His heart beat high as he walked up the hill. Of course he was doing the right and obvious thing. It would be absurd to wait till next week to pay the visit. The day after tomorrow! How could such a delay be contemplated? It would have been impossible, unthinkable.
The eighth meeting! And surely there must follow the ninth and the tenth, and heaven alone knew how many more. And which, which, WHICH would be The Meeting? Of course it was absolutely absurd to surmise on this point. It was impossible to fix the moment beforehand. To come, as John would have it to come, it must be almost inspirational, heaven-sent. It couldn’t be arranged, planned. It couldn’t be calculated over, preconceived. But—and here John’s spirits went down to zero with a sudden run—would it ever come? Wasn’t he a presumptuous ass even to dream of such a moment as possible? or—granting the moment—to dream of its fruition? Wouldn’t it be nipped in the bud instantly? frozen to a mere shrivelled atom of a miserable moment? John shivered at the thought. Then consolation took him kindly by the hand. At all events here was the eighth meeting, with the moment not yet even in bud. Who could tell as to that budding?
And so he turned into the avenue.
He passed under the oaks and copper beeches, the roadway now dappled with gold among shadows, as the sunlight penetrated the branches overhead. To the right, in the distance, were undulating stretches of moorland. He fancied he could descry the silver-stemmed birch he had seen on his first morning’s walk. Before him he had a view of smooth green lawns, of brilliant flowerbeds, backgrounded by the old grey Castle itself. To the left the parkland sloped gently upwards to a wood of beeches,—a serene, cool, silent place, a veritable haunt of dryads.
Between the avenue and the wood was a great oak tree, stretching wide branches above the rough grass. Rumour had it that here was the scene of that old-time tragedy. Though unknowing of this rumour, John yet felt something almost sinister about the twisted, gnarled branches, and massive trunk of the great tree. There was a hint of secrecy about it, the dumb knowledge of some tragedy. Almost involuntarily he turned across the grass towards it.
There was no question as to its great age. For generations it must have stood there, weathering storm and sunshine. Some seven feet or so from the ground there was a hole in the trunk, large enough to admit of the passage of a man’s head. Scanning the hole, John noticed a rusty nail at one side. He wondered, idly enough, why it had been placed there. From the hole, he glanced up at the branches. Truly there was something almost sinister in the great limbs. They were distorted, twisted, as if in agony. Again he had the unreasoning sensation of secrecy. It was an extraordinary sensation, an absurd sensation.
He could fancy the spirit of the tree striving to find expression in speech. There was a curious feeling that somewhere, just beyond, in the spirit world, perhaps, there was the key to some riddle. It was an almost impalpable feeling; he barely realized it; only somewhere, in his deepest inner consciousness, it stirred slightly.
Below the tree was a small mound. Rumour also had it that here Gelert, the wolf-hound, faithful as his ancient namesake, was buried. Again, John had had no hint of this rumour. But he looked at the mound with curiosity. Then, suddenly, he threw off the slight oppression that was upon him, retraced his steps to the avenue.
Arrived at the big door, John pulled the bell, a twisted iron thing whose voice sounded faintly in some remote region. The door was opened, and John saw into the hall, dark and shadowed. He had a glimpse of bowls of roses, of a big straw hat lying on a table, green chiffon around the crown. A pair of long crinkled gloves lay near it. So, for an instant, John stood, his foot ready to cross the threshold.