The Courtship of Morrice Buckler: A RomanceMason, A. E. W. (Alfred Edward Woodley)
History
The Courtship of Morrice Buckler: A Romance
Mason, A. E. W. (Alfred Edward Woodley)
Great Britain -- History -- James II, 1685-1688 -- Fiction; Historical fiction
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE LAST.
THE
COURTSHIP OF MORRICE BUCKLER
CHAPTER I.
TELLS OF AN INTERRUPTED MESSAGE.
It chanced that as I was shifting the volumes in my library this
morning, more from sheer fatigue of idleness than with any set
intention--for, alas! this long time since I have lost the savour of
books--a little Elzevir copy of Horace fell from the back of a shelf
between my hands. It lay in my palm, soiled and faded with the dust of
twenty years; and as I swept clean its cover and the edges of the
leaves, the look and feel of it unlocked my mind to such an inrush of
glistening memories that I seemed to be sweeping those years and the
overlay of their experience from off my consciousness. I lived again
in that brief but eventful period which laid upon the unaccustomed
shoulders of a bookish student a heavy burden of deeds, but gave him
in compensation wherewith to reckon the burden light.
The book fell open of its own accord at the Palinodia at Tyndaridem.
On the stained and fingered leaf facing the ode I could still decipher
the plan of Lukstein Castle, and as I gazed, that blurred outline
filled until it became a picture. I looked into the book as into a
magician's crystal. The great angle of the building, the level row of
windows, the red roofs of the turrets, the terrace, and the little
pinewood pavilion, all were clearly limned before my eyes, and were
overswept by changing waves of colour. I saw the Castle as on the
first occasion of my coming, hung disconsolately on a hillside in a
far-away corner of the Tyrol, a black stain upon a sloping wilderness
of snow; I saw it again under a waning moon in the stern silence of a
frosty night, as each window grew angry with a tossing glare of links;
but chiefly I saw it as when I rode thither on my last memorable
visit, sleeping peacefully above the cornfields in the droning sabbath
of a summer afternoon. I turned my eyes to the ode. The score of my
pencil was visible against the last verse:
Nunc ego mitibus
Mutare quæro tristia dum mihi
Fias recantatis amica
Opprobriis animumque reddas.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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