When those twenty-four hours in which Ralph Campion was to vanish were ended, he came wandering, hatless, over the green-brown fields in the drenching rain; he was soaked to the skin, but he did not seem to know this. He asked to see his superior and elder, who was even then in serious consultation with his father-in-law and employer. When this man, Mr. Warrener, heard Ralph Campion was there he was glad. He was a plain dealing person, and he thought when people did wrong and were found out it was good for them to be punished. His son-in-law on the other hand was sorry and alarmed.
“Show Mr. Campion in,” said the older of the two men who were discussing Ralph Campion’s sins. Mr. Campion came in, dripping. He smiled, greeted his hosts, and tried to explain what had happened and why he had not vanished. The two listeners looked at each other silently; to do the younger of the twain justice he seemed to be shocked and dismayed. There was a pause. The elder laid his hand on Ralph Campion’s shoulder: “Sit down, Campion,” he said gently. “Sit down and keep quiet. You’re dripping wet, you know; you’ll be ill, you must see the doctor. I’ll send for him at once. There’s no need for you to worry about anything.” Then he drew his son-in-law out of earshot.
“This must be hushed up,” he whispered. “You see what’s happened to him. He’s off his head. Didn’t you see it yesterday? Where are his people? They must be sent for, and the doctor too. I’ll telephone to him at once. Whether this is a cause or an effect I don’t know. Be charitable and assume the first. Anyway we will say nothing; he’s not responsible for what he did.”
It was more of a truth than he knew. The other man, white as a sheet, assented eagerly.
Certain superstitious folk of Celtic blood said that the son of the sorrowful, patient little old widow who lived with his mother in the small grey house on the windswept hill above the churchyard, had wandered in the “gentle places” whence no man ever returns to the human habitations; only the bodily seeming of such a man comes back; he is away with the “good people”; at night he dances in their mystic rings and makes merry with them in the heart of the hills. This, they said, was the case with Ralph Campion, for he had the look of eternal childhood on his face and the fairy fire was in his eyes. But they were wrong; it was with him, as the Willow-weaver said; the Cradle Song of the Children of the Lake of Peace would not wholly leave his ears, and because he could not recall nor sing it perfectly he wandered bewildered, trying vainly to interpret its broken snatches, with labouring brain and longing, breaking heart.
THE BENDING OF THE TWIG
Early in the morning of the hot July day there had been a sea-mist, and the fog lay on the horizon like a rolled banner gleaming with ineffable tints of opalescent purple. The glassy sea was purest blue, save where the shimmering paths of the currents shone silver-white or where the lap and fret of waves at the cliff foot made the water pink with Devon earth. The weed on the rocks glowed orange-brown in the dazzling light, and the dark line of the low-flying shag gave the only sombre touch to the brilliant hues of land, sea, and sky. The turf sweet with the breath of wild thyme, and studded with pale yellow rock rose, crept well-nigh to the water’s edge. Here a hundred years ago the sea had claimed tribute of the earth, and a big landslip rent the bosom of the patient mother. Half a mile of cliff had fallen, and in the chasm thus made, now filled full with greenery and prodigal growth of fern, bramble, and berry, a long white house stood sun-bathed and creeper-clad.
A little spring sprang seawards from the cliff, tinkling in a baby waterfall down grey rocks splashed with orange lichen, and forming in a small crystal pool ere it ran on to lose itself in the greyish-white sand of the shore.
By this little pool sat three children: two flaxen-haired girls and a small dark-haired grey-eyed boy. The girls lay on the ground; their chins resting on their clasped hands, their eyes round, blue, and awestruck. The boy knelt stiffly on the verge of the pool, his eyes looking straight out over the sea, his hands linked behind his head. He was a slim little child with a small pale face, delicate irregular features, and long-lashed grey eyes.