A Crooked Path A Novel
CHAPTER I. "GATHERING CLOUDS." The London season had not yet reached its height, some years ago, before the arch admitting to Constitution Hill had been swept back to make room for the huge, ever-increasing stream of traffic, or the plebeian 'bus had been permitted to penetrate the precincts of Hamilton Place. It was the forenoon of a splendid day, one of the earliest of June, and at that hour the roadway between the entrance to Hyde Park and the gate then surmounted by the statue of the Duke of Wellington on his drooping steed was comparatively free, when two gentlemen coming from opposite directions recognized each other, and paused at the gate of Apsley House--the elder, a stout, florid man of military aspect, middle age, and average height, with large gray mustache and small, slightly bloodshot eyes; the younger, who was tall and bony, might have been thirty, or even forty, so grave and sedate was his bearing, although his erect carriage, elastic step, and clear keen dark eyes suggested earlier manhood.
[1] On a French farm the farmer is always called "Master."
Next day the farmer's wife gave me a cloak, and I went out with old
Bibiche to learn how to look after the lambs. Old Bibiche and her dog
Castille were so like one another that I always thought they must
belong to the same family. They looked about the same age, and their
eyes were about the same colour. Whenever the lambs ran off the path
Bibiche would say, "Bark, Castille, bark." She said it very quickly,
almost in one word, and even when Castille did not bark the lambs got
back into line again. The old woman's voice was so like that of her
dog.
When harvesting began it seemed to me as though I were taking part in
something full of mystery. Men went up to the corn and laid it on the
ground with regular sweeping strokes, while others picked it up again
in sheaves, which they stacked one against the other. The cries of the
harvesters seemed to come from above sometimes, and every now and then
I looked up quickly, expecting to see golden corn-laden chariots fly
past above my head.
We all had our evening meal together. Everybody sat down where they
pleased at the long table, and the farmer's wife filled our plates to
CHAPTER I. "GATHERING CLOUDS." The London season had not yet reached its height, some years ago, before the arch admitting to Constitution Hill had been swept back to make room for the huge, ever-increasing stream of traffic, or the plebeian 'bus had been permitted to penetrate the precincts of Hamilton Place. It was the forenoon of a splendid day, one of the earliest of June, and at that hour the roadway between the entrance to Hyde Park and the gate then surmounted by the statue of the Duke of Wellington on his drooping steed was comparatively free, when two gentlemen coming from opposite directions recognized each other, and paused at the gate of Apsley House--the elder, a stout, florid man of military aspect, middle age, and average height, with large gray mustache and small, slightly bloodshot eyes; the younger, who was tall and bony, might have been thirty, or even forty, so grave and sedate was his bearing, although his erect carriage, elastic step, and clear keen dark eyes suggested earlier manhood.