the quest of the golden girl-第14章

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ights；　or　are　you　merely　an　angler　yourself；　and　did　you　begrudge　such　a　record　catch　to　a　girl？〃

〃I　see；〃　I　replied；　〃that　you　will　understand　me。　　That　trout　was；　so　to　speak；　out　of　the　Arabian　Nights。　　Only　five　minutes　ago　it　was　a　May…day　madness　of　mine　to　think　that　he　leaped　out　of　the　water　and　gave　me　a　highly　important　message。　　So　I　begged　his　life　from　a　mere　fancy。　　It　was　just　a　whim；　which　I　trust　you　will　excuse。〃

〃A　whim！　　So　you　are　a　follower　of　the　great　god　Whim；〃　she　replied；　with　somewhat　of　an　eager　interest　in　her　voice。　　〃How　nice　it　is　to　meet　a　fellow…worshipper！〃

〃Do　women　ever　have　whims？〃　I　respectfully　asked。

〃I　don't　know　about　other　women；〃　she　replied。　　〃Indeed；　I'm　afraid　I'm　unnatural　enough　to　take　no　interest　in　them　at　all。　But；　as　for　me；well；　what　nonsense！　　Tell　me　some　more　about　the　trout。　　What　was　the　wonderful　message　he　seemed　to　give　you？

Or　perhaps　I　oughtn't　to　ask？〃

〃I'm　afraid；〃　I　said；　〃it　would　hardly　translate　into　anything　approaching　common…sense。〃

〃Did　I　ask　for　common…sense？〃　she　retorted。　　It　was　true；　she　hadn't。　　But　then　I　couldn't；　with　any　respect　for　her；　tell　her　the　trout's　message；　or；　with　any　respect　for　myself；　recall　those　atrocious　doggerel　lines。　　In　my　dilemma；　I　caught　sight　of　a　pretty　book　lying　near　her　fishing…basket；　and　diverted　the　talk　by　venturing　to　ask　its　name。

〃　'T　is　of　Aucassin　and　Nicolete；〃　she　replied；　with　something　in　her　voice　which　seemed　to　imply　that　the　tender　old　story　would　be　familiar　to　me。　　My　memory　served　me　for　once　gallantly。

I　answered　by　humming　half　to　myself　the　lines　from　the　prologue；


〃Sweet　the　song；　the　story　sweet；　There　is　no　man　hearkens　it；　No　man　living　'neath　the　sun；　　　　　　　So　outwearied；　so　foredone；　　　　　　　Sick　and　woful；　worn　and　sad；　　　　　　But　is　healed；　but　is　glad　　　　　　'T　is　so　sweet。〃


〃How　charming　of　you　to　know　it！〃　she　laughed。　　〃You　are　the　only　man　in　this　county；　or　the　next；　or　the　next；　who　knows　it；　I'm　sure。〃

〃Are　the　women　of　the　county　more　familiar　with　it？〃　I　replied。

〃But　tell　me　about　the　trout；〃　she　once　more　persisted。

At　the　same　moment；　however；　there　came　from　a　little　distance　the　musical　tinkle　of　a　bell　that　sounded　like　silver；　a　fairy…like　and　almost　startling　sound。　　

〃It　is　my　lunch；〃　she　explained。　　〃I'm　a　worshipper　of　the　great　god　Whim　too；　and　close　by　here　I　have　a　little　summer…house；　full　of　books　and　fishing…lines　and　other　childishness；　where；　when　my　whim　is　to　be　lonely；　I　come　and　play　at　solitude。　　If　you'll　be　content　with　rustic　fare；　and　promise　to　be　amusing；　it　would　be　very　pleasant　if　you'd　join　me。〃

O！　most　prophetic　and　agreeable　trout！　Was　it　not　like　the　old　fairy　tales；　the　you…help…us　and　we'll…help…you　of　Psyche　and　the　ants？

It　had　been　the　idlest　whim　for　me　to　save　the　life　of　that　poor　trout。　　There　was　no　real　pity　in　it。　　For　two　pins；　I　had　been　just　as　ready　to　cut　it　open；　to　see　if　by　chance　it　carried　in　its　belly　the　golden　ring　wherewith　I　was　to　wed　the　Golden

However；　such　is　the　gratitude　of　nature　to　man；　that　this　little　thoughtless　act　of　kindness　had　brought　me　face　to　face　with　was　it　the　Golden　Girl？



CHAPTER　IV


'T　IS　OF　NICOLETE　AND　HER　BOWER　IN　THE　WILDWOOD

But　I　have　all　this　time　left　the　reader　without　any　formal　descriptive　introduction　to　this　whimsical　young　lady　angler。　　Not　without　reason；　for；　like　any　really　charming　personality；　she　was　very　difficult　to　picture。　　Paint　a　woman！　as　our　young　friend　Alastor　said。

Faces　that　fall　into　types　you　can　describe；　or　at　all　events　label　in　such　a　way　that　the　reader　can　identify　them；　but　those　faces　that　consist　mainly　of　spiritual　effect　and　physical　bloom；　that　change　with　everything　they　look　upon；　the　light　in　which　ebbs　and　flows　with　every　changing　tide　of　the　soul；these　you　have　to　love　to　know；　and　to　worship　to　portray。

Now　the　face　of　Nicolete；　as　I　learnt　in　time　to　call　her；　was　just　soul　and　bloom；　perhaps　mainly　bloom。　　I　never　noticed　whether　she　had　any　other　features　except　her　eyes。　　I　suppose　she　had　a　nose；　a　little　lace　pocket…handkerchief　I　have　by　me　at　the　moment　is　almost　too　small　to　be　evidence　on　that　important　point。

As　I　walked　by　her　side　that　May　morning；　I　was　only　conscious　of　her　voice　and　her　exquisite　girlhood；　for　though　she　talked　with　the　APLOMB　of　a　woman　of　the　world；　a　passionate　candour　and　simple　ardour　in　her　manner　would　have　betrayed　her；　had　her　face　not　plainly　declared　her　the　incarnation　of　twenty。　　But　if　she　were　twenty　years　young；　she　was　equally　twenty　years　OLD；　and　twenty　years　old；　in　some　respects；　is　the　greatest　age　attained　to　by　man　or　woman。　　In　this　she　rather　differed　from　Alastor；　of　whom　otherwise　she　was　the　female　counterpart。　　Her　talk；　and　something　rather　in　her　voice　than　her　talk；　soon　revealed　her　as　a　curious　mixture　of　youth　and　age；　of　dreamer　and　desillusionee。

One　soon　realised　that　she　was　too　young；　was　hoping　too　much　from　life；　to　spend　one's　days　with。　　Yet　she　had　just　sufficiently　that　touch　of　languor　which　puts　one　at　one's　ease；　though　indeed　it　was　rather　the　languor　of　waiting　for　what　was　going　to　happen　than　the　weariness　of　experience　gone　by。　　She　was　weary；　not　because　of　the　past；　but　because　the　fairy　theatre　of　life　still　kept　its　curtain　down；　and　forced　her　to　play　over　and　over　again　the　impatient　overture　of　her　dreams。

I　have　no　doubt　that　it　was　largely　nervousness　that　kept　the　mysterious　playwright　so　long　fumbling　behind　the　scenes；　for　it　was　obvious　that　it　would　be　no　ordinary　sort　of　play；　no　every…day　domestic　drama；　that　would　satisfy　this　young　lady；　to　whom　life　had　given；　by　way　of　prologue；　the　inestimable　blessing　of　wealth；　and　the　privilege；　as　a　matter　of　course；　of　choosing　as　she　would　among　the　grooms　（that　is；　the　bride…grooms）　of　the　romantic　British　aristocracy。

She　had　made　youth's　common　mistake　of　beginning　life　with　books；　which　can　only　be　used　without　danger　by　those　who　are　in　a　position　to　test　their　statements。　　Youth　naturally　believes　everything　that　is　told　it；　especially　in　books。

Now；　books　are　simply　professional　liars　about　life；　and　the　books　that　are　best　worth　reading　are　those　which　lie　the　most　beautifully。　Yet；　in　fairness；　we　must　add　that　they　are　liars；　not　with　intent　to　mislead；　but　merely　with　the　tenderest　purpose　to　console。　　They　are　the　good　Samaritans　that　find　us　robbed　of　all　our　dreams　by　the　roadside　of　life；　bleeding　and　weeping　and　desolate；　and　such　is　their　skill　and　wealth　and　goodness　of　heart；　that　they　not　only　heal　up　our　wounds；　but　restore　to　us　the　lost　property　of　our　dreams；　on　one　condition；that　we　never　travel　with　them　again　in　the　daylight。

A　library　is　a　better　world；　built　by　the　brains　and　hearts　of　poets　and　dreamers；　as　a　refuge　from　the　real　world　outside；　and　in　it　alone　is　to　be　found　the　land　of　milk　and　honey　which　it　promises。

〃Milk　and　honey〃　would　have　been　an　appropriate　inscription　for　the　delicious　little　library　which　parents　who；　I　surmised；　doted　on　Nicolete　in　vain；　had　allowed　her　to　build　in　a　wild　woodland　corner　of　her　ancestral　park；　half　a　mile　away　from　the　great　house；　where；　for　all　its　corridors　and　galleries；　she　could　never　feel；　at　all　events；　spiritually　alone。　　All　that　was　most　sugared　and　musical　and　generally　delusive　in　the　old　library　of　her　fathers　had　been　brought　out　to　this　little　woodland　library；　and　to　that　nucleus　of　old　leather…bound　poets　and　romancers；　long　since　dead；　yet　as　alive　and　singing　on　their　shelves　as　any　bird　on　the　sunny　boughs　outside；　my　young　lady's　private　purse　had　added　all　that　was　most　sugared　and　musical　and　generally　delusive　in　the　vellum　bound　Japanese…paper　literature　of　our　own　luxurious　day。　　Nor　were　poets　and　romancers　from　over　seain　their　seeming　simple　paper　covers；　but　with；　oh；　such　complicated　and　subtle　insides！absent　from　the　court　which　Nicolete　held　here　in　the　greenwood。　　Never　was　such　a　nest　of　singing…birds。　　All　day　long；　to　the　ear　of　the　spirit；　there　was　in　this　little　library　a　sound　of　harping　and　singing　and　the　telling　of　tales；songs　and　tales　of　a　world　that　never　was；　yet　shall　ever　be。