture to record, and gazed ardently along the avenue of oaks and beeches, but with no reward for his pains.
to bring solace to his soul, he bethought himself of sunday. sight of her, at least, must be then permitted him; speech with her, though a good devoutly to be desired, was not probable of consummation. also, with distinct and genuine success he interested himself in corin’s labours.
the work in the church progressed. daily the [pg 94]plaster fell before that remorseless chisel, daily new delights shone forth to the light of day. the tracery of the east window was uncovered; showing brilliant blue-green, with glowing ruby eyes. great splashes of colour, bold yet simple outline, transformed the dreary, hitherto plastered place into a thing of mediæval beauty. the progress of time vanished with the falling plaster. you found yourself back in the old centuries, the dead years revitalized.
john sought the church most willingly when the workmen’s hours were over, when silence lay upon the place, when the only sounds that came to him were the falling of fragments from the walls, the echo of corin’s foot upon the plank as he shifted his position, and the twittering and chirping of the birds from the bushes in the sunny churchyard without.
at such time imagination ran riot.
he pictured the village folk coming up the path among the lengthening shadows, saw them entering by the little norman doorway, taking holy water from the stoup, then kneeling before christ in the blessed sacrament. to him the church was no longer an empty shell, but a place of crimson [pg 95]draperies, dark oak pews, scattered shrines; with here and there a kneeling figure; and above all, superseding all, the quiet strength and peace of the hidden presence.
presently he began to individualize his village folk. there was a fair-haired girl who came to pray for her lover, to commend him specially to our lord and st. joseph, since he—her man—was a carpenter. there was a dark-eyed woman who came to plead for the life of her child lying sick of a fever; there was a young man who came to dedicate his youth and strength to god; and there was an old, old woman, who, having no living to pray for, came daily to pray for the holy dead. the present had vanished, merged and absorbed in the past. despite all that has been lost, removed, abandoned, despite the denial of entry to that gracious presence, does there not still linger in these old churches some faint sweet breath, some hidden fragrance of that which once has been?
you would never have imagined, seeing john sitting there in his most immaculate suit of grey flannels, that such thoughts as these were passing through his mind. but i have observed, and you [pg 96]may take my observation for what it is worth, that to attempt to guess at the minds of one’s fellow humans by their clothes and their superficial appearance, is a distinctly dangerous task. to do so must inevitably result in a series of vast surprises when the truth becomes known.
to my thinking it would be not unlike marching into some great clothing emporium to examine coats. there they hang,—tweed coats, frieze coats, fur coats, silk coats, velvet coats, satin coats, tinsel coats, even second-hand and shop-worn coats. you turn them to look at the linings. now, here the shock begins. where you expected to find warm linings you find calico; where good material, rags; where flimsy useless linings, cloth of gold and soft fur; where soiled linings, the most exquisite satins. therefore, if you desire to make a guess at the substance of these coats, without actual knowledge of their linings, take them from their peg and weigh them. a discrepancy between their weight and your expectation of it may lead you nearer a fair guess at the lining.
i’ll be bound, that, on mere superficial observation, you’d have taken our john for a mere summer coat of little substance and no weight; but [pg 97]assuredly you’d find your mistake when you had examined a bit closer. it is an idiosyncrasy of human nature, perhaps intentional on the part of the individual, perhaps unavoidable, that the vast majority invariably deceives the casual observer. no doubt this lends interest to our acquaintanceships and friendships; often, too, lends disappointment; and occasionally unexpected pleasure; but interest certainly.
here, however, i have advanced somewhat with john’s meditations, carried them beyond those first days of which i began to speak. therefore to return on our traces.
that first saturday afternoon john, sitting on an overturned wheelbarrow, began something of those thoughts of which i have given you the greater elaboration. i don’t believe for a moment that he knew that he was thinking them. there’s the curious joy of such thoughts. there is no conscious effort on your part. you don’t map out a route in your mind resolving your progress along it, a conscientious observance of the milestones you may pass. insensibly you drift into peaceful glades, silent and very sweet. their atmosphere steals upon you, holding your spirit in a breathless [pg 98]charm. happiness, a strange wonderful happiness, falls upon you. you accept it in its entirety, taking, at the moment, no note of details. later, returning to more material consciousness and surroundings, the details present themselves to your memory, and you then realize your awareness of them, even while they were submerged in the whole.
it was cool in the church, in marked contrast to the heat without. being saturday afternoon, john and corin had the place to themselves. corin, up aloft, chiselled with vigour, or with suspended breath, as the exigencies of the work demanded; john, on the overturned wheelbarrow, was lost in thought.
suddenly a slight sound made him raise his head. for a moment, for one brief instant, he still remained in the past, almost believing his thoughts to have materialized before him.
in the shadow of the little norman doorway stood a white-robed figure. still half dreaming he looked to see her take holy water from the stoup. then actualities rushed upon him. his heart jumped; pleasure, undeniable radiant pleasure, shone from his face. he got to his feet.
[pg 99]
“oh,” said rosamund perceiving him. and she stopped, half hesitating.
john made her a little courtly bow.
“i thought,” said she smiling, “i should have found the place deserted. it is saturday afternoon.”
“it is deserted,” john assured her, “but for me and corin.” he indicated the indefatigably industrious figure aloft.
she smiled.
“i came,” said she, “with the intention of having a private view, a little secret examination of the paintings mr. elmore was uncovering.”
“oh!” said john. and then dubiously, “the uncovered paintings are, as you see, at a goodly height above us.”
“yes.” her voice was regretful.
john heard the regret.
“i wonder—” he began.
“i could,” she assured him, with swift realization of his unspoken thought.
he glanced towards the ladder.
“really?” he queried.
she nodded. “really. i am sure i could.”
“come then,” said john.
[pg 100]
they advanced towards the ladder. at the foot thereof she paused.
“shan’t we be disturbing him?” she queried.
“not a bit of it,” laughed john. “he’ll merely be flattered at your interest. he’ll adore an audience.”
the situation had for him the hint of an adventure. to have told her curtly,—or suavely, for that matter,—that it was impossible for her to see those paintings would have resulted in her leaving the church. there could have been no possible excuse for her remaining. this thought justified him in suggesting the venture. naturally it was an infinitely greater venture in his eyes than in rosamund’s. that is probably understood without need of my mentioning the fact.
john, in advance, reached the first platform; turned, took her hand firmly in his, and drew her to safety. a second time was this feat accomplished in like manner.
“hullo!” exclaimed corin, surprised at the double apparition.
“allow me,” said john, “to present my friend, mr. elmore. miss delancey wanted to see the paintings.”
[pg 101]
“therein,” quoth corin bowing, “she shows her judgment. behold!” he waved his chisel towards the wall.
“oh!” breathed rosamund. just that, and no more.
corin hugged himself with delight.
“isn’t it gorgeous!” he ejaculated. “isn’t it superb, adorable, and dreamy! and heaven knows what more this plaster hides. the unutterable philistines who smeared and daubed it over from the light of day!”
“is it not,” suggested rosamund, “a matter for thankfulness that they did merely smear and daub? it is possible, it is quite conceivable, that they might have scraped.”
corin shuddered.
“don’t suggest such a possibility,” he implored. “i’ll confess my thankfulness for the daubing.”
she barely heard him. she was engrossed in the work before her,—red, black, turquoise blue, and crimson, she revelled in its colour. daring enough it was in parts, in others almost crude in its simplicity. she was drawn, as john had been drawn, back into the bygone ages. their atmosphere enfolded her, enwrapped her. she saw in [pg 102]the work before her, almost without realizing her thoughts, the interpretation of the mind of the painter. here was nothing petty, nothing niggled; it was frank, simple, childlike. it was extraordinarily unselfconscious. therein lay its subtle charm. there was no intricacy of expression; nothing laboured; almost, one might say, nothing preconceived.
“well?” queried john at last.
“oh,” she cried, turning towards him, “it’s—it’s so deliciously simple, so utterly unstudied. it’s almost untutored in its crudeness, and yet—i wonder wherein exactly the charm lies?”
“in its simplicity,” returned corin promptly. “whoever painted this worked for pure pleasure. there’s—well, there’s so extraordinarily little hint of even the thought of an audience. do you know what i mean?”
“isn’t it,” she said laughing, “the entire expression of ‘when the world was so new and all’?”
“exactly!” cried corin. “in those eight little words kipling carried us back into a clean fresh world with its face all washed and smiling; when we laughed for the mere joy of laughter; when we wept if we wanted to weep—only i believe we [pg 103]didn’t want to; when the tiresome stupid phrases ‘what will people think? what will people say?’ were unknown in the language; when we danced, and ate, and played in the sunshine for the mere joy of living.”
“only that?” she queried, her eyebrows raised.
“only that,” said corin firmly. “kipling is a glorious pagan.”
“oh!” she was dubious. “i wonder.”
“and this painter,” pursued corin unheeding, “splashed his colours on the walls, his blacks, his reds, his blues, his lines and curves, and he laughed as he worked, and i think he sang too, and he didn’t care one jot what people thought about him or his painting. he loved it, and so—” he broke off with a gesture.
“but,” quoth she demurely, “i suppose you don’t intend to infer that he was a pagan?”
“oh, you can call him what you like,” returned corin magnanimously, “i only know that his mind was as untrammelled as his work.”
“i see.” she shot him a little quizzical glance.
ten minutes later, standing once more on the floor of the church, she said to john, smiling:
“i suppose mr. elmore considers your mind, [pg 104]and my mind, and, for the matter of that, the mind of every catholic in a kind of strait-jacket?”
“you’re not far beside the mark,” returned john laughing.
he went with her to the door. a moment she stood there; and, turning, looked back into the church.
“after all, it’s sad,” she said.
“i know,” replied john.
“it’s—it’s the sense of loss.”
“i know,” said john again, “the sense of loss, in spite of the faint fragrance that still lingers.”
she nodded, then turned towards the sunshine without.
“by the way,” said she suddenly reminiscent, “i left a note for you at the white cottage. my grandmother would be very pleased if you and mr. elmore would lunch with us tomorrow at one o’clock. she would like to thank you in person for your intervention on our behalf the other day. can you come?”
“with the greatest pleasure in the world,” returned john. and there is no question but that his heart was in his voice.
