On her winding and much-halting way to Chipstone, Jinny took advantage
of the absence of the noble family and the complaisance of her customer,
the lodge-keeper, to smuggle her plebeian vehicle through Bellropes
Park, which was not only a mile shorter, but dodged the turnpike with
its aproned harpy of a tollman; she loved the great avenues of oaks, and
the shining lake, the game of swans, and the sense of historic
splendour; and Nip, as if with a sense of stolen sweets, sniffed never
more happily, though when they got within view of the water, he had to
be summoned back to his headquarters-basket by a stern military note, a
combat between himself and the swans not commending itself to his
mistress. Some of these irascible Graces floated now on the margin,
meticulously picking their tail-feathers, contorting their necks. But
vastly more exciting were those of the flock far out on that spacious
sparkle of brown water. They seemed to be going spring-mad and threshing
the scintillating water with their wings, oaring themselves thus along,
each one infecting the other, till the water itself seemed to be leaping
in a shimmering frenzy of froth. Even the ducks reared up or stood on
their heads in a sort of intoxication. And this sense of the joy and
beauty of the spring communicated itself to the girl, not in jubilance,
but in some exquisite wistfulness: some craving of the blood for
mysterious adventure. Something seemed calling at once out of the past
and out of the future. And then her thoughts wandered back to Frog Farm
and the Flynts and the far-scattered youths with whom she had formerly
ridden to Sunday-school, and suddenly by a flash from her
subconsciousness she recognized the writing of the unopened letter on
Martha’s mantelpiece: of the letter she had scarcely looked at. Surely,
though the curves were bolder, it was the work of the very same male
hand that had written on the fly-leaf of a Peculiar hymn-book the
inspired quatrain—which she had admired from her childhood—beginning:
_Steal not this book for fear of shame:_
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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