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 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 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.
“Oh,” said Rosamund perceiving him. And she stopped, half hesitating.
John made her a little courtly bow.