“Then they sat and swayed backwards and forwards again and muttered something that sounded like Pom!”
“That would be ‘Om’, and then?”
“I couldn’t wait any longer for I had some letters to write.”
She smiled at him.
“I shall give you another cup of tea to reward you for your report,” she said. “It has all been most interesting. Tell me again about the breathing in and holding your breath.”
Georgie did so, and illustrated in his own person what had happened. Next moment Lucia was imitating him, and Peppino came round in order to get a better view of what Georgie was doing. Then they all sat, inhaling through one nostril, holding their breath, and then expelling it again.
“Very interesting,” said Lucia at the end. “Upon my word, it does give one a sort of feeling of vigour and lightness. I wonder if there is something in it.”
CHAPTER THREE
Though “The Hurst” was, as befitted its Chatelaine, the most Elizabethanly complete abode in Riseholme, the rest of the village in its due degree, fell very little short of perfection. It had but its one street some half mile in length but that street was a gem of mediaeval domestic architecture. For the most part the houses that lined it were blocks of contiguous cottages, which had been converted either singly or by twos and threes into dwellings containing the comforts demanded by the twentieth century, but externally they preserved the antiquity which, though it might be restored or supplemented by bathrooms or other conveniences, presented a truly Elizabethan appearance. There were, of course, accretions such as old inn signs above front-doors and old bell-pulls at their sides, but the doors were uniformly of inconveniently low stature, roofs were of stone slabs or old brick, in which a suspiciously abundant crop of antirrhinums and stone crops had anchored themselves, and there was hardly a garden that did not contain a path of old paving-stones, a mulberry-tree and some yews cut into shape.
Nothing in the place was more blatantly mediaeval than the village green, across which Georgie took his tripping steps after leaving the presence of his queen. Round it stood a row of great elms, and in its centre was the ducking-pond, according to Riseholme tradition, though perhaps in less classical villages it might have passed merely for a duck-pond. But in Riseholme it would have been rank heresy to dream, even in the most pessimistic moments, of its being anything but a ducking-pond. Close by it stood a pair of stocks, about which there was no doubt whatever, for Mr Lucas had purchased them from a neighbouring iconoclastic village, where they were going to be broken up, and, after having them repaired, had presented them to the village-green, and chosen their site close to the ducking pond. Round the green were grouped the shops of the village, slightly apart from the residential street, and at the far end of it was that undoubtedly Elizabethan hostelry, the Ambermere Arms, full to overflowing of ancient tables and bible-boxes, and fire-dogs and fire-backs, and bottles and chests and settles. These were purchased in large quantities by the American tourists who swarmed there during the summer months, at a high profit to the nimble proprietor, who thereupon purchased fresh antiquities to take their places. The Ambermere Arms in fact was the antique furniture shop of the place, and did a thriving trade, for it was much more interesting to buy objects out of a real old Elizabethan inn, than out of a shop.
Georgie had put his smart military cape over his arm for his walk, and at intervals applied his slim forefinger to one nostril, while he breathed in through the other, continuing the practice which he had observed going on in Mrs Quantock’s garden. Though it made him a little dizzy, it certainly produced a sort of lightness, but soon he remembered the letter from Mrs Quantock which Lucia had read out, warning her that these exercises ought to be taken under instruction, and so desisted. He was going to deliver Lucia’s answer at Mrs Quantock’s house, and with a view to possibly meeting the Guru, and being introduced to him, he said over to himself “Guru, Guru, Guru” instead of doing deep breathing, in order to accustom himself to the unusual syllables.
It would, of course, have been very strange and un-Riseholme-like to have gone to a friend’s door, even though the errand was so impersonal a one as bearing somebody else’s note, without enquiring whether the friend was in, and being instantly admitted if she was, and as a matter of fact, Georgie caught a glimpse, when the knocker was answered (Mrs Quantock did not have a bell at all), through the open door of the hall, of Mrs Quantock standing in the middle of the lawn on one leg. Naturally, therefore, he ran out into the garden without any further formality. She looked like a little round fat stork, whose legs had not grown, but who preserved the habits of her kind.
“Dear lady, I’ve brought a note for you,” he said, “it’s from Lucia.”
The other leg went down, and she turned on him the wide firm smile that she had learned in the vanished days of Christian Science.
“Om,” said Mrs Quantock, expelling the remainder of her breath. “Thank you, my dear Georgie. It’s extraordinary what Yoga has done for me already. Cold quite gone. If ever you feel out of sorts, or depressed or cross you can cure yourself at once. I’ve got a visitor staying with me.”
“Have you indeed?” asked Georgie, without alluding to the thrilling excitements which had trodden so close on each other’s heels since yesterday morning when he had seen the Guru in Rush’s shop.
“Yes; and as you’ve just come from dear Lucia’s perhaps she may have said something to you about him, for I wrote to her about him. He’s a Guru of extraordinary sanctity from Benares, and he’s teaching me the Way. You shall see him too, unless he’s meditating. I will call to him; if he’s meditating he won’t hear me, so we shan’t be interrupting him. He wouldn’t hear a railway accident if he was meditating.”
She turned round towards the house.
“Guru, dear!” she called.
There was a moment’s pause, and the Indian’s face appeared at a window.
“Beloved lady!” he said.
“Guru dear, I want to introduce a friend of mine to you,” she said. “This is Mr Pillson, and when you know him a little better you will call him Georgie.”
“Beloved lady, I know him very well indeed. I see into his clear white soul. Peace be unto you, my friend.”
“Isn’t he marvellous? Fancy!” said Mrs Quantock, in an aside.
Georgie raised his hat very politely.
“How do you do?” he said. (After his quiet practice he would have said “How do you do Guru?” but it rhymed in a ridiculous manner and his red lips could not frame the word.)
“I am always well,” said the Guru, “I am always young and well because I follow the Way.”
“Sixty at least he tells me,” said Mrs Quantock in a hissing aside, probably audible across the channel, “and he thinks more, but the years make no difference to him. He is like a boy. Call him ‘Guru.’”
“Guru—” began Georgie.
“Yes, my friend.”
“I am very glad you are well,” said Georgie wildly. He was greatly impressed, but much embarrassed. Also it was so hard to talk at a second-story window with any sense of ease, especially when you had to address a total stranger of extraordinary sanctity from Benares.
Luckily Mrs Quantock came to the assistance of his embarrassment.
“Guru dear, are you coming down to see us?” she asked.
“Beloved lady, no!” said the level voice. “It is laid on me to wait here. It is the time of calm and prayer when it is good to be alone. I will come down when the guides bid me. But teach our dear friend what I have taught you. Surely before long I will grasp his earthly hand, but not now. Peace! Peace! and Light!”
“Have you got some Guides as well?” asked Georgie when the Guru disappeared