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I realize that she was never meant for me. Thank God I've been able to
serve herthat is all a moth can ask of a star. I'm a better man for it,
Dogson. She will be a glorious memory, and Lord! what poetry I shall write!
I
give her up joyfully, for she has found her mate. 'Let us not to the
marriage of true minds admit impediments!' The thing's too perfect to grieve
about....Look! There is romance incarnate."
He points to the figures now silhouetted against the further sea. "How does
it go, Dogson?" he cries. "'And on her lover's arm she leant' what next?
You know the thing."
Dickson assists and Heritage declaims:
"And on her lover's arm she leant, And round her waist she felt it fold, And
far across the hills they went
In that new world which is the old:
Across the hills, and far away
Beyond their utmost purple rim, And deep into the dying day
The happy princess followed him."
He repeats the last two lines twice and draws a deep breath. "How right!" he
cries. "How absolutely right!
Lord! It's astonishing how that old bird Tennyson got the goods!"
After that Dickson leaves him and wanders among the thickets on the edge of
the Huntingtower policies above the Laver glen. He feels childishly happy,
wonderfully young, and at the same time supernaturally wise. Sometimes he
thinks the past week has been a dream, till he touches the stickingplaster
on his brow, and finds that his left thigh is still a mass of bruises and
that his right leg is woefully stiff. With that the past becomes very real
again, and he sees the Garple Dean in that stormy afternoon, he wrestles
again at midnight in the dark House, he stands with quaking heart by the
boats to cut off the retreat. He sees it all, but without terror in the
recollection, rather with gusto and a modest pride. "I've surely had a
remarkable time," he tells himself, and then Romance, the goddess whom he
has worshipped so long, marries that furious week with the idyllic. He is
supremely content, for he knows that in his humble way he has not been found
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wanting. Once more for him the Chavender or Chub, and long dreams among
summer hills. His mind flies to the days ahead of him, when he will go
wandering with his pack in many green places. Happy days they will be, the
prospect with which he has always charmed his mind. Yes, but they will be
different from what he had fancied, for he is another man than the
complacent little fellow who set out a week ago on his travels. He has now
assurance of himself, assurance of his faith. Romance, he sees, is one and
indivisible....
Below him by the edge of the stream he sees the encampment of the Gorbals
DieHards. He calls and waves a hand, and his signal is answered. It seems
to be washing day, for some scanty and tattered raiment is drying on the
sward. The band is evidently in session, for it is sitting in a circle,
deep in talk.
As he looks at the ancient tents, the humble equipment, the ring of small
shockheads, a great tenderness comes over him. The DieHards are so tiny, so
poor, so pitifully handicapped, and yet so bold in their meagreness. Not
one of them has had anything that might be called a chance. Their few years
have been spent
Huntingtower
CHAPTER XVI. IN WHICH A PRINCESS LEAVES A DARK TOWER AND A PROVISION MERCHANT
RETURNS TO HIS FAMILY
119
in kennels and closes, always hungry and hunted, with none to care for them;
their childish ears have been habituated to every coarseness, their small
minds filled with the desperate shifts of living.. ..And yet, what a heavenly
spark was in them! He had always thought nobly of the soul; now he wants to
get on his knees before the queer greatness of humanity.
A figure disengages itself from the group, and Dougal makes his way up the
hill towards him. The Chieftain is not mere reputable in garb than when we
first saw him, nor is he more cheerful of countenance. He has one arm in a
sling made out of his neckerchief, and his scraggy little throat rises bare
from his voluminous shirt.
All that can be said for him is that he is appreciably cleaner. He comes to
a standstill and salutes with a special formality.
"Dougal," says Dickson, "I've been thinking. You're the grandest lot of wee
laddies I ever heard tell of, and, forbye, you've saved my life. Now, I'm
getting on in years, though you'll admit that I'm not that dead old, and
I'm not a poor man, and I haven't chick or child to look after. None of you
has ever had a proper chance or been right fed or educated or taken care of.
I've just the one thing to say to you. From now on you're my bairns, every
one of you. You're fine laddies, and I'm going to see that you turn into
fine men. There's the stuff in you to make Generals and Provostsay, and
Prime Ministers, and Dod! it'll not be my blame if it doesn't get out."
Dougal listens gravely and again salutes.
"I've brought ye a message," he says. "We've just had a meetin' and I've to
report that ye've been unanimously eleckit Chief DieHard. We're a' hopin'
ye'll accept."
"I accept," Dickson replies. "Proudly and gratefully I accept."
The last scene is some days later, in a certain southern suburb of Glasgow.
Ulysses has come back to Ithaca, and is sitting by his fireside, waiting for
the return of Penelope from the Neuk Hydropathic. There is a chill in the
air, so a fire is burning in the grate, but the laden teatable is bright
with the first blooms of lilac.
Dickson, in a new suit with a flower in his buttonhole, looks none the worse
for his travels, save that there is still stickingplaster on his deeply
sunburnt brow. He waits impatiently with his eye on the black marble
timepiece, and he fingers something in his pocket.
Presently the sound of wheels is heard, and the peahen voice of Tibby
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announces the arrival of Penelope.
Dickson rushes to the door, and at the threshold welcomes his wife with a
resounding kiss. He leads her into the parlour and settles her in her own
chair.
"My! but it's nice to be home again!" she says. "And everything that
comfortable. I've had a fine time, but there's no place like your own
fireside. You're looking awful well, Dickson. But losh! What have you been
doing to your head?"
"Just a small tumble. It's very near mended already. Ay, I've had a grand
walking tour, but the weather was a wee bit thrawn. It's nice to see you
back again, Mamma. Now that I'm an idle man you and me must take a lot of
jaunts together."
She beams on him as she stays herself with Tibby's scones, and when the meal
is ended, Dickson draws from his pocket a slim case. The jewels have been
restored to Saskia, but this is one of her own which she has bestowed upon
Dickson as a parting memento. He opens the case and reveals a necklet of
emeralds, any one of which is worth half the street. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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