Two minutes later, Mrs. Trimwell having departed, he betook himself to a careful re-perusal of that pale grey letter.
CHAPTER XIII
AT DELANCEY CASTLE
“I saw a new man in the park today.”
This statement, clear, emphatic, came from Antony’s lips. Sheer courtesy had suppressed it long enough to allow of Father Maloney’s saying grace, then it had shot forth, somewhat after the manner of a stone from a catapult.
The hour was one of the clock; the place was the dining hall at Delancey Castle. John, on entering it, had swept it with a comprehensive glance. It was old-world, supremely, superbly old-world. He had taken in the atmosphere in one delicious draught.
It was a dark place, oak-panelled, yet, so he assured himself, it was utterly devoid of grimness. It was mellow, harmonious, softly shadowed. High up on the oak walls, set against their darkness, were splashes of colour,—shields of the houses with which the Delanceys had married. Over the great fireplace was the Delancey shield itself, Arg. a pile azure between six and charged with three escallops counterchanged. The sunlight fell through long casement windows, patterning the floor with diamond-shaped splotches of gold. At one end of the hall were two steps leading to a little arched door. Through this you entered the chapel. At the other end was the minstrels’ gallery. John could fancy it peopled with musicians, heard in imagination the soft strains of the harp and lute.
The table, uncovered, shone with the polishing of generations; silver, glass, and red roses, were reflected in its glossy surface. At one end sat Lady Mary. Her white hair, covered with lace, cobwebby, filmy, was backgrounded by the darkness of her chair. Facing her was Rosamund, white-robed, lovely, cordial. Opposite to John was Corin flanked on either side by Antony and Michael; on his right was Father Maloney.
To John’s mind, he and Corin alone brought the twentieth century into the dark old place; yet, bringing it, they failed to destroy the abiding atmosphere. Of course the other five at the table did not date back to their setting itself,—they were somewhere about eighteenth century he conjectured,—but they linked on without a break to the remoter ages; his thoughts ran smoothly from them to the past. In a word, they and their setting “belonged,” and that, to him, summed up the whole essence of harmony. He felt himself in a new old world,—new to him, and yet old as Time itself. The day was centuries old, caught out of the forgotten past, set down, sweet, fragrant with memories, into the midst of this twentieth century. And the twentieth century with all its movement, with all its modern innovations, fell away from him, dissolved, vanished like fog wreaths before the sun.
“I saw a new man in the park today.”
The remark dropped into the harmony like a pebble into a still lake. Why the simile presented itself to his mind at the moment, John could not have told you; nevertheless it did present itself.