jeremy-第17部分

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although　I　myself　can　never　be　completely　assured；　possessing　so
vividly　as　I　do　a　memory　of　a　day　when　I　stood　with　my　nurse　at　the
edge　of　Merazion　Woods　and；　gazing　out　to　the　horizon；　saw　a　fleet
of　ships　full…sail　upon　the　bluest　of　seas；　and　would　not　be
persuaded　that　it　was　merely　wrack　of　clouds。　That　may　be　or　no；　the
fact　remains　that　Polchester　sniffed　the　sea　from　afar；　was　caught
with　sea　breezes　and　bathed　in　reflected　sea…lights；　again　and　again
of　an　evening　the　Cathedral　sailed　on　dust　and　shadow　towards　the
horizon；　a　great　white　ghost　of　a　galleon；　and　the　young　citizens　of
the　town　with　wondering　eyes；　watched　it　go。　But　there　were　more
positive　influences　than　mere　cloud　and　light。　We　had；　in　the　lower
part　of　our　town；　sailors；　quite　a　number　of　them。　There　were　the
old　white…bearded　ones　who　would　sit　upon　tubs　and　tell　smuggling
tales；　these　haunted　the　River　Pol；　fished　in　it；　ferried　people
across　it；　and　let　out　boats　for　hire。　There　were　younger　sailors
who；　tired　of　the　still　life　of　their　little　villages　and　dreading
the　real　hard　work　of　a　life　at　sea；　lurched　and　slouched　by　the
Pol's　river　bed；　fishing　a　little；　sleeping；　eating　and　drinking　a
great　deal。

And　there　were　the　true　sailors；　passing　through　perhaps　on　their
way　to　Drymouth　to　join　their　ships；　staying　in　the　town　for　a　day
or　two　to　visit　their　relations；　or　simply　stopping　for　an　hour　or
so　to　gaze　open…mouthed　at　the　Cathedral　and　the　market…place　and
the　Canons　and　the　old　women。　These　men　had　sometimes　gold　rings　in
their　ears；　and　their　faces　were　often　coloured　a　dark　rich　brown；
and　they　carried　bundles　across　their　backs　all　in　the　traditional
style。

Then　there　were　influences　more　subtle　than　either　clouds　or　men。
There　were　the　influences　of　the　places　that　we　had　ourselves　seen
in　our　summer　holidaysRafiel　and　St。　Lowe；　Marion　Bay　or　Borhaze
and；　on　the　other　coast；　Newbock　with　its　vast　stretch　of　yellow
sand；　St。　Borse　with　its　wild　seas　and　giant　Borse　Head；　or　St。
Nails…in…Cove　with　its　coloured　rocks　and　sparkling　shells。　Every
child　had　his　own　place；　my　place　was；　like　Jeremy's；　Rafiel；　and　a
better；　more　beautiful　place；　in　the　whole　world　you　will　not　find。
And　each　place　has　its　own　legend：　at　Rafiel　the　Gold　lured　Pirates；
and　the　Turnip…　Field；　at　Polwint　the　Giant　Excise　Man；　at　Borhaze
the　Smugglers　of　Trezent　Rock；　at　St。　Borse　the　wreck　of　〃The　Golden
Galleon〃　in　the　year　1563；　with　its　wonderful　treasure；　and　at　St。
Maitsin　Cove　the　famous　Witch　of　St。　Maitsin　Church　Town　who　turned
men's　bones　into　water　and　filled　St。　Maitsin　Church　with　snakes。
Back　from　one　summer　holiday；　treasuring　these　stories　together　with
our　collections　of　shells　and　seaweed　and　dried　flowers；　we　came；
and　so　the　tales　settled　in　Polchester　streets　and　crept　into　the
heart　of　the　Polchester　cobbles　and　haunted　the　Polchester　corners
by　the　fire；　and　even　invaded　with　their　romantic；　peering；
mischievous　faces　the　solemn　aisles　of　the　Cathedral　itself。

The　sea　was　at　the　heart　of　all　of　them；　and　whenever　a　sea…breeze
blew　down　the　street　carrying　with　it　wisps　of　straw　from　the　field；
or　dandelion　seeds；　or　smell　of　sea…　pinks；　we　children　lifted　our
noses　and　sniffed　and　sniffed　and　saw　the　waves　curl　in　across　the
shore；　or　breakers　burst　upon　the　rock；　and　whispered　to　one　another
of　the　Smugglers　of　Trezent　or　the　Gold…laced　Pirates　of　Rafiel。

But　I　think　that　none　of　us　adored　the　sea　as　Jeremy　did。　From　that
first　moment　when；　as　a　small　baby；　he　had　been　held　up　in　Rafiel
Cove　to　see　the　tops　of　the　waves　catch　the　morning　light　as　they
rolled　over　to　shore；　he　had　adored　it。　He　had　never　felt　any　fear
of　it；　he　had　been　able　to　swim　since　he　could　remember；　and　he
simply　lived　for　those　days　at　the　end　of　July　when　they　would　all；
in　a　frantic　hurry　and　confusion；　take　the　train　for　Rafiel　and
arrive　at　Cow　Farm　in　the　evening；　with　the　roar　of　the　sea　coming
across　the　quiet　fields　to　mingle　with　the　lowing　of　the　cows　and
the　bleating　of　the　sheep。　He　had　in　his　bedroom　a　wonderful
collection　of　dusty　and　sticky　sea…shells；　and　these　he　would　turn
over　and　over；　letting　them　run　through　his　fingers　as　a　miner
counts　his　gold。

Let　him　catch　the　faintest　glimpse　of　a　shadow　of　a　sailor　in　the
street　and　he　was　after　it；　and　he　had　once；　when　he　was　only　four
or　five；　been　caught　by　the　terrified　Jampot；　only　just　in　time；
walking　away　confidently　down　the　market…place；　his　hand　in　the　huge
grasp　of　a　villainous　looking　mariner。　He　was　exceedingly　happy　in
his　home；　but　he　did　often　wonder　whether　he　would　not　run　away　to
sea；　of　course；　he　was　going　to　be　a　sailor；　but　it　seemed　so　long
to　wait　until　he　was　thirteen　or　fourteen；　and　there　was　the　sea　all
the　time　rolling　in　and　out　and　inviting　him　to　come。

Mrs。　Cole　warned　Miss　Jones　of　this　taste　of　Jeremy's：　〃Never　let
him　speak　to　a　sailor；　Miss　Jones。　There　are　some　horrible　men　in
the　town；　and　Jeremy　simply　is　not　to　be　trusted　when　sailors　are
concerned。〃

Miss　Jones；　however；　could　not　be　always　on　her　guard；　and　Fate　is
stronger　than　any　governess。　。　。

Early　in　February　there　came　one　of　those　hints　of　spring　that　in
Glebeshire　more　than　in　any　other　place　in　the　world　thrill　and　stir
the　heart。　Generally　they　give　very　little　in　actual　reward　and　are
followed　by　weeks　of　hail　and　sleet　and　wind；　but　for　that　reason
alone　their　burning　promise　is　beyond　all　other　promises　beguiling。
Jeremy　got　up　one　morning　to　feel　that　somewhere　behind　the　thick
wet　mists　of　the　early　hours　there　was　a　blazing　sun。　After
breakfast；　opening　the　window　and　leaning　out；　he　could　see　the
leaves　of　the　garden　still　shining　with　their　early　glitter　and　the
earth　channelled　into　fissures　and　breaks；　dark　and　hard　under　the
silver…threaded　frost；　beneath　the　rind　of　the　soil　he　could　feel
the　pushing；　heaving　life　struggling　to　answer　the　call　of　the　sun
above　it。　Far　down　the　road　towards　the　Orchards　a　dim　veil　of　gold
was　spreading　behind　the　walls　of　mist；　the　sparrows　on　the　almond
tree　near　his　window　chattered　like　the　girls　of　the　High　School；
and　blue　shadows　stole　into　the　dim　grey　sky；　just　as　light　breaks
upon　an　early　morning　sea；　the　air　was　warm　behind　the　outer　wall　of
the　frosty　morning；　and　the　faint　gold　of　the　first　crocus　beneath
the　garden　wall　near　the　pantry　door；　where　always　the　first
crocuses　came；　caught　his　eye。　Even　as　he　watched　the　sun　burst　the
mist；　the　trees　changed　from　dim　grey　to　sharp　black；　the　blue
flooded　the　sky；　and　the　Cathedral　beyond　the　trees　shone　like　a
house　of　crystal。

All　this　meant　spring；　and　spring　meant　hunting　for　snowdrops　in　the
Meads。　Jeremy　informed　Miss　Jones；　and　Miss　Jones　was；　of　course；
agreeable。　They　would　walk　that　way　after　luncheon。

The　Meads　fall　in　a　broad　green　slope　from　the　old　Cathedral
battlement　down　to　the　River　Pol。　Their　long　stretches　of　meadow　are
scattered　with　trees；　some　of　the　oldest　oaks　in　Glebeshire；　and
they　are　finally　bounded　by　the　winding　path　of　the　Rope　Walk　that
skirts　the　river　bank。　Along　the　Rope　Walk　in　March　and　April　the
daffodils　first；　and　the　primroses　afterwards；　are　so　thick　that；
from　the　Cathedral　walls；　the　Rope　Walk　looks　as　though　it　wandered
between　pools　and　lakes　of　gold。　In　the　Orchards　on　the　hill　also
they　run　like　rivers。

Upon　this　afternoon　there　were　only　the　trees；　faintly　pink；　along
the　river　and　the　wide　unbroken　carpet　of　green。　Miss　Jones　walked
up　and　down　the　Rope　Walk；　whilst　Mary　told　her　an　endless　and
exceedingly　confused　story　that　had　begun　more　than　a　week　ago　and
had　reached　by　now　such　a　state　of　〃To　be　continued　in　our　next〃
that　Miss　Jones　had　only　the　vaguest　idea　of　what　it　was　all　about。
Her　mind　therefore　wandered；　as　indeed；　did　always　the　minds　of
Mary's　audiences；　and　Mary　never　noticed　but　stared　with　the　rapt
gaze　of　the　creator　through　her　enormous　glasses；　out　into　an
enchanted　world　of　golden　princesses；　white　elephants　and　ropes　and
ropes　of　rubies。　Miss　Jones　meanwhile　thought　of　her　young　days；　her
illnesses　and　a　certain　hat　that　she　had　seen　in　Thornley's　windows
in　the　High　Street。　Jeremy；　attended　by　Hamlet；　hunted　amongst　the
trees　for　snowdrops。

Hamlet　had　been　worried　ever　since　he　could　remember　by　a　theory
about　rabbits。　He　had　been　told；　of　course；　about　rabbits　by　his
parents；　and　it　had　even　been　suggested　to　him　that　he　would　be　a
mighty　hunter　of　the　same　when　he　grew　to　a　certain　age。　He　had　now
reached　that　age；　but　never　a　rabbit　as　yet　had　he　encountered。　He
might　even　have　concluded　that　the　whole　Rabbit　story　was　a　myth　and
a　legend　were　it　not　that　certain　scents　and　odours　were　for　ever
tantalising　his　nose　that　could；　his　instinct　told　him；　mean　Rabbit
and　only　Rabbit。　These　scents　met　him　at　the　most　tantalising　times；
pulling　him　this　way　and　that；　exciting　the　wildest　hopes　in　him；
afterwards　condemned　to　sterility；　as　ghosts　haunt　the　convinced　and
trusting　spiritualist；　so　did　rabbits　haunt　Hamlet。　He　dreamt　of
Rabbits　at　night；　he　tasted　Rabbits　in　his　food；　he　saw　them　scale
the　air　and　swim　the　streamnow；　he　was　close　on　their　trail；　now
he　had　them　round　that　tree；　up　that　hill；　down　that　hole　。　。　。
sitting　tranquilly　in　front　of　the　schoolroom　fire　he　would　scent
them；　always　they　eluded　him；　laughed　at　him；　mocked　him　with　their
stumpy　tails。　They　were　rapidly　becoming　the　obsession　of　his　nights
and　days。

Upon　this　afternoon　the　air　was　full　of　Rabbit。　The　Meads　seemed　to
breathe　Rabbit。　He　left　his　master；　rushed　hither　and　thither；
barked　and　whined；　scratched　the　soil；　ran　round　the　trees；　lay
cautiously　motionless　waiting　for　his　foes；　and　now　and　then　sat　and
laughed　at　himself　for　a　ludicrous　rabbit…bemused　idiot。　He　had　a
delightful　afternoon。　。　。

Jeremy　then　was　left　entirely　to　himself　and　wandered　about；　looking
for　snowdrops　under　the　trees；　talking　to　himself；　lost　in　a　chain
of　ideas　that　included　food　and　the　sea　and　catapults　and　a　sore
finger　and　what　school　would　be　like　and　whether　he　could　knock　down
the　Dean's　youngest；　Ernest；　whom　he　hated　without　knowing　why。

He　was　lost　in　these　thoughts；　and　had