The first thing to do, he said to himself, is to get the lie of the land, and find out whether it is inhabited.
A hillside rising above the water promised a clear view.The stubble grass was dry and frosty, after the warm days at sea the chill was nipping; but what an elixir of air! If this is a desert island, he thought, it will be a glorious discovery.His heart was jocund with anticipation.A curious foreign look in the landscape, he thought; quite unlike anything-- Suddenly, where the hill arched against pearly sky, he saw narrow thread of smoke rising.He halted in alarm.Who might this be, friend or foe? But eager agitation pushed him on.Burning to know, he hurried up to the brow of the hill.
The smoke mounted from a small bonfire of sticks in a sheltered thicket, where a miraculous being--who was, as a matter of fact, a rather ragged and dingy vagabond--was cooking a tin of stew over the blaze.
Gissing stood, quivering with emotion.Joy such as he had never known darted through all the cords of his body.He ran, shouting, in mirth and terror.In fear, in a passion of love and knowledge and understanding, he abased himself and yearned before this marvel.Impossible to have conceived, yet, once seen, utterly satisfying and the fulfilment of all needs.He laughed and leaped and worshipped.When the first transport was over, he laid his head against this being's knee, he nestled there and was content.This was the inscrutable perfect answer.
"Cripes!" said the puzzled tramp, as he caressed the nuzzling head."The purp's loco.Maybe he's been lost.You might think he'd never seen a man before."He was right.
And Gissing sat quietly, his throat resting upon the soiled knee of a very old and spicy trouser.
"I have found God," he said.
Presently he thought of the ship.It would not do to leave her so insecurely moored.Reluctantly, with many a backward glance and a heart full of glory, he left the Presence.He ran to the edge of the hill to look down upon the harbour.
The outlook was puzzlingly altered.He gazed in astonishment.What were those poplars, rising naked into the bright air?--there was something familiar about them.And that little house beyond...he stared bewildered.
The great shining breadth of the ocean had shrunk to the roundness of a tiny pond.And the Pomerania? He leaned over, shaken with questions.There, beside the bank, was a little plank of wood, a child's plaything, roughly fashioned shipshape: two chips for funnels; red and yellow frosted leaves for flags; a withered dogwood blossom for propeller.He leaned closer, with whirling mind.In the clear cool surface of the pond he could see the sky mirrored, deeper than any ocean, pellucid, infinite, blue.
He ran up the path to the house.The scuffled ragged garden lay naked and hard.At the windows, he saw with surprise, were holly wreaths tied with broad red ribbon.On the porch, some battered toys.He opened the door.
A fluttering rosy light filled the room.By the fireplace the puppies--how big they were!--were sitting with Mrs.Spaniel.Joyous uproar greeted him: they flung themselves upon him.Shouts of "Daddy! Daddy!" filled the house, while the young Spaniels stood by more bashfully.
Good Mrs.Spaniel was gratefully moved.Her moist eyes shone brightly in the firelight.
"I knew you'd be home for Christmas, Mr.Gissing," she said."I've been telling them so all afternoon.Now, children, be still a moment and let me speak.I've been telling you your Daddy would be home in time for a Christmas Eve story.I've got to go and fix that plum pudding."In her excitement a clear bubble dripped from the tip of her tongue.She caught it in her apron, and hurried to the kitchen.
