john was walking over the moorland. he had been walking for the last hour and more. it was nearing five o’clock. he had made a great circle, and was now somewhere near the place where he had first had sight of a fair lady and her two attendant knights.
at the moment there was no human being in sight. he had the earth, it would appear, entirely to himself. only furze-chats and yellow-hammers twittered in the gorse around him; little blue butterflies and brown underwings flitted over the heather. to the right it lay one great purple sheet, broken only by the gorse bushes. their golden glory of april had long since passed away, but yellow flowers still lingered among their prickly shields. you know the old adage:
“when the gorse is out of bloom.
kissing is out of fashion.”
[pg 168]
to the left lay a stretch of long brown grass, dry and coarse. the wind, rustling softly through it, whispered of summer secrets. it came blowing softly, faintly, from the distant blue sea. truly it was a day for whole-hearted enjoyment, for content, for reposefulness, for each thing and everything that goes to sum up entire happiness.
but if you imagine john to be in this restful mood, you are vastly mistaken. three thoughts repeated themselves with about equal recurrence in his mind. the first was merely a name—rosamund.
the birds twittered it, the wind whispered it, the faint understirrings in the heather took it up and repeated it with tantalizing insistence.
rosamund, rosamund, rosamund.
a fair name truly; a poetical name. john, at the moment, might have emulated orlando, who hung a very similar name on every tree. only here there were no trees at hand, merely gorse bushes, and purple heather.
the second thought was a quotation. it ran through his head again and again.
“never the time, and the place, and the loved one altogether.”
[pg 169]
“he knew what he was talking about,” sighed john. “unquestionably, at the moment, it would seem the veritable time and place,—the sunniest most desirable time, the sweetest-scented most gorgeous place. but she isn’t here. and, if she were, i’d bet anything the time and place would seem all wrong. the time would jump to about a million of years ahead, and as far the place——”
to tell the truth he hadn’t much idea as to what would happen to the place. his thoughts were hardly what might be termed precisely coherent, but perhaps you can arrive at some kind of a guess at them.
the third thought was neither fair, nor poetical. it was summed up in the one short, pithy phrase,
“drat the man!”
by which token it will be seen that john had not yet recovered from his monday’s mood.
now, i don’t intend to attempt any detailed explanation as to why both john and father maloney had found themselves in this curious state of unwilling perturbation after one meeting with david delancey, but it is very certain that the perturbation had not only arrived, but remained.[pg 170] of course you will say sagely that it was the man’s personality, and equally of course you will be right. but what was there in his personality to cause this perturbation in two such entirely dissimilar minds? there’s the question! and i, for my part, can find no satisfactory verbal explanation of it. it is one thing to have the explanation in one’s mind, knowing the man; it is quite another to set it forth coherently in words. therefore i will content myself with your sage remark that it was his personality.
“drat him!” said john again.
and then he stopped short, looking towards the heather to his right
his attention had been attracted by a curious little mound of stones. now it is not in the least unusual to see stones lying on a moorland among the heather. but to john’s eye there was something unusual about these stones. they had unquestionably been placed there by human agency; they were not the haphazard arrangement of mere chance.
john went across the heather towards them. they were built up in a small rough circle; a large flat stone formed a kind of roof or lid to them. john bent towards the mound.
[pg 171]
a sound, a very slight sound, made him raise his head. there was no one in sight. he had the earth, as i have told you, to himself. only the wind whispered among the heather and grass, and rustled softly through the gorse bushes.
john went down on his knees and raised the flat stone. sheer idle curiosity prompted the action. he hadn’t the faintest expectation of seeing anything beneath. he peered within; and then gave vent to a tiny chuckle of amazed surprise. he put his hand within the circle of stones, and drew forth three objects,—firstly, a piece of green ribbon; secondly, a small, a very small, thimble; and thirdly, a rosary of red beads.
“oh, ho!” quoth he to himself, “if fairies have been at work here, they are catholic fairies, it would seem.”
he fitted the thimble on the top of his little finger, where it sat in an insecure and ludicrous position.
“a cache,” said john, “but whose?”
he looked before him down the sloping moorland. and now, far off, he descried a small black speck. the black speck was a figure. it was coming towards him.
[pg 172]
“there’s just the faintest conceivable chance,” said john.
he removed the thimble from its ridiculous position. he put it, the ribbon, and the rosary once more within their hiding-place, replaced the flat stone, and withdrew himself to a post of vantage, couched behind a gorse bush. therefrom he awaited possible developments.
as the black speck drew nearer, it defined itself as a girl child, some eleven years old or thereabouts. a gypsy-looking elf she was. coming nearer still, he saw that she was dark-haired, smutty-eyed. her head was uncovered; she was clad in a faded green frock; her brown legs were bare, her feet cased in old shoes. she was walking quickly; eagerness, expectation, were in her bearing. to john’s mind the possibility already resolved itself into something akin to certainty. the next moment he saw that his surmise had been correct.
she came straight across the heather to the small circle of stones, and went down on her knees beside it. the flat stone was pushed aside; the small brown hand dived within the circle.
“ah!”
[pg 173]
john heard the little gasp of pleasure.
she came to a sitting posture, the treasures gathered on to her lap. john saw her face plainly. the ribbon and thimble were examined with sheer and palpable delight. the rosary was handled gravely; there was the tiniest hint of question in the handling. then suddenly she lifted it to her lips. the next moment she was on her knees again, telling the beads devoutly.
“if,” quoth john to himself, “i am not much mistaken, ’tis that young limb of mischief, molly biddulph.”
and there she knelt in the sunshine, among the heather, looking, for all the world, a young, rapt devotee of prayer, the scarlet beads falling through her small brown fingers. her eyes were closed; her lips moved rapidly. here was matter for a poet’s pen; a subject for an artist’s brush. the soft wind stirred the dark hair on her forehead, the sun kissed her bronzed cheeks. a butterfly flitted to her shoulder, lighted a moment, circled round her head, and flew away.
coming to an end of her orisons, she made a great sign of the cross, got to her feet, and sped away down the hill, clutching her treasures tightly.
[pg 174]
john came from behind the gorse bush.
“well!” said he aloud.
“it might be called a pretty little scene,” said a voice behind him.
turning, amazed, he met a pair of laughing eyes, saw a white-robed figure, and two attendant knights.
“you!” quoth john.
she laughed.
“we were afraid, so dreadfully afraid, lest you should decamp with the treasures,” said she. “i had the greatest difficulty in restraining these two from rushing to the rescue.”
“i thought i heard a sound!” ejaculated john.
“it was me,” said michael. “i squeaked, but aunt rosamund held my mouf.”
“then,” said john, “you are the fairies?”
“it is our cache,” quoth antony magnificently.
“so i am beginning to perceive,” responded john. “but why, if i may ask without undue curiosity, is molly in the matter? i imagined it was molly. and, if all accounts be correct, she would appear hardly a subject for especial favours.”
[pg 175]
rosamund’s eyes danced. john had a mental image of sunlight suddenly sparkling on still waters.
“it is just,” she explained, “that she appears, as you say, hardly a subject for favours, that she gets them.”
“oh!” john was frankly a trifle bewildered by the explanation.
“it was tony’s idea,” smiled rosamund.
she had seated herself on the heather, and john had followed her example. the boys were some paces ahead of them, examining the cache.
“tony,” pursued rosamund, “discovered that pleasant anticipation is conducive to good behaviour. he solemnly assured me of the fact one day. therefore we—or, at least, i—conceived the idea of putting the theory to the test.”
“therefore,” said john, “you established a cache for molly.”
“we established a cache for molly,” echoed she. “we lured her to it in the most innocent way imaginable. of course she hasn’t the remotest notion as to who has established it. that would be to spoil the joy of it. it is the hint of secret magic about it that is half its delight. the contents[pg 176] are dependent on conduct, you understand. at least a fortnight’s exemplary behaviour brings the kind of reward you perceived today. often there may be merely a flower found. if the fairies are dissatisfied, i have known them to put a couple of snails within the cache.” again her eyes danced.
“brown pools that have caught and held a sunbeam,” thought john.
aloud he said ruminatively, “i wonder what becomes of the snails.”
rosamund gave a little shiver.
“i fear me,” said she, “that once at least, they were—squashed!”
“hum!” quoth john. “i have an idea that if i were seeking—say a rose, and found a snail instead, that the snail might possibly be subjected to a like fate.”
“but it wasn’t the poor snails’ fault,” she objected.
“we have frequently,” said john sententiously, “to suffer for the sins of others. if i might offer a suggestion, i would point out that the fairies’ displeasure might be equally well marked by coal, stones, or even a copybook maxim. how does [pg 177]‘be good and you’ll be happy,’ or ‘gifts are the reward of virtue,’ strike you?”
she shook her head.
“fairies,” she assured him, “never indulge in moral reflections. they merely act.”
“‘deeds, not words,’ being their motto,” laughed john. “but coal, now!”
“yes,” she conceded, “i think coal might answer our purpose.”
there was a little pause.
“to a mere casual observer,” remarked john reflectively, “the young person in question might have appeared an embryo saint. from which we perceive the truth of the adage that appearances are deceitful.”
“not in every case,” she retorted. “how do you know that she isn’t an embryo saint? very much in embryo, i’ll allow. oh, but there’s stuff in molly. but do you suppose she’s understood among the village folk? not a bit of it! it’s respectability they admire, wooden respectability.”
“hum,” said john.
“and molly isn’t wooden.”
“no,” acquiesced john fervently.
[pg 178]
rosamund laughed.
“and therefore,” she continued, “they see downright sin in her—well, her unwooden escapades. and they haven’t a notion, the faintest notion of her possibilities.”
“as either sinner or saint,” suggested john.
“well, there’s the stuff for either there,” she agreed.
“i own,” said john somewhat irrelevantly, “that there’s a certain attraction in sinners.”
“of course there is,” she retorted, “if it’s brilliant enough sinning. it’s the personality that attracts, though the material has run off the rails. only people so often make the mistake of contrasting brilliant sinning with commonplace goodness. if you want your contrasts, you should place commonplace goodness alongside commonplace sinning—pettiness, meanness, drunkenness, hateful little detractions, and all the rest of the sordid category. and then put brilliant sinning alongside the impetuous ardour of st. peter, or the mystic sweetness of st. john.”
“you speak sagely,” quoth john. “it is, i fear, a matter of contrasts which one is extremely apt to overlook.”
[pg 179]
again there fell a little silence. and the birds twittered, and the sun shone, and the butterflies flitted over the heather, and a thousand words rose to john’s lips, only to remain unspoken, because the time had somehow leaped to about a million of years ahead. it was not the moment, he knew it was not the moment, and yet—and yet— well, at any rate she was there beside him on the heather. the faintest scent of perfume—violets, perhaps? came to him from her garments. for all his outward calm, for all his level, easy, careless voice, his heart was in a tumult.
“you and mr. elmore are dining with us tonight,” she reminded him on a sudden.
“i had not forgotten.” john’s voice was full of assurance.
“you know,” quoth she tentatively, “that you are to meet—sir david delancey.” there had been the fraction of a pause before the name.
“i know,” said john, his eyes clouding.
“my grandmother felt it might ease the situation,” she explained. there was a sudden little note of confidence in the words. “a dinner en famille might be, indeed must be, a trifle difficult.”
“i quite understand.”
[pg 180]
she pulled at a sprig of heather.
“father maloney has seen him,” she said abruptly. “he—he seems favourably impressed.”
“i, too, have seen him,” owned john. it was not altogether easy to make the statement.
“you!” she was frankly surprised.
he gave her a brief account of the meeting.
“and—and he was passable?”
“oh,” said john grudgingly, honesty forcing the truth from him, “he is really quite a decent fellow.”
she glanced up quickly, understanding his tone.
“you would rather,” said she, “dislike him quite frankly.”
“you have stated the case,” said john.
“i quite understand,” she nodded.
and then antony and michael came towards them from the cache. the two on the heather bestirred themselves.
