The Trees of PrideChesterton, G. K. (Gilbert Keith)
General
The Trees of Pride
Chesterton, G. K. (Gilbert Keith)
Murder -- Fiction; Mystery fiction
“I hope you haven’t been shipwrecked much,” replied his host, smiling.
“I fancy Jake here can look after you very well.”
Mr. Paynter looked across at the boatman and smiled also. “I am afraid,”
he said, “our friend is not quite so enthusiastic for this landscape as
I am.”
“Oh, the trees, I suppose!” said the Squire wearily.
The boatman was by normal trade a fisherman; but as his house, built of
black tarred timber, stood right on the foreshore a few yards from the
pier, he was employed in such cases as a sort of ferryman. He was a big,
black-browed youth generally silent, but something seemed now to sting
him into speech.
“Well, sir,” he said, “everybody knows it’s not natural. Everybody
knows the sea blights trees and beats them under, when they’re only just
trees. These things thrive like some unholy great seaweed that don’t
belong to the land at all. It’s like the--the blessed sea serpent got on
shore, Squire, and eating everything up.”
“There is some stupid legend,” said Squire Vane gruffly. “But come up
into the garden; I want to introduce you to my daughter.”
When, however, they reached the little table under the tree, the
apparently immovable young lady had moved away after all, and it was
some time before they came upon the track of her. She had risen, though
languidly, and wandered slowly along the upper path of the terraced
garden looking down on the lower path where it ran closer to the main
bulk of the little wood by the sea.
Her languor was not a feebleness but rather a fullness of life, like
that of a child half awake; she seemed to stretch herself and enjoy
everything without noticing anything. She passed the wood, into the gray
huddle of which a single white path vanished through a black hole. Along
this part of the terrace ran something like a low rampart or balustrade,
embowered with flowers at intervals; and she leaned over it, looking
down at another glimpse of the glowing sea behind the clump of trees,
and on another irregular path tumbling down to the pier and the
boatman’s cottage on the beach.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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