"Have you noticed," she asked, "that so many things seem to be _circular_ out here?"
"Circular?" I repeated, surprised.
"Yes. That crater is circular; so is the bottom of it; so is this plateau, and the hill; and the forests surrounding us; and the mountain ranges on the horizon."
"But all this is natural."
"Perhaps. But in those woods, down there, there are, here and there, great circles of crumbling soil--_perfect_ circles a mile in diameter."
"Mounds built by prehistoric man, no doubt."
She shook her head:
"These are not prehistoric mounds."
"Why not?"
"Because they have been freshly made."
"How do you know?"
"The earth is freshly upheaved; great trees, partly uprooted, slant at every angle from the sides of the enormous piles of newly upturned earth; sand and stones are still sliding from the raw ridges."
She leaned nearer and dropped her voice still lower:
"More than that," she said, "my father and I both have seen one of these huge circles _in the making_!"
"What!" I exclaimed, incredulously.
"It is true. We have seen several. And it enrages father."
"Enrages?"
"Yes, because it upsets the trees where he is painting landscapes, and tilts them in every direction. Which, of course, ruins his picture; and he is obliged to start another, which vexes him dreadfully."
I think I must have gaped at her in sheer astonishment.
"But there is something more singular than that for you to investigate,"
she said calmly. "Look down at that circle of steam which makes a perfect ring around the bowl of the crater, halfway down. Do you see the flicker of fire under the vapour?"
"Yes."
She leaned so near and spoke in such a low voice that her fragrant breath fell upon my cheek:
"In the fire, under the vapours, there are little animals."
"What!!"
"Little beasts live in the fire--slim, furry creatures, smaller than a weasel. I"ve seen them peep out of the fire and scurry back into it.... _Now_ are you sorry that I wrote you to come? And will you forgive me for bringing you out here?"
An indescribable excitement seized me, endowing me with a fluency and eloquence unusual:
"I thank you from the bottom of my heart!" I cried; "--from the depths of a heart the emotions of which are entirely and exclusively of scientific origin!"
In the impulse of the moment I held out my hand; she laid hers in it with charming diffidence.
"Yours is the discovery," I said. "Yours shall be the glory. Fame shall crown you; and perhaps if there remains any reflected light in the form of a by-product, some modest and negligible little ray may chance to illuminate me."
Surprised and deeply moved by my eloquence, I bent over her hand and saluted it with my lips.
She thanked me. Her pretty face was rosy.
It appeared that she had three cows to milk, new-laid eggs to gather, and the construction of some fresh b.u.t.ter to be accomplished.
At the bars of the gra.s.sy pasture slope she dropped me a curtsey, declining very shyly to let me carry her lacteal paraphernalia.
So I continued on to the bungalow garden, where Blythe sat on a camp stool under a green umbrella, painting a picture of something or other.
"Mr. Blythe!" I cried, striving to subdue my enthusiasm. "The eyes of the scientific world are now open upon this house! The searchlight of Fame is about to be turned upon you--"
"I prefer privacy," he interrupted. "That"s why I came here. I"ll be obliged if you"ll turn off that searchlight."
"But, my dear Mr. Blythe--"
"I want to be let alone," he repeated irritably. "I came out here to paint and to enjoy privately my own paintings."
If what stood on his easel was a sample of his pictures, n.o.body was likely to share his enjoyment.
"Your work," said I, politely, "is--is----"
"Is what!" he snapped. "_What_ is it--if you think you know?"
"It is entirely, so to speak, _per se_--by itself--"
"What the devil do you mean by that?"
I looked at his picture, appalled. The entire canvas was one monotonous vermillion conflagration. I examined it with my head on one side, then on the other side; I made a funnel with both hands and peered intently through it at the picture. A menacing murmuring sound came from him.
"Satisfying--exquisitely satisfying," I concluded. "I have often seen such sunsets--"
"What!"
"I mean such prairie fires--"
"d.a.m.nation!" he exclaimed. "I"m painting a bowl of nasturtiums!"
"I was speaking purely in metaphor," said I with a sickly smile. "To me a nasturtium by the river brink is more than a simple flower. It is a broader, grander, more magnificent, more stupendous symbol. It may mean anything, everything--such as sunsets and conflagrations and Gotterdammerungs! Or--" and my voice was subtly modulated to an appealing and persuasive softness--"it may mean nothing at all--chaos, void, vacuum, negation, the exquisite annihilation of what has never even existed."