and beyond all hung a pale blue arch of sky with a few voyaging clouds
like silvered wool, and the calm wide curves of stubble field and
pasture land. He stood with vacant eyes, not in the least aware how
queer a figure he made with his gloves and his umbrella and his hat
among the stained and tottering gravestones. Then, just to linger out his
hour, and half sunken in reverie, he walked slowly over to the few
solitary graves beneath the cypresses.
One only was commemorated with a tombstone, a rather unusual
oval-headed stone, carved at each corner into what might be the heads
of angels, or of pagan dryads, blindly facing each other with worn-out,
sightless faces. A low curved granite canopy arched over the grave,
with a crevice so wide between its stones that Lawford actually bent
down and slid in his gloved fingers between them. He straightened
himself with a sigh, and followed with extreme difficulty the well-nigh,
illegible inscription:
'Here lie ye Bones of one, Nicholas Sabathier, a Stranger to this Parish,
who fell by his own Hand on ye Eve of Ste. Michael and All Angels.
MDCCXXXIX
Of the date he was a little uncertain. The 'Hand' had lost its 'n' and 'd';
and all the 'Angels' rain had erased. He was not quite sure even of the
'Stranger.' There was a great rich 'S,' and the twisted tail of a 'g' ; and,
whether or not, Lawford smilingly thought, he is no Stranger now. But
how rare and how memorable a name! French evidently; probably
Huguenot. And the Huguenots, he remembered vaguely, were a rather
remarkable 'crowd.' He had, he thought, even played at 'Huguenots'
once. What was the man's name? Coligny; yes, of course, Coligny.
'And I suppose,' Lawford continued, muttering to himself, 'I suppose
this poor beggar was put here out of the way. They might, you know,'
he added confidentially, raising the ferrule of his umbrella, 'they might
have stuck a stake through you, and buried you at the crossroads.' And
again, a feeling of ennui, a faint disgust at his poor little witticism,
clouded over his mind. It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest
way, like water in old ditches.
'"Here lie ye bones of one, Nicholas Sabathier,"' he began murmuring
again--'merely bones, mind you; brains and heart are quite another
story. And it's pretty certain the fellow had some kind of brains.
Besides, poor devil! he killed himself. That seems to hint at brains... Oh,
for goodness' sake!' he cried out; so loud that the sound of his voice
alarmed even a robin that had perched on a twig almost within touch,
with glittering eye intent above its dim red breast on this other and even
rarer stranger.
'I wonder if it is XXXIX.; it might be LXXIX.' Lawford cast a cautious
glance over his round grey shoulder, then laboriously knelt down
beside the stone, and peeped into the gaping cranny. There he
encountered merely the tiny, pale-green, faintly conspicuous eyes of a
large spider, confronting his own. It was for the moment an alarming,
and yet a faintly fascinating experience. The little almost colourless
fires remained so changeless. But still, even when at last they had
actually vanished into the recesses of that quiet habitation, Lawford did
not rise from his knees. An utterly unreasonable feeling of dismay, a
sudden weakness and weariness had come over him.
'What is the good of it all?' he asked himself inconsequently-- this
monotonous, restless, stupid life to which he was soon to be returning,
and for good. He began to realize how ludicrous a spectacle he must be,
kneeling here amid the weeds and grass beneath the solemn cypresses.
'Well, you can't have everything,' seemed loosely to express his
disquiet.
He stared vacantly at the green and fretted gravestone, dimly aware that
his heart was beating with an unusual effort. He felt ill and weak. He
leant his hand on the stone and lifted himself on to the low wooden seat
nearby. He drew off his glove and thrust his bare hand under his
waistcoat, with his mouth a little ajar, and his eyes fixed on the dark
square turret, its bell sharply defined against the evening sky.
'Dead!' a bitter inward voice seemed to break into speech; 'Dead!' The
viewless air seemed to be flocking with hidden listeners. The very
clearness and the crystal silence were their ambush. He alone seemed to
be the target of cold and hostile scrutiny. There was not a breath to
breathe in this crisp, pale sunshine. It was all too rare, too thin. The
shadows lay like wings everlastingly folded. The robin that had been
his only living witness lifted its throat, and broke, as if from the
uttermost outskirts of reality,
Continue reading on your phone by scaning this QR Code
Tip: The current page has been bookmarked automatically. If you wish to continue reading later, just open the
Dertz Homepage, and click on the 'continue reading' link at the bottom of the page.