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. 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 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 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 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.