Read Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) Online
Authors: Travelers In Time
"As
safe
as
that
path
you
see
there,"
Secretan
Jones
repeated,
and, looking
at
him,
I
thought
his
expression
changed
a
little;
very
slightly, indeed,
but
to
a
certain
questioning,
one
might
say
to
a
meditative doubt.
He
suggested
to
me
a
man
engaged
in
an
argument,
who
puts his
case
strongly,
decisively;
and
then
hesitates
for
the
fraction
of
a second
as
a
point
occurs
to
him
of
which
he
had
never
thought
before; a
point
as
yet
unweighed,
unestimated;
dimly
present,
but
more
as
a shadow
than
a
shape.
The
newspaper
reporter
needs
the
gestures
of
the
serpent
as
well
as its
wisdom.
I
forget
how
I
glided
from
the
safe
topic
of
the
traffic
peril to
the
dubious
territory
which
I
had
been
sent
to
explore.
At
all
events, my
contortions
were
the
most
graceful
that
I
could
devise;
but
they were
altogether
vain.
Secretan
Jones's
kind,
lean,
clean-shaven
face took
on
an
expression
of
distress.
He
looked
at
me
as
one
in
perplexity;
he
seemed
to
search
his
mind
not
for
the
answer
that
he
should give
me,
but
rather
for
some
answer
due
to
himself.
"I
am
extremely
sorry
that
I
cannot
give
you
the
information
you want,"
he
said,
after
a
considerable
pause.
"But
I
really
can't
go
any farther
into
the
matter.
In
fact,
it
is
quite
out
of
the
question
to
do
so. You
must
tell
your
editor—or
sub-editor;
which
is
it?—that
the
whole business
is
due
to
a
misunderstanding,
a
misconception,
which
I
am not
at
liberty
to
explain.
But
I
am
really
sorry
that
you
have
come
all this
way
for
nothing."
There
was
real
apology
and
regret,
not
only
in
his
words,
but
in
his tones
and
in
his
aspect.
I
could
not
clutch
my
hat
and
get
on
my
way with
a
short
word
in
the
character
of
a
disappointed
and
somewhat disgusted
emissary;
so
we
fell
on
general
talk,
and
it
came
out
that
we both
came
from
the
Welsh
borderland,
and
had
long
ago
walked
over the
same
hills
and
drunk
of
the
same
wells.
Indeed,
I
believe
we proved
cousinship,
in
the
seventh
degree
or
so,
and
tea
came
in,
and before
long
Secretan
Jones
was
deep
in
liturgical
problems,
of
which
I knew
just
enough
to
play
the
listener's
part.
Indeed,
when
I
had
told him
that
the
hwyl,
or
chanted
eloquence,
of
the
Welsh
Methodists
MACHEN:
OPENING THE DOOR
was,
in
fact,
the
Preface
Tone
of
the
Roman
Missal,
he
overflowed with
grateful
interest,
and
made
a
note
in
one
of
his
books,
and
said the
point
was
most
curious
and
important.
It
was
a
pleasant
evening, and
we
strolled
through
the
french
windows
into
the
green-shadowed,
blossoming
garden,
and
went
on
with
our
talk,
till
it
was
time—and high
time—for
me
to
go.
I
had
taken
up
my
hat
as
we
left
the
study, and
as
we
stood
by
the
green
door
in
the
wall
at
the
end
of
the garden,
I
suggested
that
I
might
use
it.