The Watcher by the Threshold. Buchan JohnЧитать онлайн книгу.
bent low and kissed it in true cavalier fashion.
‘There is the road up there,’ she said, ‘it’s your quickest way.’ And she looked after him as he disappeared through the trees.
The road ran east and west, and as the sun bent aslant it, it was one great belt of golden light. The Jacobite was wonderfully elated. What an afternoon he had had, just like a bit out of a book! Now there remained for him the three miles of a walk home; then tea with fresh butter and cakes such as his heart rejoiced in; and then the delights of taking the horses to drink, and riding his pony to the smithy. The prospect was soothing and serene. A mellow gaiety diffused through his being.
And yet he could not get rid of the Lady’s news. Ah! There was a true princess for you, one who agreed with him in everything; but how sad was the tale she told! Would he ever have to meet such misfortune? He felt that some day he would, and the notion pained him. But he turned back for a moment to look to the westward. The crimson heart of evening was glowing like a furnace; the long shafts of orange light were lengthening, and the apple-green was growing over the blue. Somehow or other the sight gave him heart. The valiant West, that home of El Dorados and golden cities, whither all the romance of life seems to flee, raised his sinking courage. He would, alone, like Douglas among the Saracens, lift the standard and rout all foolish and feeble folks. Some day, when he was great and tall, he would ride into the city where the Lady dwelt, and, after he had scattered her enemies, would marry her and live happy for evermore.
That for the future. For the present home and tea and a summer evening.
Another story from Scholar Gipsies (1896). A man and a tramp meet and discover they have much to learn from each other, particularly about ‘the place of ambition in the scale of the virtues’.
The afternoon was fast waning to twilight, and the man who for the last few hours had been alternately sleeping in the heather and dabbling in the rocky pools of the burn awoke to the consciousness of time. He rose and looked around him. Hills crowded upon hills, blue, purple, and black; distant spaces of green meadow; barren pines waving desolately on a scarp; many streams falling in a chain of cascades to the glens; and over all a June sky, clear, deep, and tender. The place was goodly, and the idleness which is inseparable from the true enjoyment of afternoon weather dragged heavily upon him to keep him where he was.
He had come out that morn with his mind a chaos of many cares. Projects, fragments of wise and foolish thoughts, a thousand half-conceptions, had crowded upon him thick and fast, for the habit of unceasing mental toil is not shaken off in an hour. But June and the near presence of great hills are wondrous correctives; they are like an inverted spy-glass, which makes large things seem of the smallest; and ere long he found himself aimless and thoughtless. The drift of clouds, the twitter of mountain linnets, seemed all in the world of moment, and he would have gladly bartered his many plans for some share in this wild lore. And so for that day there was one pervert from the gospel of success in life, till lengthening shadows came and he gathered together his wits and laughed at his folly.
With lingering regrets he set off homewards, and the vista before him was one of work awaiting and a whole host of anxieties. Yet for once in a while he had been at peace, and to don the harness again was not so repellent, now that he had found how it could be shaken off at will. So he went along the grassy hill-path whistling an old air, till he had gained the edge of the decline, and lo! before him went another wayfarer.
It was the figure of a man about the middle height, with a forward stoop, and a walk which was neither shuffle nor stride, but the elegant lounge of the idler. His general aspect was one of breeding and ease; it was not till a nearer approach that one perceived the contradiction of the details. For all things about him were in rags, from the torn cap to the fragmentary shoes, and the pristine excellence of the cloth only served to accentuate its present state of defection. He also whistled as he walked, and his roving eyes devoured the manifold landscape. Then some other mood seemed to take him, and he flung himself on the short hill grass, lying back with his head on his hands.
At the sound of the other’s footsteps he sat up and greeted him.
‘Good-day,’ said the tramp, civilly. ‘Do you go far?’ Then, as if he had forgotten himself, he went back to his Scots. ‘I was wonderin’ if ye could tell me the time o’ day, sir,’ he said, hastily.
The other stopped short and looked at the stranger before him. Something in his frank eye and strange appearance attracted him, for he did not go on, but glanced at his watch and sat down beside him. Darkness was not yet, and the air was as soft as mid-day.
For a few minutes there was silence, and the one broke it with a laugh. ‘I seem to have come into a new land to-day,’ he said. ‘All things have seemed enchanted, and I scarcely know whether I am sleeping or waking. I suppose it is the weather and those great hills.’ And even as he spoke he found himself wondering at himself for speaking thus in such company.
But the other reassured him. ‘Good,’ said he, and again he dropped the dialect. ‘At last I have found some one like-minded. You are a—?’
‘Oh, I am a man of affairs, busy from year’s end to year’s end. For eleven months I am chained, but for once in a while I am free. And you—?’
‘Oh I,’ and the tramp laughed. ‘Ulysses, you know. A wanderer is man from his birth. I see we have not so much in common.’
‘No,’ said the other, ‘I am afraid we have not. You see I believe really at the bottom of my heart in getting on in life, and doing one’s duty, and that sort of thing. I see that you have no such prejudices.’
‘Not a bit of it,’ and the tramp whistled lackadaisically. ‘It’s all a question of nature. Some men – well, some, you know, are born to be good citizens. Others lack the domestic virtues. How does the thing go?
Non illum tectis ullæ, non mœnibus urbes
Accepere, neque ipse manus feritate dedisset,
Pastorum et solis exegit montibus ævum.
‘Brunck emends the passage, but the words are good as they are. In them you have my character and watchword.’
‘It is the character of many,’ said the other. ‘We can all hear the Piper if we listen, but some of us stop our ears against him. For myself, this hill air makes me daft, and the smell of heather and burning wood, and the sound of water and the wind. I can sympathise with you. And now I am going back to toil, and it will be very hard for days, till the routine lays its spell over me once more.’
‘And for what good?’ asked the wayfarer. ‘I apologise for asking you the foolish question, but it is the inevitable one in my philosophy.’
‘Oh,’ said the other, ‘I can scarcely tell. For the sake of feeling that one is fighting in the ranks of life and not skulking from the battle line; that one is doing the work for which God has given him talents; to know that one is mixing with men, and playing his part well in the human tragi-comedy. These reasons and many others.’
‘Hum,’ said the tramp. ‘Again I must say, “temper of mind”. You will excuse me if I say that they do not commend themselves to me. I cannot see the necessity for making the world a battle-field. It is a pilgrimage, if you like, where it is a man’s duty and best wisdom to choose the easiest course. All the pleasure in life can be got apart from the turmoil of the market-place – love and kindness, the taste of bread to a hungry man and water to a thirsty, the delight of rest when tired, and the pleasure of motion when fresh and alert, and, above all, the thousand things of nature.’
‘You chose the life? You were not born to it?’
‘Born to it?’ and the wayfarer laughed again. ‘No, I was very little born to it. I shall not trouble you with my story, it is too old-fashioned