Part 13 (2/2)

There was a lazy Sundayish atmosphere about the village as Antony pa.s.sed through it, with Josephus now at his heels. Men lounged by cottage doors, women gossiped across garden fences. The only beings with an object in view appeared to be children,--crimp-haired little girls, and stiffly-suited small boys, who walked in chattering groups in the direction of a building he rightly judged to be a Sunday-school.

A little farther on, a priest was standing by the door of a small barn-like-looking place with a cross at one end. Antony vaguely supposed it to be a church, and thought, also vaguely, that it was the oddest-looking one he had ever seen. He concluded that Byestry was too small to boast a larger edifice.

On reaching the quay he turned to the right, walking along a cobbled pavement, which presently sloped down to the beach and a narrow stretch of firm smooth sand, bordered by brown rocks and the sea on one side, and a towering cliff on the other. The tide was going down, leaving the brown rocks uncovered. Among them were small crystal pools, reflecting the blue of the sky as in a mirror. Sea spleenwort and ma.s.ses of samphire grew on the cliffs to his right. No danger here to the would-be samphire gatherer; it could be plucked from the safety of solid earth, with as great ease as picking up sh.e.l.ls from the beach.

After some half hour's walking, Antony turned a corner, bringing him to a yet lonelier beach. Looking back, he found Byestry shut from his view,--the cliffs behind him, the sea before him, the sky above him, stretches of sand around him, and himself alone, save for Josephus, and sea-gulls which dipped to the water or circled in the blue, and jackdaws which cried harshly from the cliffs.

He sat down on the sand, and began to fill his pipe. It was extraordinarily lonely, extraordinarily peaceful. There was no sinister note in the loneliness such as he had experienced in the vast s.p.a.ces of the African veldt, but a reposefulness, a quiet rest which appealed to him. The very blueness of the sky and sparkle of the suns.h.i.+ne was tender after the brazen glitter of the African sun. Turning to look behind him, he saw that here the cliff was gra.s.s-covered, sloping almost to the beach, and among the gra.s.s, hiding its green, were countless bluebells, a sheet of s.h.i.+mmering colour. Two lines of Tennyson's came suddenly into his mind.

And the whole isle side flas.h.i.+ng down with never a tree Swept like a torrent of gems from the sky to the blue of the sea.

The island of flowers and the island of silence in one, he felt the place to be, and no fear of fighting, with himself as sole inhabitant. So might the islands have been after Maeldune had renounced his purpose of revenge, after he had returned from the isle of the saint who had spoken words of peace.

He lost count of time. A pleasant waking drowsiness fell upon him, till at length, seeing that the sun had reached its zenith, he realized that it must be noon, and began to consider the advisability of retracing his steps.

He got to his feet, whistling to a white speck in the distance, which he rightly judged to be Josephus, and set out on his homeward route.

The village appeared deserted, as he once more reached it. Doubtless the Sunday dinner, which accounts so largely for Sunday sleepiness, was in progress.

Coming to the small barn-like-looking building which he had noticed earlier in the morning, and seeing that the door was open, he looked in.

The air was heavy with the scent of incense. It needed only a moment's observation to tell him that he was in a Catholic church. A curtained tabernacle stood on the little altar, before which hung a ruby lamp. The building was too small to allow of two altars, but at one side was a statue of Our Lady, the base surrounded with flowers, since it was the month of May. Near the porch was a statue of St. Peter.

Antony looked curiously around. It was the third time only that he had entered a Catholic church, the second time being at Teneriffe with the d.u.c.h.essa. Ordering Josephus to stay without, he walked up the little aisle, and sat down in one of the rush-seated chairs near the sanctuary.

He hadn't a notion what prompted the impulse, but he knew that some impulse was at work.

He looked towards the sanctuary. Ma.s.s had been said not long since, and the chalice covered with the veil and burse was still on the altar.

Antony hadn't a notion of even the first principles of the Catholic faith, not as much as the smallest Catholic child; but he felt here, in a measure, the same sense of home as he knew the d.u.c.h.essa to have felt in the church at Teneriffe. Oddly enough he did not feel himself the least an intruder. There was almost a sense of welcome.

From looking at the altar he looked at the chairs, and the small oblong pieces of pasteboard fastened to their backs. He looked down at the piece which denoted the owner of the chair in which he was sitting. And then he found himself staring at it, while his heart leaped and thumped madly. On the pasteboard four words were written,--The d.u.c.h.essa di Donatello.

He gazed at the words hardly able to believe the sight of his own eyes.

What odd coincidence, what odd impulse had brought him to her very chair?

It was extraordinary, unbelievable almost. And then another thought flashed into his brain, making his heart stand still.

A door to the left opened, and a priest came out. He looked momentarily at Antony, then went into the sanctuary, genuflected, took the covered chalice from the altar, genuflected again, and went back into the sacristy, leaving the door partly open.

Antony got suddenly to his feet. He went towards the sacristy. The priest, hearing the sound of steps, opened the door wide.

”Excuse me,” said Antony, ”but can you tell me where Woodleigh is?” His Irish brogue was forgotten.

”Certainly,” replied the priest. ”It is about two miles from here, inland.” He looked rather curiously at the man, who, though labourer by his dress, yet spoke in an obviously refined voice. He waited, perhaps expecting some further question.

”That was all I wanted to know,” said Antony. ”Thank you.” He turned back into the church.

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