To walk upon the fine, smooth old Roman road was a pleasure
in itself, but she soon struck away from it and went through lanes and
by-ways, following sign-posts because she knew where she was going. Her
walk was to take her to Mount Dunstan and home again by another road. In
walking, an objective point forms an interest, and what she had heard of
the estate from Rosalie was a vague reason for her caring to see it. It
was another place like Stornham, once dignified and nobly representative
of fine things, now losing their meanings and values. Values and
meanings, other than mere signs of wealth and power, there had been.
Centuries ago strong creatures had planned and built it for such reasons
as strength has for its planning and building. In Bettina Vanderpoel's
imagination the First Man held powerful and moving sway. It was he whom
she always saw. In history, as a child at school, she had understood and
drawn close to him. There was always a First Man behind all that one
saw or was told, one who was the fighter, the human thing who snatched
weapons and tools from stones and trees and wielded them in the carrying
out of the thought which was his possession and his strength. He was the
God made human; others waited, without knowledge of their waiting,
for the signal he gave.
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