William Jordan, Junior

by J. C. Snaith

“Nature’s mandate, my father,” said the young man, with his secret and beautiful smile.

XLIII

As William Jordan went forth of the little room and took his ways, the east had still no more than a few faint grey flecks, which were hardly more than vaunt-couriers of the hues of dawn. Into the ruck of the streets he took his way. He plunged into them headlong, without calculation, without attempting to discriminate. Yet there was neither hurry of the flesh nor of the spirit; both were rational, temperate, responsible.

The rain had ceased; but the black pavements were slippery and unwholesome, and there was the stench of a thousand drains. Street after street he passed through at the same regulated pace, which was neither slow nor fast. Rows upon rows of houses which he had never seen before came into view; and at last, as all the sky was bright with the new day, he saw the green lanes, and began to taste the pure woodland airs.

As soon as he knew himself to be free of the great city, he left the highways and struck a direct course across the green fields. Over the hedgerows and across the pastures he bent his steps; across morasses and through tangled places, not knowing nor desiring to know whither; past hamlets with thatched roofs, and crooked rustic churches; past farm steadings; past stately mansions; over upland and fen, until the sun had reached its zenith in the heavens. He then sat on the hospitable earth, and for a space rested his weariness on the fringe of a green wood, in a dry warm place, under a splendid tree, alive with sap and the melody of birds.

When again he went his way the sun was still high in the April heaven, though pursuing a steady track towards the west. The wayfarer followed it in a straight line, over hedgerow and pasture, sometimes crossing a brook with his naked feet; at other times leaping a ditch, or breaking through barriers of thorn and timber which seemed insurmountable.

The wayfarer paid no heed to the miles that he made. As the light of the sun began to fail, he found himself upon the wealds and uplands, with the generous sweet-smelling earth ever beneath him. The evening airs seemed to blow with a sharper sweetness; the houses and hamlets grew fewer, yet nature’s spontaneity grew ever richer and more rare.

When it was almost dark he reached a little and solitary house on the edge of a great wood. It seemed to be interminable, and full of pungent yet delicately odorous trees. He knocked at the door of the little house. His summons was answered by an old woman in a grey shawl; and for a penny she gave him a cake of bread and a cup of water. He drank the water like one who thirsts; and then he bore his limbs, which now ached with weariness, into the gloomy precincts of the wood. Groping about in the darkness, he found a dry and sheltered place amid the fresh flowering furze; and here, with his head propped against the bole of a young pine, he ate his food slowly, and then straightway fell into a profound sleep.

When he awoke the sky was alive with beautiful stars. With all of these he was familiar. He rose; and by the delicate light of the heavens, which melted the dark canopies above him, pressed through the brakes and thickets into the heart of the forest. Many were the nimble-footed wild creatures that crossed his path, and in the darkness startled him; he was sensible all about him of weird cries and wonderful voices; they came upon him from every side; but he still pressed on and on into the untrodden darkness of the wood. In his progress his garments were rent and his hands bled freely.

In the process of time, the pathlessness which confronted him everywhere grew less impenetrable. The dawn crept again into the east, the birds took up their loud songs, and flowers and herbs and all the wild things of nature were spread before him in the morning light.