“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 [pg 114]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[pg 115] 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.

“and what manner of man may a new man be?” demanded father maloney.

antony knitted his brows.

“mr. mortimer was a new man on wednesday,” quoth he serious. “mr. elmore is the newest of all.”

[pg 116]

“ah!” said father maloney, his eyes twinkling, “now we see daylight. and what was this other new man doing in the park at all?”

“i think,” quoth antony solemn, “he was trying to look at the castle, but he didn’t want any one to see him. least i don’t think he did.”

“hum!” said father maloney. “what makes you think that?”

“’cos,” said antony calmly, “when i said ‘hullo,’ he jumped an’ said ‘great snakes!’ i told him,” he continued carefully, “that there weren’t any snakes in the park. least not big ones anyway. an’ he said he hadn’t concluded there were. he’d said ‘great snakes!’ ’cos i made him jump. s’pose it was same as biddy says ‘saints alive!’ an’ you say ‘glory be to god!’”

father maloney looked down the table at lady mary. the glance was a trifle grim.

“did he say anything else?” asked lady mary in a level voice.

“he asked me who i was. an’ i told him my name was antony joseph delancey. an’ he said he reckoned i was the owner of the place. an’ i said no, it was granny’s place now, but [pg 117]i was going to have it when i was a man. an’ he said, ‘oh, you are, are you?’ an’ then he whistled.”

there was a little curious silence. as we calculate time it endured, perhaps, not longer than two or three seconds, yet to john it seemed interminable. it was broken by antony’s voice, pursuing his reminiscences the while he was busy with roast chicken and bread sauce.

“he talked quite a lot,” pursued antony, cheerfully reflective. “he asked me how old i was, an’ how long i’d lived here, an’ if i liked it. an’ he wanted to know why we had a chapel built on to the castle, an’ he said he hadn’t been inside a church for years, ’cos there weren’t any churches where he lived, an’ when he came into a town he felt like a fish out of water if he went inside one. an’ he lives in a house that hasn’t got any stairs, an’ there’s mountains round it, an’ there’s baboons what come down from the mountains to steal the mealies. mealies are indian corn, he says. an’ he says lilies grow in the ditches in his country, an’ great tall flowers grow in his garden,—i don’t remember the name,—an’ wild canaries fly about among them. an’ he [pg 118]says the sunshine out there is all hot an’ gold, an’ the shadows are blue as blue. an’ he says we don’t know what sunshine is in england, ’cos even when it’s sunny it’s like a gauze veil hung over the sun. an’ he’s shot leopards, an’ little tiny deer, an’ killed big snakes. an’ he asked me honest injun what i thought about him, an’ i said i liked him. an’ he said perhaps i wouldn’t like him very long. an’ i said ‘why?’ an’ he laughed, an’ shook hands, an’ went away. an’ that,” concluded antony with satisfaction, “is all.”

again there fell a little silence. it was probably infinitely more poignant to john than to the other members of the luncheon table. that is the worst of being possessed of a sensitive and imaginative temperament. your suffering is invariably duplex. you suffer for yourself and the other, or others, as the case may be. and, in suffering for others, your imagination, as often as not, passes the bounds of actualities, for the very excellent reason that you possess no real knowledge to bring it to a halt.

corin, though certainly less imaginative, felt the slight tension. he leaped to break it, in a [pg 119]manner highly praiseworthy, if slightly abrupt. what his remark was precisely, john did not fully grasp, but it certainly had his work in the church for a foundation. the leap taken, he burbled joyously, expounding, theorizing. there was no egotistical note in his expounding. after all, as he assured them, the work was not his. he was, in a manner of speaking, but a digger, a scraper. the fact left him free to be enthusiastic at will, and enthusiastic he veritably was.

possibly mere politeness first urged three of the elder members of the party to suitable rejoinders. i omit john from the number. later they may have been fired by corin’s exceeding enthusiasm. be that as it may, the tension was distinctly relieved. conversation flowed easily, smoothly. dessert had been reached before it was suddenly jerked back to dangerous quarters.

“i wonder,” said antony, surveying a bunch of raisins on his plate, “who he is?” there was, you can guess, no need for a more detailed explanation.

“i think,” said lady mary quietly, “it was sir david delancey.”

it was out now. the words were spoken. [pg 120]to john, they somehow struck the last nail in the coffin of his hopes.

“same name as us?” queried an astonished antony.

“yes,” said lady mary.

“i liked him,” said antony cheerfully. “do you s’pose he’s staying here? do you s’pose i shall see him again?”

john caught his breath. once more there was the fraction of a pause, a little tense silence.

then came lady mary’s well-bred voice.

“i think you will see him again. i shall ask him to come and see the castle before long.”

john looked up, amazed.