The Man Whom the Trees Loved | Page 7

and God is always near to those
who need His aid." The words slipped out before she realized quite
what she was saying, yet fortunately, in time to lower her voice, for no
one heard them. They were, perhaps, an instinctive expression of relief.
It flustered her that she could have said the thing at all.
Sanderson brought her shawl and helped to arrange the chairs; she
thanked him in her old-fashioned, gentle way, declining the lamps
which he had offered to light. "They attract the moths and insects so, I
think!"
The three of them sat there in the gloaming. Mr. Bittacy's white
moustache and his wife's yellow shawl gleaming at either end of the
little horseshoe, Sanderson with his wild black hair and shining eyes
midway between them. The painter went on talking softly, continuing
evidently the conversation begun with his host beneath the cedar. Mrs.
Bittacy, on her guard, listened--uneasily.
"For trees, you see, rather conceal themselves in daylight. They reveal
themselves fully only after sunset. I never know a tree," he bowed here
slightly towards the lady as though to apologize for something he felt
she would not quite understand or like, "until I've seen it in the night.
Your cedar, for instance," looking towards her husband again so that
Mrs. Bittacy caught the gleaming of his turned eyes, "I failed with
badly at first, because I did it in the morning. You shall see to-morrow
what I mean--that first sketch is upstairs in my portfolio; it's quite
another tree to the one you bought. That view"--he leaned forward,
lowering his voice--"I caught one morning about two o'clock in very
faint moonlight and the stars. I saw the naked being of the thing--"
"You mean that you went out, Mr. Sanderson, at that hour?" the old
lady asked with astonishment and mild rebuke. She did not care
particularly for his choice of adjectives either.
"I fear it was rather a liberty to take in another's house, perhaps," he
answered courteously. "But, having chanced to wake, I saw the tree
from my window, and made my way downstairs."

"It's a wonder Boxer didn't bit you; he sleeps loose in the hall," she
said.
"On the contrary. The dog came out with me. I hope," he added, "the
noise didn't disturb you, though it's rather late to say so. I feel quite
guilty." His white teeth showed in the dusk as he smiled. A smell of
earth and flowers stole in through the window on a breath of wandering
air.
Mrs. Bittacy said nothing at the moment. "We both sleep like tops," put
in her husband, laughing. "You're a courageous man, though,
Sanderson, and, by Jove, the picture justifies you. Few artist would
have taken so much trouble, though I read once that Holman Hunt,
Rossetti, or some one of that lot, painted all night in his orchard to get
an effect of moonlight that he wanted."
He chattered on. His wife was glad to hear his voice; it made her feel
more easy in her mind. But presently the other held the floor again, and
her thoughts grew darkened and afraid. Instinctively she feared the
influence on her husband. The mystery and wonder that lie in woods, in
forests, in great gatherings of trees everywhere, seemed so real and
present while he talked.
"The Night transfigures all things in a way," he was saying; "but
nothing so searchingly as trees. From behind a veil that sunlight hangs
before them in the day they emerge and show themselves. Even
buildings do that--in a measure--but trees particularly. In the daytime
they sleep; at night they wake, they manifest, turn active--live. You
remember," turning politely again in the direction of his hostess, "how
clearly Henley understood that?"
"That socialist person, you mean?" asked the lady. Her tone and accent
made the substantive sound criminal. It almost hissed, the way she
uttered it.
"The poet, yes," replied the artist tactfully, "the friend of Stevenson,
you remember, Stevenson who wrote those charming children's
verses."
He quoted in a low voice the lines he meant. It was, for once, the time,
the place, and the setting all together. The words floated out across the
lawn towards the wall of blue darkness where the big Forest swept the
little garden with its league-long curve that was like the shore-line of a
sea. A wave of distant sound that was like surf accompanied his voice,

as though the wind was fain to listen too:
Not to the staring Day, For all the importunate questionings he pursues
In his big, violent voice, Shall those mild things of bulk and multitude,
The trees--God's sentinels ... Yield of their huge, unutterable selves But
at the word Of the ancient, sacerdotal Night, Night of many secrets,
whose effect-- Transfiguring, hierophantic, dread--