the quest of the golden girl-第10节

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Highland　Mary〃　is　sold　for　whiskey；　while　Mr。　Gladstone　is　to　be　met　everywhere　in　the　form　of　a　bag。

Does　Mr。　Gladstone；　I　wonder；　instruct　his　valet　〃to　pack　his　Gladstone〃？　　How　strange　it　must　seem！　　Try　it　yourself　some　day　and　its　effect　on　your　servant。　　Ask　him；　for　example；　to　〃pack　your　〃　and　see　how　he'll　stare。

Coming　nearer　and　nearer　to　earth；　I　wondered　if　Colonel　Boycott　ever　uses　the　word　〃boycott；〃　and　how　strange　it　must　have　seemed　to　the　late　MacAdam　to　walk　for　miles　and　miles　upon　his　own　name；　like　a　carpet　spread　out　before　him。

Then　I　once　more　rebounded　heavenwards；　at　the　vision　of　the　eager　dreamy　lad　whose　question　had　set　going　all　this　odd　clockwork　of　association。　　He　wouldn't　lose　his　Shelley　for　the　world！　　How　like　twenty！　And　how　many　things　that　he　wouldn't　lose　for　the　world　will　he　have　to　give　up　before　he　is　thirty；　I　reflected　sententiously；give　up　at　last；　maybe；　with　a　stony　indifference；　as　men　on　a　sinking　ship　take　no　thought　of　the　gold　and　specie　in　the　hold。

And　then；　all　of　a　sudden；　a　little　way　up　the　ferny　grassy　hillside；　I　caught　sight　of　the　end　of　a　book　half　hidden　among　the　ferns。　　I　climbed　up　to　it。　　Of　course　it　was　that　very　green　Shelley　which　the　young　stranger　wouldn't　lose　for　the　world。



CHAPTER　XIX


WHY　THE　STRANGER　WOULD　NOT　LOSE　HIS　SHELLEY　FOR　THE　WORLD

Picking　up　the　book；　I　opened　it　involuntarily　at　the　titlepage；　and　thenI　resisted　a　great　temptation！　　I　shut　it　again。　A　little　flowery　plot　of　girl's　handwriting　had　caught　my　eye；　and　a　girl's　pretty　name。　When　Love　and　Beauty　meet；　it　is　hard　not　to　play　the　eavesdropper；　and　it　was　easy　to　guess　that　Love　and　Beauty　met　upon　that　page。　　St。　Anthony　had　no　harder　fight　with　the　ladies　he　was　unpolite　enough　to　call　demons；　than　I　in　resisting　the　temptation　to　take　another　look　at　that　pen…and…ink　love　making。　　Now；　as　I　look　back；　I　think　it　was　sheer　priggishness　to　resist　so　human　and　yet　so　reverent　an　impulse。　　There　is　nothing　sacred　from　reverence；　and　love's　lovers　have　a　right　to　regard　themselves　as　the　confidants　of　lovers；　whenever　they　may　chance　to　surprise　either　them　or　their　letters。

While　I　was　still　hesitating；　and　wondering　how　I　could　get　the　book　conveyed　to　its　romantic　owner；　suddenly　a　figure　turned　the　corner　of　the　road；　and　there　was　Alastor　coming　back　again。　　I　slipped　the　book；　in　distracted　search　for　which　he　was　evidently　still　engaged；　under　the　ferns；　and；　leisurely　lighting　a　pipe；　prepared　to　tease　him。　　He　was　presently　within　hail；　and；　looking　up；　caught　sight　of　me。

〃Have　you　found　your　Shelley　yet？〃　I　called　down　to　him；　as　he　stood　a　moment　in　the　road。

He　shook　his　head。　　No！　　But　he　meant　to　find　it；　if　he　had　to　hunt　every　square　foot　of　the　valley　inch　by　inch。

Wouldn't　any　other　book　do；　I　asked　him。　Would　he　take　a　Boccaccio；　or　a　〃Golden　Ass；〃　or　a　〃Tom　Jones；〃　in　exchange？for　of　such　consisted　my　knapsack　library。　　He　laughed　a　negative；　and　it　seemed　a　shame　to　tease　him。

〃It　is　not　so　much　the　book　itself；〃　he　said。

〃But　the　giver？〃　I　suggested。

〃Of　course；〃　he　blushingly　replied。

〃Well；　suppose　I　have　found　it？〃　I　continued。

〃You　don't　mean　it〃

〃But　suppose　I　haveI'm　only　supposing　will　you　give　me　the　pleasure　of　your　company　at　dinner　at　the　next　inn　and　tell　me　its　story？〃

〃Indeed　I　will；　gladly；〃　he　replied。

〃Well；　then；〃　I　said；　〃catch；　for　here　it　is！〃

The　joy　with　which　he　recovered　it　was　pretty　to　behold；　and　the　eagerness　with　which　he　ran　through　the　leaves；　to　see　that　the　violets　and　the　primroses　and　a　spray　of　meadowsweet；　young　love's　bookmarkers；　were　all　in　their　right　places；　touched　my　heart。

He　could　not　thank　me　enough；　and　as　we　stepped　out　to　the　inn；　some　three　or　four　miles　on　the　road；　I　elicited　something　of　his　story。

He　was　a　clerk　in　a　city　office；　he　said；　but　his　dreams　were　not　commercial。　　His　one　dream　was　to　be　a　great　poet；　or　a　great　writer　of　some　sort；　and　this　was　one　of　his　holidays。　　As　I　looked　at　his　sensitive　young　face；　unmarred　by　pleasure　and　unscathed　by　sorrow；　bathed　daily；　I　surmised；　in　the　may…dew　of　high　philosophiesah；　so　high！　washed　from　within　by　a　constant　radiancy　of　pure　thoughts；　and　from　without　by　a　constant　basking　in　the　shine　of　every　beautiful　and　noble　and　tender　thing；I　thought　it　not　unlikely　that　he　might　fulfil　his　dream。

But；　alas！　as　he　talked　on；　with　lighted　face　and　chin　in　the　air；　how　cruelly　I　realised　how　little　I　had　fulfilled　mine。

And　how　hard　it　was　to　talk　to　him；　without　crushing　some　flower　of　his　fancy　or　casting　doubt　upon　his　dreams。　　Oh；　the　gulf　between　twenty　and　thirty！　　I　had　never　quite　comprehended　it　before。　　And　how　inexpressibly　sad　it　was　to　hear　him　prattling　on　of　the　ideal　life；　of　socialism；　of　Walt　Whitman　and　what　not；all　the　dear　old　quackeries；while　I　was　already　settling　down　comfortably　to　a　conservative　middle　age。　　He　had　no　hope　that　had　not　long　been　my　despair；　no　aversion　that　I　had　not　accepted　among　the　more　or　less　comfortable　conditions　of　the　universe。　　He　was　all　for　nature　and　liberty；　whereas　I　had　now　come　to　realise　the　charm　of　the　artificial；　and　the　social　value　of　constraint。

〃Young　man；〃　I　cried　in　my　heart；　〃what　shall　I　do　to　inherit　Eternal　Youth？〃

The　gulf　between　us　was　further　revealed　when；　at　length　coming　to　our　inn；　we　sat　down　to　dinner。　　To　me　it　seemed　the　most　natural　thing　in　the　world　to　call　for　the　wine…list　and　consult　his　choice　of　wine；　but；　will　you　believe　me；　he　asked　to　be　allowed　to　drink　water！　　And　when　he　quoted　the　dear　old　stock　nonsense　out　of　Thoreau　about　being　able　to　get　intoxicated　on　a　glass　of　water；　I　could　have　laughed　and　cried　at　the　same　time。

〃Happy　Boy！〃　I　cried；　〃still　able　to　turn　water　into　wine　by　the　divine　power　of　your　youth〃；　and　then；　turning　to　the　waiter；　I　ordered　a　bottle　of　No。　37。

〃Wine　is　the　only　youth　granted　to　middle　age；〃　I　continued；〃in　vino　juventus；　one　might　say；　and　may　you；　my　dear　young　friend；　long　remain　so　proudly　independent　of　that　great　Elixirthough　I　confess　that　I　have　met　no　few　young　men　under　thirty　who　have　been　excellent　critics　of　the　wine…list。〃

As　the　water　warmed　him；　he　began　to　expand　into　further　confidence；　and　then　he　told　me　the　story　of　his　Shelley；　if　a　story　it　can　be　called。　　For；　of　course；　it　was　simple　enough；　and　the　reader　has　long　since　guessed　that　the　reason　why　he　wouldn't　lose　his　Shelley　for　the　world　was　the　usual　simple　reason。

I　listened　to　his　rhapsodies　of　HER　and　HER　and　HER　with　an　aching　heart。　　How　good　it　was　to　be　young！　　No　wonder　men　had　so　desperately　sought　the　secret　of　Eternal　Youth！　　Who　would　not　be　young　for　ever；　for　such　dreams　and　such　an　appetite？

Here　of　course　was　the　very　heaven…sent　confidant　for　such　an　enterprise　as　mine。　I　told　him　all　about　my　whim；　just　for　the　pleasure　of　watching　his　face　light　up　with　youth's　generous　worship　of　all　such　fantastic　nonsense。　　You　should　have　seen　his　enthusiasm　and　heard　all　the　things　he　said。　Why；　to　encounter　such　a　whimsical　fellow　as　myself　in　this　unimaginative　age　was　like　meeting　a　fairy　prince；　or　coming　unexpectedly　upon　Don　Quixote　attacking　the　windmill。　　I　offered　him　the　post　of　Sancho　Panza；　and　indeed　what　would　he　not　give；　he　said；　to　leave　all　and　follow　me！　　But　then　I　reminded　him　that　he　had　already　found　his　Golden　Girl。

〃Of　course；　I　forgot；〃　he　said；　with　I'm　afraid　something　of　a　sigh。　　For　you　see　he　was　barely　twenty；　and　to　have　met　your　ideal　so　early　in　life　is　apt　to　rob　the　remainder　of　the　journey　of　something　of　its　zest。

I　asked　him　to　give　me　his　idea　of　what　the　Blessed　Maid　should　be；　to　which　he　replied；　with　a　smile；　that　he　could　not　do　better　than　describe　Her；　which　he　did　for　the　sixth　time。　　It　was；　as　I　had　foreseen；　the　picture　of　a　Saint；　a　Goddess；　a　Dream；　very　lovely　and　pure　and　touching；　but　it　was　not　a　woman；　and　it　was　a　woman　I　was　in　search　of；　with　all　her　imperfections　on　her　head。　　I　suppose　no　boy　of　twenty　really　loves　a　WOMEN；　but　loves　only　his　etherealised　extract　of　woman；　entirely　free　from　earthy　adulteration。　　I　noticed　the　words　〃pure〃　and　〃natural〃　in　constant　use　by　my　young　friend。　　Some　lines　went　through　my　head；　but　I　forbore　to　quote　them：


Alas　I　your　so　called　purity　Is　merely　immaturity；　　　　　　And　woman's　nature　plays　its　part　Sincerely　but　in　woman's　art。　


But　I　couldn't　resist　asking　him；　out　of　sheer　waggery；　whether　he　didn't　think　a　touch　of　powder；　and　even；　very　judiciously　applied；　a　touch　of　rouge；　was　an　improvement　to　woman。　　His　answer　went　to　my　heart。

〃Painta　WOMAN！〃　he　exclaimed。

It　was　as　though　you　had　saidpaint　an　angel！

I　could　bear　no　more　of　it。　　The　gulf　yawned　shiveringly　wide　at　remarks　like　that；　so；　with　the　privilege　of　an　elder；　I　declared　it　time　for　bed；　and　yawned　off　to　my　room。

Next　morning　we　bade　good…bye；　and　went　our　several　ways。　　As　we　parted；　he　handed　me　a　letter　which　I　was　not　to　open　till　I　was　well　on　my　journey。　　We　waved　good…bye　to　each　other　till　the　turnings　of　the　road　made　parting　final；　and　then；　sitting　down　by　the　roadside；　I　opened　the　letter。　　It　proved　to　be　not　a　letter；　but　a　poem；　whi