“My dear Watson,” I hear the arch-detective saying, “the simplest of crimes are always the most difficult to fathom.” I think it would have puzzled the smartest of plain-clothes men had he followed us on our marvelous way from Kingston back to Kingston, or from Kingston the second time to Hampton Court.
“Onward to Hampton,” said I. “We cannot tell what joys await us there.” We went into Bushey Park, thus infringing one of our own rules, but there was an excellent road going through, and we liked to see the deer grazing near us, like cows. Fortune led us into Hampton, that gay and lively river town, and from Hampton we wandered among gray reservoirs and green embankments to Sunbury. Possibly Fate intervened to punish us for our refusal to pass over Kingston Bridge, for soon we found ourselves clinging to the Thames. It was March by now. The blackthorn was in bloom, the japonica and the almond were in blossom, the celandine was in bud, and birds were singing everywhere. At Ashford there were lots of daffodils, and I remember we passed the girls of the High School all walking in crocodile and looking very frisky and fresh, despite the primness of the teacher.
We came to the pretty and rural village of Laleham, Arnold’s village, with its old church with thickly ivied tower, ancient yew trees, and graves of the Arnolds and of the village. There were two goodly inns, the Turk’s Head, the Three Horseshoes. At the latter we had tea, and we learned that Arnold’s house had been pulled down and the present National School had been made with the bricks.
We walked along the towing path once more, but it was now a full, rushing river and was often in flood, well over the bank. The Thames had a wild aspect, reflecting livid clouds. An icy gale whipped the stream. There was a rush of snow, and the storm raged across the whiteness of the horizon like smoke. We sheltered in the coping of deserted river houses, and in order to make progress when the storm abated were obliged to walk on the iron rungs of railings. Even so, we did not escape many a bootful. In this way we passed Penton Hook, and reached, fairly and truly, Staines, one of the bright capitals of Father Thames’ kingdom.
At Staines we took the bridge, or rather the bridge took us over to the other side of the river where we waded all the way to Runnymede and Magna Carta Island—the way all Kings evidently have to go. But we signed no charter of rights. Had we worn crowns we stood in more likelihood of imitating that other remarkable feat of King John, by losing our symbols of royalty in the flood. We were slaves of the road, and the road led us into the water. I think we should have got to Windsor Castle and might conceivably have called on the King himself, the latest after King John, but the water gods intervened, or Pan had other things in view. For I was warped, we were warped away to Egham and Virginia Water. I was able to call on my artist friend, Helen Cross, who at that time lived at Egham and was doing the emblems for my idealistic first novel Priest of the Ideal; a joyous surprise visit, for I could not tell her in advance that I was coming. I did not know whether the zigzag way led to her gate. However, many nice people and some others are on the zigzag path in the jig-saw puzzle of life.
We went from Egham to Thorpe Green and Englefield Green. We went down Prune Hill and to Whitehall Farm and the length of many a longish country road. It’s a long lane that has no turning; in fact we were often comforted by that proverb and never found it disproved. All roads in England, except the horrible cul-de-sacs (which, pray you, avoid) have turnings to the left or to the right, according to the heart or consonant to the reason. The crookedest has some reason in it, and even the worst, though it has a way in, has also a way out.
From Virginia Water the zigzag way leads on to Kennaquhair, and further to a place which I have sometimes heard called the “back of beyond.” At the same time, it may be said that you will not know the name of the place until you get there. You can put no destination label on your rucksack, and if any one asks where you are going, you may tell him in confidence, whisper the dreadful fact in his ear—“honestly, you do not know.” The adventure is not getting there, it’s the on-the-way. It is not the expected; it is the surprise; not the fulfillment of prophecy, but the providence of something better than that prophesied. You are not choosing what you shall see in the world, but are giving the world an even chance to see you.
I am still on that zigzag way, pursuing the diagonal between the reason and the heart; the chart could be made by drawing lines from star to star in the night sky, not forgetting many dim, shy, fitfully glimmering out-of-the-way stars, which one would not purpose visiting. I said we would not enter a maze, but we have made one and are in one, a maze of Andalusia and Dalmatia, of Anahuac and Anatolia, of Seven Rivers Land and Seven Kings. The first to the left, the next to the right! No blind alleys. A long way. Beaucoup zigzag, eh!
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes: