II

After a time one comes to have a certain modesty of expectation.  Time and Space are different elements, and each has its own laws.  At the price of a steamship ticket one may be transported to another country, but safe passage to another age is not guaranteed.  It is enough if some slight suggestion is given to the imagination.  A walk through a pleasant neighborhood is all the pleasanter if one knows that something memorable has happened there.  If one is wise he will not attempt to realize it to the exclusion of the present scene.  It is enough to have a slight flavor of historicity.

It was this pleasure which I enjoyed in a ramble with a friend through the New Forest.  The day was fine, and it would have been a joy to be under the greenwood trees if no one had been before us.  But the New Forest had a human interest; for on such a day as this, William Rufus rode into it to hunt the red deer, and was found with an arrow through his body.  And to this day no man knows who killed William Rufus, or why.  Though, of course, some people have their suspicions.

Many other things may have happened in the New Forest in the centuries that have passed, but they have never been brought vividly to my attention.  So far as I was concerned there were no confusing incidents.  The Muse of History told one tragic tale and then was silent.

On the other side of the Forest was the Rufus stone marking the spot where the Red King’s body was found.  At Brockenhurst we inquired the way, which we carefully avoided.  The road itself was an innovation, and was infested with motor-cars, machines unknown to the Normans.  The Red King had plunged into the Forest and quickly lost himself; so would we.  There were great oaks and wide-spreading beeches and green glades such as one finds only in England.  It was pleasant to feel that it all belonged to the Crown.  I could not imagine a county council allowing this great stretch of country to remain in its unspoiled beauty through these centuries.

We took our frugal lunch under a tree that had looked down on many generations.  Then we wandered on through a green wilderness.  We saw no one but some women gathering fagots.  I was glad to see that they were exercising their ancestral rights in the royal domain.  They looked contented, though I should have preferred to have their dress more antique.

All day we followed William Rufus through the Forest.  I began to feel that I had a real acquaintance with him, having passed through much the same experience.  The forest glades have been little changed since the day when he hunted the red deer.  Nature is the true conservative, and repeats herself incessantly.

Toward evening my friend pointed out the hill at the foot of which was the Rufus stone.  It was still some two miles away.  Should we push on to it?

What should we see when we got there?  The stone was not much.  There was a railing round it as a protection against relic-hunters.  And there was an inscription which, of course, was comparatively modern.  That settled it.  We would not go to the stone with its modern inscription.  The ancient trees brought us much nearer to William Rufus.  Besides, there was just time, if we walked briskly, to catch the train at Brockenhurst.