The Happy WarriorHutchinson, A. S. M. (Arthur Stuart-Menteth)
General
The Happy Warrior
Hutchinson, A. S. M. (Arthur Stuart-Menteth)
Fiction
Pemberton had spoken, Mr. Amber, like Mr. Pemberton, for the good
reason that he knew nothing of how my lord occupied it, has nothing to
say. Let it be said. My lord was in that June secretly married in
London: a matter closely germane to this history, and now to be
examined.
BOOK TWO
A BOOK OF THE SAME SIZE, ILLUSTRATING THE ELEMENT OF FOLLY
CHAPTER I
LOVE TRIMS WRECKERS' LAMPS
I
On a May morning, then, love in his heart, purpose in his eye,
gathering in his careless hand the meshes that he is going to tug,
shaking the unconsidered lives they bind--Rollo Percival Redpath
Letham, twelfth Baron Burdon, "Roly" to his gay young comrades of the
clubs and messes, was set down at Great Letham by the express from
London.
Great Letham marks the nearest approach of the railway to the
sequestered villages that touch their hats to the Burdon Old Manor
folk. It stands at the head of a country that rolls away on either
hand in down and valley. Roughly, Great Letham centres the high lands
that bound this prospect on its nearer side, and from its outskirts
there strikes away a great shoulder of down that thrusts like a massive
viaduct straight and far to join the further hills. From a distance
this natural viaduct admits to minds however stubbornly practical the
similitude of a giant's arm. Rugged and brown and scarred it lies, not
green in greenest summer; and the humped shoulder whence it springs,
and the great mounds in which it swells along its path, present it as a
mighty limb out-thrust to hold away the hills in which its fist is
buried. Plowman's Ridge, they call it; and afoot upon it, it is kinder
of aspect. Aloof, aloft, alone, the wayfarer stands here, and breathes
or breasts the ceaseless wind that saunters or like a live thing
thunders down its track; and has on either hand a spreading valley,
whence curls the smoke of scattered hamlets, uprise the spires, come
the faint sounds of creature life and gleam the fields, as spread upon
a palette, coloured in obedience to this and that design of husbandry.
The railway skirts the eastward vale; along the tranquil westward slope
the Burdon hamlets sleep. Viewed from the Ridge, they are ridiculously
alike; ridiculously equidistant one from the next; ridiculously
tethered, as it were, along the foot of the Ridge--like boats along a
shore; ridiculously small to have separate names, but named in their
order outwards from Great Letham: Market Roding and Abbess Roding and
Nunford--linked by those names with the monastic ruins at Upabbot in
the eastward vale; Shepwell and Burdon and Little Letham. They are
tethered to the Ridge, and the Ridge is the most direct communication
between them. Visitors from village to village, or from Great Letham
to any, climb the slope and use the Ridge, rather than plod the winding
roads that, as twelfth Baron Burdon has often declared, "take you about
two miles from where you want to get before they let you loose to go
there."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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