the quest of the golden girl-第9节

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wner；　and；　instead　of　seeking　a　vague　Golden　Girl；　make　up　your　mind　doggedly　to　find　and　marry　her；　or；　failing　that；　carry　the　petticoat　with　you；　as　a　sort　of　Cinderella's　slipper；　try　it　on　any　girl　you　happen　to　fancy；　and　marry　her　it　exactly　fits？〃

Now；　I　confess；　that　seemed　to　me　quite　　a　pretty　idea；　and　I　hope　the　reader　will　think　so　too。　　If　not；　I'm　afraid　I　can　offer　him　no　better　explanation；　and　in　fact　I　am　all　impatience　to　open　my　knapsack；　and　inform　myself　of　the　name　of　her　to　the　discovery　of　whom　my　wanderings　are　henceforth　to　be　devoted。



CHAPTER　XVII


THE　NAME　UPON　THE　PETTICOAT

So　imagine　me　seated　in　a　grassy　corner；　with　my　knapsack　open　on　the　ground　and　my　petticoat　and　silk　stockings　spread　out　in　front　of　me；an　odd　picture；　to　be　sure；　for　any　passer　by　to　come　upon。　　I　suppose　I　could　have　passed　for　a　pedlar；　but　undoubtedly　it　would　have　been　very　embarrassing。　　However；　as　it　happened；　I　remained　undisturbed；　and　was　able　to　examine　my　purchases　at　leisure。　　I　had　never　seen　a　petticoat　so　near　before；at　all　events　I　had　never　given　one　such　close　attention。　　What　delicious　dainty　things　they　are！　　How　essentially　womanlyas　I　hope　no　one　would　call　a　pair　of　trousers　essentially　manly。

How　pretty　it　looked　spread　out　on　the　grass　in　front　of　me！　　How　soft！　how　wondrously　dainty　the　finish　of　every　little　seam！　And　the　lace！　　It　almost　tempts　one　to　change　one's　sex　to　wear　such　things。　　There　was　a　time　indeed；　and　not　so　long　ago；　when　brave　men　wore　garments　no　less　dainty。

Rupert's　Cavaliers　were　every　bit　as　particular　about　their　lace　collars　and　frills　as　the　lady　whose　pretty　limbs　once　warmed　this　cambric。

But　where　is　the　name？　　Ah！　here　it　is！　What　sweet　writing！　　〃Sylvia　Joy；　No。　6。〃

Sylvia　Joy！　　What　a　perfectly　enchanting　name！　and　as　I　repeated　it　enthusiastically；　it　seemed　to　have　a　certain　familiarity　for　my　ear；as　though　it　were　the　name　of　some　famous　beauty　or　some　popular　actress；yet　the　exact　association　eluded　me；　and　obviously　it　was　better　it　should　remain　a　name　of　mystery。　　Sylvia　Joy！　　Who　could　have　hoped　for　such　a　pretty　name！　　Indeed；　to　tell　the　truth；　I　had　dreaded　to　find　a　〃Mary　Jones〃　or　an　〃Ann　Williams〃　but　Sylvia　Joy！　　The　name　was　a　romance　in　itself。　　I　already　felt　myself　falling　in　love　with　its　unseen　owner。　　With　such　a　petticoat　and　such　a　name；　Sylvia　herself　could　not　be　otherwise　than　delightful　too。　Already；　you　see；　I　was　calling　her　by　her　Christian　name！　　And　the　more　I　thought　of　her；　the　stronger　grew　the　conviction　which　has　no　doubt　already　forced　itself　upon　the　romantic　readerthat　we　were　born　for　each　other。

But　who　is　Sylvia；　who　is　she？　and　likewise　where　is　Sylvia；　where　is　she？　Obviously　they　were　questions　not　to　be　answered　off…hand。　　Was　not　my　futureat　all　events　my　immediate　futureto　be　spent　in　answering　them？

Indeed；　curiously　enough；　my　recent　haste　to　have　them　answered　had　suddenly　died　down。　　A　sort　of　matrimonial　security　possessed　me。　　I　felt　as　I　imagine　a　husband　may　feel　on　a　solitary　holidayif　there　are　husbands　unnatural　enough　to　go　holidaying　without　their　wivespleasantly　conscious　of　a　home　tucked　somewhere　beneath　the　distant　sunset；　yet　in　no　precipitate　hurry　to　return　there　before　the　appointed　day。

In　fact；　a　chill　tremor　went　through　me　as　I　realised　that；　to　all　intent；　I　was　at　length　respectably　settled　down；　with　quite　a　considerable　retrospect　of　happy　married　life。　To　come　to　a　decision　is　always　to　bring　something　to　an　end。　　And；　with　something　of　a　pang；　resolutely　stifled；　I　realised　for　a　moment　the　true　blessedness　of　the　single　state　I　was　so　soon　to　leave　behind。　　At　all　events；　a　little　golden　fragment　of　bachelorhood　remained。　　There　was　yet　a　fertile　strip　of　time　wherein　to　sow　my　last　handful　of　the　wild　oats　of　youth。　　So　festina　lente；　my　destined　Sylvia；　festina　lente！



CHAPTER　XVIII


IN　WHICH　THE　NAME　OF　A　GREAT　POET　IS　CRIED　OUT　IN　A　SOLITARY　PLACE

As　I　once　more　shouldered　my　pack　and　went　my　way；　the　character　of　the　country　side　began　to　change；　and；　from　a　semi…　pastoral　heathiness　and　furziness；　took　on　a　wildness　of　aspect；　which　if　indeed　melodramatic　was　melodrama　carried　to　the　point　of　genius。

It　was　a　scene　for　which　the　nineteenth　century　has　no　worthy　use。　　It　finds　ignoble　occupation　as　a　gaping…ground　for　the　vacuous　tourist；somewhat　as　Heine　might　have　imagined　Pan　carrying　the　gentleman's　luggage　from　the　coach　to　the　hotel。　It　suffers　teetotal　picnic…parties　to　encamp　amid　its　savage　hollows；　and　it　humbly　allows　itself　to　be　painted　by　the　worst　artists。　Like　a　lion　in　a　menagerie；　it　is　a　survival　of　the　extinct　chaos　entrapped　and　exhibited　amid　the　smug　parks　and　well…rolled　downs　of　England。

I　came　upon　it　by　a　winding　ledge　of　road；　which　clung　to　the　bare　side　of　the　hill　like　the　battlements　of　some　huge　castle。　　Some　two　hundred　feet　below；　a　brawling　upland　stream　stood　for　the　moat；　and　for　the　enemy　there　was　on　the　opposite　side　of　the　valley　a　great　green　company　of　trees；　settled　like　a　cloud　slope　upon　slope；　making　all　haste　to　cross　the　river　and　ascend　the　heights　where　I　stood。　　Some　intrepid　larches　waved　green　pennons　in　the　very　midst　of　the　turbulent　water；　here　and　there　a　veteran　lay　with　his　many…summered　head　abased　in　the　rocky　course　of　the　stream；　and　here　was　a　young　foolhardy　beech　that　had　climbed　within　a　dozen　yards　of　the　rampart。　　All　was　wild　and　solitary；　and　one　might　have　declared　it　a　scene　untrodden　by　the　foot　of　man；　but　for　the　telegraph　posts　and　small　piles　of　broken　〃macadam〃　at　punctual　intervals；　and　the　ginger…beer　bottles　and　paper　bags　of　local　confectioners　that　lent　an　air　of　civilisation　to　the　road。

It　was　a　place　to　quote　Alastor　in；　and　nothing　but　a　bad　memory　prevented　my　affrighting　the　oaks　and　rills　with　declamation。　As　it　was；　I　could　only　recall　the　lines


〃The　Poet　wandering　on；　through　Arabie　　　　　　　And　Persia；　and　the　wild　Carmanian　waste；　And　o'er　the　aerial　mountains　which　pour　down　Indus　and　Oxus　from　their　icy　caves〃


and　that　other　passage　beginning


〃At　length　upon　the　lone　Chorasmian　shore　　　　　　　He　paused〃　


This　last　I　mouthed；　loving　the　taste　of　its　thunder；　mouthed　thrice；　as　though　it　were　an　incantation；and；　indeed；　from　what　immediately　followed；　it　might　reasonably　have　seemed　so。



〃At　length　upon　the　lone　Chorasmian　shore　He　paused〃


I　mouthed　for　the　fourth　time。　　And　lo！　advancing　to　me　eagerly　along　the　causeway　seemed　the　very　sprite　of　Alastor　himself！　There　was　a　star　upon　his　forehead；　and　around　his　young　face　there　glowed　an　aureole　of　gold　and　rosesto　speak　figuratively；　for　the　star　upon　his　brow　was　hope；　and　the　gold　and　roses　encircling　his　head；　a　miniature　rainbow；　were　youth　and　health。　His　longish　golden　hair　had　no　doubt　its　share　in　the　effect；　as　likewise　the　soft　yellow　silk　tie　that　fluttered　like　a　flame　in　the　speed　of　his　going。　　His　blue　eyes　were　tragically　fresh　and　clear；as　though　they　had　as　yet　been　little　used。　　There　were　little　wings　of　haste　upon　his　feet；　and　he　came　straight　to　me；　with　the　air　of　the　Angel　Gabriel　about　to　make　his　divine　announcement。　　For　a　moment　I　thought　that　he　was　an　apparition　of　prophecy　charged　to　announce　the　maiden　of　the　Lord　for　whom　I　was　seeking。　　However；　his　brief　flushed　question　was　not　of　these　things。　　He　desired　first　to　ask　the　time　of　day；　and　nexthere；　after　a　bump　to　the　earth；　one's　thoughts　ballooned　again　heavenwards〃had　I　seen　a　green　copy　of　Shelley　lying　anywhere　along　the　road？〃

Nothing　so　good　had　happened　to　me；　I　repliedbut　I　believed　that　I　had　seen　a　copy　of　Alastor！　　For　a　moment　my　meaning　was　lost　on　him；　then　he　flushed　and　smiled；　thanked　me　and　was　off　again；　saying　that　he　must　find　his　Shelley；　as　he　wouldn't　lose　it　for　the　world！

He　had　presently　disappeared　as　suddenly　as　he　had　come；　but　he　had　left　me　a　companion；　a　radiant　reverberant　name；　and　for　some　little　space　the　name　of　Shelley　clashed　silvery　music　among　the　hills。

Its　seven　letters　seemed　to　hang　right　across　the　clouds　like　the　Seven　Stars；　an　apocalyptic　constellation；　a　veritable　sky　sign；　and　again　the　name　was　an　angel　standing　with　a　silver　trumpet；　and　again　it　was　a　song。　　The　heavens　opened；　and　across　the　blue　rift　it　hung　in　a　glory　of　celestial　fire；　while　from　behind　and　above　the　clouds　came　a　warbling　as　of　innumerable　larks。

How　strange　was　this　miracle　of　fame；　I　pondered；　this　strange　apotheosis　by　which　a　mere　private　name　becomes　a　public　symbol！　　Shelley　was　once　a　private　person　whose　name　had　no　more　universal　meaning　than　my　own；　and　so　were　Byron　and　Cromwell　and　Shakespeare；　yet　now　their　names　are　facts　as　stubborn　as　the　Rocky　Mountains；　or　the　National　Gallery；　or　the　circulation　of　the　blood。　　From　their　original　inch　or　so　of　private　handwriting　they　have　spread　and　spread　out　across　the　world；　and　now　whole　generations　of　men　find　intellectual　accommodation　within　them；drinking　fountains　and　other　public　institutions　are　erected　upon　them；　yea；　Carlyle　has　become　a　Chelsea　swimming…bath；　and　〃Highland　Mary〃　is　sold　for　whiskey；　while　Mr。　Gladstone　is　to　be　met　everywhere　in　the　form　of　a　bag