Dickson woke with a vague sense of irritation1. As his recollections took form they produced a very unpleasant picture of Mr. John Heritage. The poet had loosened all his placid2 idols3, so that they shook and rattled4 in the niches5 where they had been erstwhile so secure. Mr. McCunn had a mind of a singular candour, and was prepared most honestly at all times to revise his views. But by this iconoclast6 he had been only irritated and in no way convinced. "Sich poetry!" he muttered to himself as he shivered in his bath (a daily cold tub instead of his customary hot one on Saturday night being part of the discipline of his holiday). "And yon blethers about the working-man!" he ingeminated as he shaved. He breakfasted alone, having outstripped7 even the fishermen, and as he ate he arrived at conclusions. He had a great respect for youth, but a line must be drawn8 somewhere. "The man's a child," he decided9, "and not like to grow up. The way he's besotted on everything daftlike, if it's only new. And he's no rightly young either—speaks like an auld10 dominie, whiles. And he's rather impident," he concluded, with memories of "Dogson."... He was very clear that he never wanted to see[Pg 47] him again; that was the reason of his early breakfast. Having clarified his mind by definitions, Dickson felt comforted. He paid his bill, took an affectionate farewell of the landlord, and at 7.30 precisely11 stepped out into the gleaming morning.
It was such a day as only a Scots April can show. The cobbled streets of Kirkmichael still shone with the night's rain, but the storm clouds had fled before a mild south wind, and the whole circumference12 of the sky was a delicate translucent13 blue. Homely14 breakfast smells came from the houses and delighted Mr. McCunn's nostrils15; a squalling child was a pleasant reminder16 of an awakening17 world, the urban counterpart to the morning song of birds; even the sanitary19 cart seemed a picturesque20 vehicle. He bought his ration21 of buns and ginger22 biscuits at a baker's shop whence various ragamuffin boys were preparing to distribute the householders' bread, and took his way up the Gallows23 Hill to the Burgh Muir almost with regret at leaving so pleasant a habitation.
A chronicle of ripe vintages must pass lightly over small beer. I will not dwell on his leisurely24 progress in the bright weather, or on his luncheon25 in a coppice of young firs, or on his thoughts which had returned to the idyllic26. I take up the narrative27 at about three o'clock in the afternoon, when he is revealed seated on a milestone28 examining his map. For he had come, all unwitting, to a turning of the ways, and his choice is the cause of this veracious29 history.
The place was high up on a bare moor30, which[Pg 48] showed a white lodge31 among pines, a white cottage in a green nook by a burnside, and no other marks of human dwelling32. To his left, which was the east, the heather rose to a low ridge33 of hill, much scarred with peat-bogs, behind which appeared the blue shoulder of a considerable mountain. Before him the road was lost momentarily in the woods of a shooting-box, but reappeared at a great distance climbing a swell35 of upland which seemed to be the glacis of a jumble36 of bold summits. There was a pass there, the map told him, which led into Galloway. It was the road he had meant to follow, but as he sat on the milestone his purpose wavered. For there seemed greater attractions in the country which lay to the westward37. Mr. McCunn, be it remembered, was not in search of brown heath and shaggy wood; he wanted greenery and the Spring.
Westward there ran out a peninsula in the shape of an isosceles triangle, of which his present highroad was the base. At a distance of a mile or so a railway ran parallel to the road, and he could see the smoke of a goods train waiting at a tiny station islanded in acres of bog34. Thence the moor swept down to meadows and scattered38 copses, above which hung a thin haze39 of smoke which betokened40 a village. Beyond it were further woodlands, not firs but old shady trees, and as they narrowed to a point the gleam of two tiny estuaries41 appeared on either side. He could not see the final cape42, but he saw the sea beyond it, flawed with catspaws, gold in the afternoon sun, and on it a small herring smack43 flapping listless sails.[Pg 49]
Something in the view caught and held his fancy. He conned44 his map, and made out the names. The peninsula was called the Cruives—an old name apparently45, for it was in antique lettering. He vaguely46 remembered that "cruives" had something to do with fishing, doubtless in the two streams which flanked it. One he had already crossed, the Laver, a clear tumbling water springing from green hills; the other, the Garple, descended47 from the rougher mountains to the south. The hidden village bore the name of Dalquharter, and the uncouth48 syllables49 awoke some vague recollection in his mind. The great house in the trees beyond—it must be a great house, for the map showed large policies—was Huntingtower.
The last name fascinated and almost decided him. He pictured an ancient keep by the sea, defended by converging50 rivers, which some old Comyn lord of Galloway had built to command the shore road and from which he had sallied to hunt in his wild hills.... He liked the way the moor dropped down to green meadows, and the mystery of the dark woods beyond. He wanted to explore the twin waters, and see how they entered that strange shimmering51 sea. The odd names, the odd cul-de-sac of a peninsula, powerfully attracted him. Why should he not spend a night there, for the map showed clearly that Dalquharter had an inn? He must decide promptly52, for before him a side-road left the highway, and the signpost bore the legend, "Dalquharter and Huntingtower."
Mr. McCunn, being a cautious and pious53 man,[Pg 50] took the omens54. He tossed a penny—heads go on, tails turn aside. It fell tails.
He knew as soon as he had taken three steps down the side-road that he was doing something momentous55, and the exhilaration of enterprise stole into his soul. It occurred to him that this was the kind of landscape that he had always especially hankered after, and had made pictures of when he had a longing56 for the country on him—a wooded cape between streams, with meadows inland and then a long lift of heather. He had the same feeling of expectancy57, of something most interesting and curious on the eve of happening, that he had had long ago when he waited on the curtain rising at his first play. His spirits soared like the lark58, and he took to singing. If only the inn at Dalquharter were snug59 and empty, this was going to be a day in ten thousand. Thus mirthfully he swung down the rough grass-grown road, past the railway, till he came to a point where heath began to merge60 in pasture, and dry-stone walls split the moor into fields. Suddenly his pace slackened and song died on his lips. For, approaching from the right by a tributary61 path, was the Poet.
Mr. Heritage saw him afar off and waved a friendly hand. In spite of his chagrin62 Dickson could not but confess that he had misjudged his critic. Striding with long steps over the heather, his jacket open to the wind, his face a-glow and his capless head like a whin-bush for disorder63, he cut a more wholesome64 and picturesque figure than in[Pg 51] the smoking-room the night before. He seemed to be in a companionable mood, for he brandished65 his stick and shouted greetings.
"Well met!" he cried; "I was hoping to fall in with you again. You must have thought me a pretty fair cub66 last night."
"I did that," was the dry answer.
"Well, I want to apologise. God knows what made me treat you to a university-extension lecture. I may not agree with you, but every man's entitled to his own views, and it was dashed poor form for me to start jawing67 you."
Mr. McCunn had no gift of nursing anger, and was very susceptible68 to apologies.
"That's all right," he murmured. "Don't mention it. I'm wondering what brought you down here, for it's off the road."
"Caprice. Pure caprice. I liked the look of this butt-end of nowhere."
"Same here. I've aye thought there was something terrible nice about a wee cape with a village at the neck of it and a burn each side."
"Now that's interesting," said Mr. Heritage. "You're obsessed69 by a particular type of landscape. Ever read Freud?"
Dickson shook his head.
"Well, you've got an odd complex somewhere. I wonder where the key lies. Cape—woods—two rivers—moor behind. Ever been in love, Dogson?"
Mr. McCunn was startled. "Love" was a word[Pg 52] rarely mentioned in his circle except on death-beds. "I've been a married man for thirty years," he said hurriedly.
"That won't do. It should have been a hopeless affair—the last sight of the lady on a spur of coast with water on three sides—that kind of thing, you know. Or it might have happened to an ancestor.... But you don't look the kind of breed for hopeless attachments70. More likely some scoundrelly old Dogson long ago found sanctuary71 in this sort of place. Do you dream about it?"
"Not exactly."
"Well, I do. The queer thing is that I've got the same prepossession as you. As soon as I spotted72 this Cruives place on the map this morning, I saw it was what I was after. When I came in sight of it I almost shouted. I don't very often dream, but when I do that's the place I frequent. Odd, isn't it?"
Mr. McCunn was deeply interested at this unexpected revelation of romance. "Maybe it's being in love," he daringly observed.
The Poet demurred73. "No. I'm not a connoisseur74 of obvious sentiment. That explanation might fit your case, but not mine. I'm pretty certain there's something hideous75 at the back of my complex—some grim old business tucked away back in the ages. For though I'm attracted by the place, I'm frightened too!"
There seemed no room for fear in the delicate landscape now opening before them. In front in groves76 of birch and rowans smoked the first houses[Pg 53] of a tiny village. The road had become a green "loaning" on the ample margin78 of which cattle grazed. The moorland still showed itself in spits of heather, and some distance off, where a rivulet79 ran in a hollow, there were signs of a fire and figures near it. These last Mr. Heritage regarded with disapproval80.
"Some infernal trippers!" he murmured. "Or Boy Scouts81. They desecrate82 everything. Why can't the tunicatus popellus keep away from a paradise like this!" Dickson, a democrat83 who felt nothing incongruous in the presence of other holiday-makers, was meditating84 a sharp rejoinder, when Mr. Heritage's tone changed.
"Ye gods! What a village!" he cried, as they turned a corner. There were not more than a dozen whitewashed85 houses, all set in little gardens of wallflower and daffodil and early fruit blossom. A triangle of green filled the intervening space, and in it stood an ancient wooden pump. There was no schoolhouse or kirk; not even a post-office—only a red box in a cottage side. Beyond rose the high wall and the dark trees of the demesne86, and to the right up a by-road which clung to the park edge stood a two-storeyed building which bore the legend "The Cruives Inn."
The Poet became lyrical. "At last!" he cried. "The village of my dreams! Not a sign of commerce! No church or school or beastly recreation hall! Nothing but these divine little cottages and an ancient pub! Dogson, I warn you, I'm going to have the devil of a tea." And he declaimed:[Pg 54]
"Thou shalt hear a song
After a while which Gods may listen to;
For poets, grasshoppers89 and nightingales
Sing cheerily but when the throat is moist."
Dickson, too, longed with sensual gusto for tea. But, as they drew nearer, the inn lost its hospitable90 look. The cobbles of the yard were weedy, as if rarely visited by traffic, a pane91 in a window was broken, and the blinds hung tattered92. The garden was a wilderness93, and the doorstep had not been scoured94 for weeks. But the place had a landlord, for he had seen them approach and was waiting at the door to meet them.
He was a big man in his shirt sleeves, wearing old riding breeches unbuttoned at the knees, and thick ploughman's boots. He had no leggings, and his fleshy calves95 were imperfectly covered with woollen socks. His face was large and pale, his neck bulged96, and he had a gross unshaven jowl. He was a type familiar to students of society; not the innkeeper, which is a thing consistent with good breeding and all the refinements97; a type not unknown in the House of Lords, especially among recent creations, common enough in the House of Commons and the City of London, and by no means infrequent in the governing circles of Labour; the type known to the discerning as the Licensed98 Victualler.
His face was wrinkled in official smiles, and he gave the travellers a hearty99 good afternoon.[Pg 55]
"Can we stop here for the night?" Dickson asked.
The landlord looked sharply at him, and then replied to Mr. Heritage. His expression passed from official bonhomie to official contrition100.
"Impossible, gentlemen. Quite impossible.... Ye couldn't have come at a worse time. I've only been here a fortnight myself, and we haven't got right shaken down yet. Even then I might have made shift to do with ye, but the fact is we've illness in the house, and I'm fair at my wits' end. It breaks my heart to turn gentlemen away and me that keen to get the business started. But there it is!" He spat101 vigorously as if to emphasise102 the desperation of his quandary103.
The man was clearly Scots, but his native speech was overlaid with something alien, something which might have been acquired in America or in going down to the sea in ships. He hitched104 his breeches, too, with a nautical105 air.
"Is there nowhere else we can put up?" Dickson asked.
"Not in this one-horse place. Just a wheen auld wives that packed thegether they haven't room for an extra hen. But it's grand weather, and it's not above seven miles to Auchenlochan. Say the word and I'll yoke106 the horse and drive ye there."
"Thank you. We prefer to walk," said Mr. Heritage. Dickson would have tarried to inquire after the illness in the house, but his companion hurried him off. Once he looked back, and saw the landlord still on the doorstep gazing after them.[Pg 56]
"That fellow's a swine," said Mr. Heritage sourly. "I wouldn't trust my neck in his pothouse. Now, Dogson, I'm hanged if I'm going to leave this place. We'll find a corner in the village somehow. Besides, I'm determined107 on tea."
The little street slept in the clear pure light of an early April evening. Blue shadows lay on the white road, and a delicate aroma108 of cooking tantalised hungry nostrils. The near meadows shone like pale gold against the dark lift of the moor. A light wind had begun to blow from the west and carried the faintest tang of salt. The village at that hour was pure Paradise, and Dickson was of the Poet's opinion. At all costs they must spend the night there.
They selected a cottage whiter and neater than the others, which stood at a corner, where a narrow lane turned southward. Its thatched roof had been lately repaired, and starched110 curtains of a dazzling whiteness decorated the small, closely-shut windows. Likewise it had a green door and a polished brass111 knocker.
Tacitly the duty of envoy112 was entrusted113 to Mr. McCunn. Leaving the other at the gate, he advanced up the little path lined with quartz114 stones, and politely but firmly dropped the brass knocker. He must have been observed, for ere the noise had ceased the door opened, and an elderly woman stood before him. She had a sharply-cut face, the rudiments115 of a beard, big spectacles on her nose, and an old-fashioned lace cap on her smooth white hair. A little grim she looked at first sight, be[Pg 57]cause of her thin lips and Roman nose, but her mild curious eyes corrected the impression and gave the envoy confidence.
"Good afternoon, mistress," he said, broadening his voice to something more rustical than his normal Glasgow speech. "Me and my friend are paying our first visit here, and we're terrible taken up with the place. We would like to bide116 the night, but the inn is no' taking folk. Is there any chance, think you, of a bed here?"
"I'll no tell ye a lee," said the woman. "There's twae guid beds in the loft117. But I dinna tak' lodgers118 and I dinna want to be bothered wi' ye. I'm an auld wumman and no' as stoot as I was. Ye'd better try doun the street. Eppie Home micht tak' ye."
Dickson wore his most ingratiating smile. "But, mistress, Eppie Home's house is no' yours. We've taken a tremendous fancy to this bit. Can you no' manage to put with us for the one night? We're quiet auld-fashioned folk and we'll no' trouble you much. Just our tea and maybe an egg to it, and a bowl of porridge in the morning."
The woman seemed to relent. "Whaur's your freend?" she asked, peering over her spectacles towards the garden gate. The waiting Mr. Heritage, seeing her eyes moving in his direction, took off his cap with a brave gesture and advanced. "Glorious weather, Madam," he declared.
"English," whispered Dickson to the woman, in explanation.
She examined the Poet's neat clothes and Mr.[Pg 58] McCunn's homely garments, and apparently found them reassuring119. "Come in," she said shortly. "I see ye're wilfu' folk and I'll hae to dae my best for ye."
A quarter of an hour later the two travellers, having been introduced to two spotless beds in the loft, and having washed luxuriously120 at the pump in the back yard, were seated in Mrs. Morran's kitchen before a meal which fulfilled their wildest dreams. She had been baking that morning, so there were white scones121 and barley122 scones, and oaten farles, and russet pancakes. There were three boiled eggs for each of them; there was a segment of an immense currant cake ("a present from my guid brither last Hogmanay"); there was skim-milk cheese; there were several kinds of jam, and there was a pot of dark-gold heather honey. "Try hinny and aitcake," said their hostess. "My man used to say he never fund onything as guid in a' his days."
Presently they heard her story. Her name was Morran, and she had been a widow these ten years. Of her family her son was in South Africa, one daughter a lady's maid in London, and the other married to a schoolmaster in Kyle. The son had been in France fighting, and had come safely through. He had spent a month or two with her before his return, and, she feared, had found it dull. "There's no' a man body in the place. Naething but auld wives."
That was what the innkeeper had told them. Mr. McCunn inquired concerning the inn.[Pg 59]
"There's new folk just come. What's this they ca' them?—Robson—Dobson—aye, Dobson. What for wad they no' tak' ye in? Does the man think he's a laird to refuse folk that gait?"
"He said he had illness in the house."
Mrs. Morran meditated123. "Whae in the world can be lyin' there? The man bides124 his lane. He got a lassie frae Auchenlochan to cook, but she and her box gaed off in the post-cairt yestreen. I doot he tell't ye a lee, though it's no for me to juidge him. I've never spoken a word to ane o' thae new folk."
Dickson inquired about the "new folk."
"They're a' new come in the last three weeks, and there's no' a man o' the auld stock left. John Blackstocks at the Wast Lodge dee'd o' pneumony last back-end, and auld Simon Tappie at the Gairdens flitted to Maybole a year come Mairtinmas. There's naebody at the Gairdens noo, but there's a man come to the Wast Lodge, a blackavised body wi' a face like bend-leather. Tam Robison used to bide at the South Lodge, but Tam got killed about Mesopotamy, and his wife took the bairns to her guidsire up at the Garpleheid. I seen the man that's in the South Lodge gaun up the street when I was finishin' my denner—a shilpit body and a lameter, but he hirples as fast as ither folk run. He's no' bonny to look at. I canna think what the factor's ettlin' at to let sic' ill-faured chiels come about the toun."
Their hostess was rapidly rising in Dickson's esteem127. She sat very straight in her chair, eating[Pg 60] with the careful gentility of a bird, and primming128 her thin lips after every mouthful of tea.
"Who bides in the Big House?" he asked. "Huntingtower is the name, isn't it?"
"When I was a lassie they ca'ed it Dalquharter Hoose, and Huntingtower was the auld rickle o' stanes at the sea-end. But naething wad serve the last laird's faither but he maun change the name, for he was clean daft about what they ca' antickities. Ye speir whae bides in the Hoose? Naebody, since the young laird dee'd. It's standin' cauld and lanely and steikit, and it aince the cheeriest dwallin' in a' Carrick."
Mrs. Morran's tone grew tragic129. "It's a queer warld wi'out the auld gentry130. My faither and my guidsire and his faither afore him served the Kennedys, and my man Dauvit Morran was gemkeeper to them, and afore I mairried I was ane o' the table-maids. They were kind folk, the Kennedys, and, like a' the rale gentry, maist mindfu' o' them that served them. Sic' merry nichts I've seen in the auld Hoose, at Hallowe'en and Hogmanay, and at the servants' balls and the waddin's o' the young leddies! But the laird bode131 to waste his siller in stane and lime, and hadna that much to leave to his bairns. And now they've a' scattered or deid."
Her grave face wore the tenderness which comes from affectionate reminiscence.
"There was never sic a laddie as young Maister Quentin. No' a week gaed by but he was in here, cryin', 'Phemie Morran, I've come till my tea!' Fine he likit my treacle132 scones, puir man. There[Pg 61] wasna ane in the countryside sae bauld a rider at the hunt, or sic a skeely fisher. And he was clever at his books tae, a graund scholar, they said, and ettlin' at bein' what they ca' a dipplemat. But that's a' bye wi'."
"Quentin Kennedy—the fellow in the Tins?" Heritage asked. "I saw him in Rome when he was with the Mission."
"I dinna ken18. He was a brave sodger, but he wasna long fechtin' in France till he got a bullet in his breist. Syne133 we heard tell o' him in far awa' bits like Russia; and syne cam' the end o' the war and we lookit to see him back, fishin' the waters and ridin' like Jehu as in the auld days. But wae's me! It wasna permitted. The next news we got, the puir laddie was deid o' influenzy and buried somewhere about France. The wanchancy bullet maun have weakened his chest, nae doot. So that's the end o' the guid stock o' Kennedy o' Huntingtower, whae hae been great folk sin' the time o' Robert Bruce. And noo the Hoose is shut up till the lawyers can get somebody sae far left to himsel' as to tak' it on lease, and in thae dear days it's no' just onybody that wants a muckle castle."
"Who are the lawyers?" Dickson asked.
"Glendonan and Speirs in Embro. But they never look near the place, and Maister Loudoun in Auchenlochan does the factorin'. He's let the public an' filled the twae lodges134, and he'll be thinkin' nae doot that he's done eneuch."
Mrs. Morran had poured some hot water into[Pg 62] the big slop-bowl, and had begun the operation known as "synding out" the cups. It was a hint that the meal was over and Dickson and Heritage rose from the table. Followed by an injunction to be back for supper "on the chap o' nine," they strolled out into the evening. Two hours of some sort of daylight remained, and the travellers had that impulse to activity which comes to all men who, after a day of exercise and emptiness, are stayed with a satisfying tea.
"You should be happy, Dogson," said the Poet. "Here we have all the materials for your blessed romance—old mansion135, extinct family, village deserted136 of men and an innkeeper whom I suspect of being a villain137. I feel almost a convert to your nonsense myself. We'll have a look at the House."
They turned down the road which ran north by the park wall, past the inn which looked more abandoned than ever, till they came to an entrance which was clearly the West Lodge. It had once been a pretty, modish138 cottage, with a thatched roof and dormer windows, but now it was badly in need of repair. A window-pane was broken and stuffed with a sack, the posts of the porch were giving inwards, and the thatch109 was crumbling139 under the attentions of a colony of starlings. The great iron gates were rusty140, and on the coat of arms above them the gilding141 was patchy and tarnished142.
Apparently the gates were locked, and even the side wicket failed to open to Heritage's vigorous shaking. Inside a weedy drive disappeared among ragged143 rhododendrons.[Pg 63]
The noise brought a man to the lodge door. He was a sturdy fellow in a suit of black clothes which had not been made for him. He might have been a butler en deshabille, but for the presence of a pair of field boots into which he had tucked the ends of his trousers. The curious thing about him was his face, which was decorated with features so tiny as to give the impression of a monstrous144 child. Each in itself was well enough formed, but eyes, nose, mouth, chin were of a smallness curiously145 out of proportion to the head and body. Such an anomaly might have been redeemed146 by the expression; good-humour would have invested it with an air of agreeable farce147. But there was no friendliness148 in the man's face. It was set like a judge's in a stony149 impassiveness.
"May we walk up to the House?" Heritage asked. "We are here for a night and should like to have a look at it."
The man advanced a step. He had either a bad cold, or a voice comparable in size to his features.
"There's no entrance here," he said huskily. "I have strict orders."
"Oh, come now," said Heritage. "It can do nobody any harm if you let us in for half an hour."
The man advanced another step.
"You shall not come in. Go away from here. Go away, I tell you. It is private." The words spoken by the small mouth in the small voice had a kind of childish ferocity.
The travellers turned their back on him and continued their way.[Pg 64]
"Sich a curmudgeon150!" Dickson commented. His face had flushed, for he was susceptible to rudeness. "Did you notice? That man's a foreigner."
"He's a brute," said Heritage. "But I'm not going to be done in by that class of lad. There can be no gates on the sea side, so we'll work round that way, for I won't sleep till I've seen the place."
Presently the trees grew thinner, and the road plunged151 through thickets152 of hazel till it came to a sudden stop in a field. There the cover ceased wholly, and below them lay the glen of the Laver. Steep green banks descended to a stream which swept in coils of gold into the eye of the sunset. A little further down the channel broadened, the slopes fell back a little, and a tongue of glittering sea ran up to meet the hill waters. The Laver is a gentle stream after it leaves its cradle heights, a stream of clear pools and long bright shallows, winding155 by moorland steadings and upland meadows; but in its last half-mile it goes mad, and imitates its childhood when it tumbled over granite156 shelves. Down in that green place the crystal water gushed157 and frolicked as if determined on one hour of rapturous life before joining the sedater158 sea.
Heritage flung himself on the turf.
"This is a good place! Ye gods, what a good place! Dogson, aren't you glad you came? I think everything's bewitched to-night. That village is bewitched, and that old woman's tea. Good white magic! And that foul159 innkeeper and that brigand160 at the gate. Black magic! And now here is the home of all enchantment—'island valley of Avilion'[Pg 65]—'waters that listen for lovers'—all the rest of it!"
"I can't make you out, Mr. Heritage. You were saying last night you were a great democrat, and yet you were objecting to yon laddies camping on the moor. And you very near bit the neb off me when I said I liked Tennyson. And now...." Mr. McCunn's command of language was inadequate162 to describe the transformation163.
"You're a precise, pragmatical Scot," was the answer. "Hang it, man, don't remind me that I'm inconsistent. I've a poet's licence to play the fool, and if you don't understand me, I don't in the least understand myself. All I know is that I'm feeling young and jolly and that it's the Spring."
Mr. Heritage was assuredly in a strange mood. He began to whistle with a far-away look in his eye.
"Do you know what that is?" he asked suddenly.
"It's an aria165 from a Russian opera that came out just before the war. I've forgotten the name of the fellow who wrote it. Jolly thing, isn't it? I always remind myself of it when I'm in this mood, for it is linked with the greatest experience of my life. You said, I think, that you had never been in love?"
Dickson replied in the native fashion. "Have you?" he asked.
"I have, and I am—been for two years. I was down with my battalion166 on the Italian front early in 1918, and because I could speak the language they hoicked me out and sent me to Rome on a[Pg 66] liaison167 job. It was Easter time and fine weather and, being glad to get out of the trenches168, I was pretty well pleased with myself and enjoying life.... In the place where I stayed there was a girl. She was a Russian, a princess of a great family, but a refugee and of course as poor as sin.... I remember how badly dressed she was among all the well-to-do Romans. But, my God, what a beauty! There was never anything in the world like her.... She was little more than a child, and she used to sing that air in the morning as she went down the stairs.... They sent me back to the front before I had a chance of getting to know her, but she used to give me little timid good mornings, and her voice and eyes were like an angel's.... I'm over my head in love, but it's hopeless, quite hopeless. I shall never see her again."
"I'm sure I'm honoured by your confidence," said Dickson reverently169.
The Poet, who seemed to draw exhilaration from the memory of his sorrows, arose and fetched him a clout170 on the back. "Don't talk of confidence as if you were a reporter," he said. "What about that House? If we're to see it before the dark comes we'd better hustle171."
The green slopes on their left, as they ran seaward, were clothed towards their summit with a tangle172 of broom and light scrub. The two forced their way through this, and found to their surprise that on this side there were no defences of the Huntingtower demesne. Along the crest173 ran a path which had once been gravelled and trimmed. Be[Pg 67]yond through a thicket153 of laurels174 and rhododendrons they came on a long unkempt aisle175 of grass, which seemed to be one of those side avenues often found in connection with old Scots dwellings176. Keeping along this they reached a grove77 of beech177 and holly154 through which showed a dim shape of masonry178. By a common impulse they moved stealthily, crouching179 in cover, till at the far side of the wood they found a sunk fence and looked over an acre or two of what had once been lawn and flower-beds to the front of the mansion.
The outline of the building was clearly silhouetted180 against the glowing west, but since they were looking at the east face the detail was all in shadow. But, dim as it was, the sight was enough to give Dickson the surprise of his life. He had expected something old and baronial. But this was new, raw and new, not twenty years built. Some madness had prompted its creator to set up a replica181 of a Tudor house in a countryside where the thing was unheard of. All the tricks were there—oriel windows, lozenged panes182, high twisted chimney stacks; the very stone was red, as if to imitate the mellow183 brick of some ancient Kentish manor184. It was new, but it was also decaying. The creepers had fallen from the walls, the pilasters on the terrace were tumbling down, lichen185 and moss186 were on the doorsteps. Shuttered, silent, abandoned, it stood like a harsh memento187 mori of human hopes.
Dickson had never before been affected188 by an inanimate thing with so strong a sense of disquiet189. He had pictured an old stone tower on a bright[Pg 68] headland; he found instead this raw thing among trees. The decadence190 of the brand-new repels191 as something against nature, and this new thing was decadent192. But there was a mysterious life in it, for though not a chimney smoked, it seemed to enshrine a personality and to wear a sinister193 aura. He felt a lively distaste, which was almost fear. He wanted to get far away from it as fast as possible. The sun, now sinking very low, sent up rays which kindled194 the crests195 of a group of firs to the left of the front door. He had the absurd fancy that they were torches flaming before a bier.
It was well that the two had moved quietly and kept in shadow. Footsteps fell on their ears, on the path which threaded the lawn just beyond the sunk-fence. It was the keeper of the West Lodge and he carried something on his back, but both that and his face were indistinct in the half-light.
Other footsteps were heard, coming from the other side of the lawn. A man's shod feet rang on the stone of a flagged path, and from their irregular fall it was plain that he was lame126. The two men met near the door, and spoke125 together. Then they separated, and moved one down each side of the house. To the two watchers they had the air of a patrol, or of warders pacing the corridors of a prison.
"Let's get out of this," said Dickson, and turned to go.
The air had the curious stillness which precedes the moment of sunset, when the birds of day have stopped their noises and the sounds of night have[Pg 69] not begun. But suddenly in the silence fell notes of music. They seemed to come from the house, a voice singing softly but with great beauty and clearness.
Dickson halted in his steps. The tune, whatever it was, was like a fresh wind to blow aside his depression. The house no longer looked sepulchral196. He saw that the two men had hurried back from their patrol, had met and exchanged some message, and made off again as if alarmed by the music. Then he noticed his companion....
Heritage was on one knee with his face rapt and listening. He got to his feet and appeared to be about to make for the House. Dickson caught him by the arm and dragged him into the bushes, and he followed unresistingly, like a man in a dream. They ploughed through the thicket, recrossed the grass avenue, and scrambled197 down the hillside to the banks of the stream.
Then for the first time Dickson observed that his companion's face was very white, and that sweat stood on his temples. Heritage lay down and lapped up water like a dog. Then he turned a wild eye on the other.
"I am going back," he said. "That is the voice of the girl I saw in Rome, and it is singing her song!"
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收听单词发音
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1
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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iconoclast
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| n.反对崇拜偶像者 | |
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7
outstripped
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| v.做得比…更好，（在赛跑等中）超过( outstrip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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13
translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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14
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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16
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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18
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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19
sanitary
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| adj.卫生方面的，卫生的，清洁的，卫生的 | |
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20
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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21
ration
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| n.定量(pl.)给养，口粮；vt.定量供应 | |
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22
ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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23
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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24
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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25
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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27
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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28
milestone
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| n.里程碑；划时代的事件 | |
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29
veracious
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| adj.诚实可靠的 | |
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30
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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31
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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32
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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34
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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35
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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36
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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38
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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39
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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40
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
estuaries
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| （江河入海的）河口，河口湾( estuary的名词复数 ) | |
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42
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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43
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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44
conned
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| adj.被骗了v.指挥操舵( conn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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46
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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47
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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48
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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49
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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50
converging
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| adj.收敛[缩]的，会聚的，趋同的v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的现在分词 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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51
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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52
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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53
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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54
omens
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| n.前兆，预兆( omen的名词复数 ) | |
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55
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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56
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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57
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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58
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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59
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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60
merge
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| v.(使)结合，(使)合并，(使)合为一体 | |
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61
tributary
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| n.支流；纳贡国；adj.附庸的；辅助的；支流的 | |
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62
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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63
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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64
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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65
brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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66
cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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67
jawing
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| n.用水灌注 | |
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68
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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69
obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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70
attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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71
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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72
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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73
demurred
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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75
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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76
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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77
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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78
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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79
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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80
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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81
scouts
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| 侦察员[机，舰]( scout的名词复数 )； 童子军； 搜索； 童子军成员 | |
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82
desecrate
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| v.供俗用，亵渎，污辱 | |
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83
democrat
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士；民主党党员 | |
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84
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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85
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
demesne
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| n.领域，私有土地 | |
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87
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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88
allayed
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
grasshoppers
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| n.蚱蜢( grasshopper的名词复数 )；蝗虫；蚂蚱；（孩子）矮小的 | |
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90
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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91
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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92
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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93
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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94
scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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95
calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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96
bulged
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| 凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 )； 充满； 塞满（某物） | |
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97
refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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98
licensed
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| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
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99
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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100
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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101
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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102
emphasise
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| vt.加强...的语气，强调，着重 | |
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103
quandary
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| n.困惑，进迟两难之境 | |
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104
hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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105
nautical
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| adj.海上的，航海的，船员的 | |
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106
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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107
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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108
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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109
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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110
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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112
envoy
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| n.使节，使者，代表，公使 | |
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113
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
quartz
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| n.石英 | |
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115
rudiments
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| n.基础知识，入门 | |
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116
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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117
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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118
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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119
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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120
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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121
scones
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| n.烤饼，烤小圆面包( scone的名词复数 ) | |
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122
barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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123
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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124
bides
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| v.等待，停留( bide的第三人称单数 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待；面临 | |
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125
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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126
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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127
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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128
primming
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| v.循规蹈矩的( prim的现在分词 )；整洁的；（人）一本正经；循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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129
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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130
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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131
bode
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| v.预示 | |
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132
treacle
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| n.糖蜜 | |
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133
syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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134
lodges
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| v.存放( lodge的第三人称单数 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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135
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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136
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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137
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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138
modish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的 | |
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139
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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140
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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141
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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142
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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143
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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144
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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145
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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146
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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147
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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148
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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149
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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150
curmudgeon
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| n. 脾气暴躁之人，守财奴，吝啬鬼 | |
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151
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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152
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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153
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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154
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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155
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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156
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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157
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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158
sedater
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| adj.镇定的( sedate的比较级 )；泰然的；不慌不忙的（常用于名词前）；宁静的 | |
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159
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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160
brigand
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| n.土匪，强盗 | |
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161
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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162
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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163
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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164
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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165
aria
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| n.独唱曲，咏叹调 | |
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166
battalion
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| n.营；部队；大队(的人) | |
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167
liaison
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| n.联系，（未婚男女间的）暖昧关系，私通 | |
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168
trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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169
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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170
clout
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| n.用手猛击；权力，影响力 | |
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171
hustle
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| v.推搡；竭力兜售或获取；催促；n.奔忙(碌) | |
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172
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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173
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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174
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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175
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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176
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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177
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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178
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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179
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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180
silhouetted
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| 显出轮廓的，显示影像的 | |
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181
replica
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| n.复制品 | |
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182
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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183
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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184
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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185
lichen
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| n.地衣, 青苔 | |
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186
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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187
memento
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| n.纪念品，令人回忆的东西 | |
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188
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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189
disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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190
decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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191
repels
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| v.击退( repel的第三人称单数 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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192
decadent
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| adj.颓废的，衰落的，堕落的 | |
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193
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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194
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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195
crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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196
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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197
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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