John Galsworthy
約翰·高爾斯華綏（1867 1933），近代著名小說家、劇作家及優秀的散文作家。主要作品有：《福爾賽世家》、《有產業的人》、《騎虎》、《出租》和《白猿》等。他的小說塑造了19世紀80年代至20
世紀20年代的英國資產階級典型人物，揭露了他們的道德觀念和思想意識，特別是人與人之間的金錢利害關係。1932年他獲得了諾貝爾文學獎。《蘋果樹下》是一篇令人難以忘懷的愛情故事。主人公阿舒斯特於自己的銀婚紀念日，與妻子斯特拉到一個離別多年的農場附近去郊遊。故地重遊，往事不堪回首，26年前的情景曆曆在目，阿舒斯特回想起了那時自己熱戀過的一個叫梅根的村姑。於是產生了一個令人難以忘懷的愛情故事。兩人的愛情悲劇令人深思，我們從中看到由於彼此有著截然不同的生活背景和習俗等，他們要想逾越種種障礙是很困難的。愛情既是十分美好的東西，但也麵臨各種現實問題。
THE APPLE TREE
“The Apple tree，the singing and the gold.”MURRAY’S “HIPPOLYTUS of EURIPIDES.”
In their silver wedding day Ashurst and his wifewere motoring along the outskirts of the moor，intending to crown the festival by stopping the nightat Torquay，where they had first met. This was theidea of Stella Ashurst，whose character contained astreak of sentiment. If she had long lost theblue eyed，flower like charm，the cool slim purity offace and form，the apple blossom colouring，whichhad so swiftly and so oddly affected Ashursttwenty six years ago，she was still at forty three acomely and faithful companion，whose cheeks werefaintly mottled，and whose grey blue eyes hadacquired a certain fullness.
It was she who had stopped the car where thecommon rose steeply to the left，and a narrow stripof larch and beech，with here and there a pine，stretched out towards the valley between the roadand the first long high hill of the full moor. She waslooking for a place where they might lunch，forAshurst never looked for anything；and this，betweenthe golden furze and the feathery green larchessmelling of lemons in the last sun of April——this，with a view into the deep valley and up to the longmoor heights，seemed fitting to the decisive natureof one who sketched in water colours，and lovedromantic spots. Grasping her paint box，she got out.
“Won’t this do，Frank？”
Ashurst，rather like a bearded Schiller，grey in thwings，tall，long legged，with large remote grey eyeswhich sometimes filled with meaning and becamealmost beautiful，with nose a little to one side，andbearded lips just open——Ashurst，forty eight，andsilent，grasped the luncheon basket，and got out too.
“Oh！ Look，Frank！ A grave！”
By the side of the road，where the track from the topof the common crossed it at right angles and ranthrough a gate past the narrow wood，was a thinmound of turf，six feet by one，with a moorstone tothe west，and on it someone had thrown a blackthornspray and a handful of bluebells.
Ashurst looked，and the poet in him moved. At cross roads—asuicide’s grave！ Poor mortals with theirsuperstitions！ Whoever lay there，though，had thebest of it，no clammy sepulchre among other hideousgraves carved with futilities just a rough stone，thewide sky，and wayside blessings！
And，withoutcomment，for he had learned not to be a philosopherin the bosom of his family，he strode away up on tothe common，dropped the luncheon basket under awall，spread a rug for his wife to sit on——she wouldturn up from her sketching when she washungry——and took from his pocket Murray’stranslation of the “Hippolytus.” He had soonfinished reading of “The Cyprian” and her revenge，and looked at the sky instead. And watching thewhite clouds so bright against the intense blue，Ashurst，on his silver wedding day，longed for—heknew not what. Maladjusted to life——man’s organism！
One’s mode of life might be high and scrupulous，butthere was always an，undercurrent of greediness，ahankering，and sense of waste. Did women have ittoo？ Who could tell？ And yet，men who gave vent totheir appetites for novelty，their riotous longings fornew adventures，new risks，new pleasures，thesesuffered，no doubt，from the reverse side ofstarvation，from surfeit. No getting out of it—amaladjusted animal，civilised man！
There could beno garden of his choosing，of “the Apple tree，thesinging，and the gold，” in the words of that lovelyGreek chorus，no achievable elysium in life，orlasting haven of happiness for any man with a senseof beauty——nothing which could compare with thecaptured loveliness in a work of art，set down forever，so that to look on it or read was always to havethe same precious sense of exaltation and restfulinebriety.
Life no doubt had moments with thatquality of beauty，of unbidden flying rapture，but thetrouble was，they lasted no longer than the span of acloud’s flight over the sun；impossible to keep themwith you，as Art caught beauty and held it fast. Theywere fleeting as one of the glimmering or goldenvisions one had of the soul in nature，glimpses of itsremote and brooding spirit. Here，with the sun hot onhis face，a cuckoo calling from a thorn tree，and inthe air the honey savour of gorse——here among thelittle fronds of the young fern，the starry blackthorn，while the bright clouds drifted by high above thehills and dreamy valleys here and now was such aglimpse.
But in a moment it would pass——as the faceof Pan，which looks round the corner of a rock，vanishes at your stare. And suddenly he sat up.Surely there was something familiar about this view，this bit of common，that ribbon of road，the old wallbehind him. While they were driving he had notbeen taking notice——never did；thinking of far thingsor of nothing——but now he saw！
Twenty six yearsago，just at this time of year，from the farmhousewithin half a mile of this very spot he had started forthat day in Torquay whence it might be said he hadnever returned. And a sudden ache beset his heart；he had stumbled on just one of those past momentsin his life，whose beauty and rapture he had failed toarrest，whose wings had fluttered away into theunknown；he had stumbled on a buried memory，awild sweet time，swiftly choked and ended. And，turning on his face，he rested his chin on his hands，and stared at the short grass where the little bluemilkwort was growing....
I
And this is what he remembered.
On the first of May，after their last year together atcollege，Frank Ashurst and his friend Robert Gartonwere on a tramp. They had walked that day fromBrent，intending to make Chagford，but Ashurst’sfootball knee had given out，and according to theirmap they had still some seven miles to go. Theywere sitting on a bank beside the road，where a trackcrossed alongside a wood，resting the knee andtalking of the universe，as young men will. Bothwere over six feet，and thin as rails；Ashurst pale，idealistic，full of absence；Garton queer，round the corner，knotted，curly，like some primevalbeast. Both had a literary bent；neither wore a hat.
Ashurst’s hair was smooth，pale，wavy，and had away of rising on either side of his brow，as if alwaysbeing flung back；Carton’s was a kind of darkunfathomed mop. They had not met a soul for miles.
“My dear fellow，” Garton was saying，“pity’s only aneffect of self consciousness；it’s a disease of the lastfive thousand years. The world was happierwithout.”Ashurst，following the clouds with his eyes，answered：
“It’s the pearl in the oyster，anyway.”“My dear chap，all our modern unhappiness comesfrom pity. Look at animals，and Red Indians，limitedto feeling their own occasional misfortunes；thenlook at ourselves——never free from feeling thetoothaches of others. Let’s get back to feeling fornobody，and have a better time.”“You’ll never practise that.”
Garton pensively stirred the hotch potch of his hair.
“To attain full growth，one mustn’t be squeamish. Tostarve oneself emotionally’s a mistake. All emotionis to the good——enriches life.”
“Yes，and when it runs up against chivalry？”
“Ah！ That’s so English！ If you speak of emotion theEnglish always think you want something physical，and are shocked. They’re afraid of passion，but notof lust——oh，no！——so long as they can keep it secret.”
Ashurst did not answer；he had plucked a bluefloweret，and was twiddling it against the sky. Acuckoo began calling from a thorn tree. The sky，theflowers，the songs of birds！ Robert was talking
through his hat！ And he said
“Well，let’s go on，and find some farm where we canput up.” In uttering those words，he was conscious ofa girl coming down from the common just abovethem. She was outlined against the sky，carrying abasket，and you could see that sky through the crookof her arm. And Ashurst，who saw beauty withoutwondering how it could advantage him，thought：“How pretty！” The wind，blowing her dark frieze skirtagainst her legs，lifted her battered peacocktam o’ shanter；her greyish blouse was worn and old，her shoes were split，her little hands rough and red，her neck browned. Her dark hair waved untidyacross her broad forehead，her face was short，herupper lip short，showing a glint of teeth，her browswere straight and dark，her lashes long and dark，hernose straight；but her grey eyes were thewonder dewy as if opened for the first time that day.She looked at Ashurst——perhaps he struck her asstrange，limping along without a hat，with his largeeyes on her，and his hair falling back. He could nottake off what was not on his head，but put up hishand in a salute，and said：
“Can you tell us if there’s a farm near here where wecould stay the night？ I’ve gone lame.”“There’s only our farm near，sir.” She spoke withoutshyness，in a pretty soft crisp voice.
“And where is that？”
“Down here，sir.”“Would you put us up？”
“Oh！ I think we would.”
“Will you show us the way？”
“Yes，Sir.”He limped on，silent，and Garton took up thecatechism.
“Are you a Devonshire girl？”
“No，Sir.”“What then？”
“From Wales.”“Ah！ I thought you were a Celt；so it’s not yourfarm？”
“My aunt’s，sir.”“And your uncle’s？”
“He is dead.”“Who farms it，then？”
“My aunt，and my three cousins.”
“But your uncle was a Devonshire man？”
“Yes，Sir.”“Have you lived here long？”
“Seven years.”“And how d’you like it after Wales？”
“I don’t know，sir.”“I suppose you don’t remember？”
“Oh，yes！ But it isdifferent.”
“I believe you！”
Ashurst broke in suddenly： “How old are you？”
“Seventeen，Sir.”“And what’s your name？”
“Megan David.”“This is Robert Garton，and I am Frank Ashurst. Wewanted to get on to Chagford.”
“It is a pity your leg is hurting you.”
Ashurst smiled，and when he smiled his face wasrather beautiful.
Descending past the narrow wood，they came on thefarm suddenly a long，low，stone built dwelling withcasement windows，in a farmyard where pigs andfowls and an old mare were straying. A shortsteep up grass hill behind was crowned with a fewScotch firs，and in front，an old orchard of appletrees，just breaking into flower，stretched down to astream and a long wild meadow. A little boy withoblique dark eyes was shepherding a pig，and by thehouse door stood a woman，who came towards them.The girl said：
“It is Mrs. Narracombe，my aunt.”
“Mrs. Narracombe，my aunt，” had a quick，dark eye，like a mother wild duck’s，and something of thesame snaky turn about her neck.
“We met your niece on the road，” said Ashurst；“shethought you might perhaps put us up for the night.”Mrs. Narracombe，taking them in from head to heel，answered：
“Well，I can，if you don’t mind one room. Megan，get the spare room ready，and a bowl of cream.You’ll be wanting tea，I suppose.”
Passing through a sort of porch made by two yewtrees and some flowering currant bushes，the girldisappeared into the house，her peacocktam o’ shanter bright athwart that rosy pink and thedark green of the yews.
“Will you come into the parlour and rest your leg？You’ll be from college，perhaps？”
“We were，but we’ve gone down now.”
Mrs.Narracombe nodded sagely.
The parlour，brick floored，with bare table and shinychairs and sofa stuffed with horsehair，seemed neverto have been used，it was so terribly clean. Ashurstsat down at once on the sofa，holding his lame kneebetween his hands，and Mrs.Narracombe gazed athim. He was the only son of a late professor ofchemistry，but people found a certain lordliness inone who was often so sublimely unconscious ofthem.
“Is there a stream where we could bathe？”
“There’s the strame at the bottom of the orchard，butsittin’ down you’ll not be covered！”
“How deep？”
“Well，tis about a foot and a half，maybe.”“Oh！ That’ll do fine. Which way？”
“Down the lane，through the second gate on theright，an’ the pool’s by the big apple tree that standsby itself. There’s trout there，if you can tickle them.”
“They’re more likely to tickle us！”
Mrs. Narracombe smiled. “There’ll be the tea readywhen you come back.”
The pool，formed by the damming of a rock，had asandy bottom；and the big apple tree，lowest in theorchard，grew so close that its boughs almostoverhung the water；it was in leaf，and all but inflower its crimson buds just bursting. There was notroom for more than one at a time in that narrowbath，and Ashurst waited his turn，rubbing his kneeand gazing at the wild meadow，all rocks and thorntrees and feld flowers，with a grove of beechesbeyond，raised up on a flat mound. Every bough wasswinging in the wind，every spring bird calling，anda slanting sunlight dappled the grass. He thought ofTheocritus，and the river Cherwell，of the moon，andthe maiden with the dewy eyes；of so many thingsthat he seemed to think of nothing；and he feltabsurdly happy.
2
During a late and sumptuous tea with eggs to it，cream and jam，and thin，fresh cakes touched withsaffron，Garton descanted on the Celts. It was aboutthe period of the Celtic awakening，and thediscovery that there was Celtic blood about thisfamily had excited one who believed that he was aCelt himself. Sprawling on a horse hair chair，with ahand made cigarette dribbling from the corner of hiscurly lips，he had been plunging his cold pin pointsof eyes into Ashurst’s and praising the refinement ofthe Welsh. To come out of Wales into England waslike the change from china to earthenware！ Frank，as an Englishman，had not of course perceived the exquisite refinement and emotional capacity of that Welsh girl！ And，delicately stirring in the dark mat of his still wet hair，he explained how exactly she
illustrated the writings of the Welsh bard Morgan ap Something in the twelfth century.
Ashurst，full length on the horsehair sofa，and juttingfar beyond its end，smoked a deeply coloured pipe，and did not listen，thinking of the girl’s face whenshe brought in a relay of cakes. It had been exactlylike looking at a flower，or some other pretty sight inNature till，with a funny little shiver，she hadlowered her glance and gone out，quiet as a mouse.
“Let’s go to the kitchen，” said Garton，“and see somemore of her.”The kitchen was a white washed room with rafters，to which were attached smoked hams；there wereflower pots on the window sill，and guns hanging onnails，queer mugs，china and pewter，and portraits ofQueen Victoria. A long，narrow table of plain woodwas set with bowls and spoons，under a string ofhigh hung onions；two sheep dogs and three cats layhere and there. On one side of the recessed fireplacesat two small boys，idle，and good as gold；on theother sat a stout，light eyed，red faced youth withhair and lashes the colour of the tow he was runningthrough the barrel of a gun；between them Mrs.Narracombe dreamily stirred some savoury scentedstew in a large pot. Two other youths，oblique eyed，dark haired，rather sly faced，like the two littleboys，were talking together and lolling against thewall；and a short，elderly，clean shaven man incorduroys，seated in the window，was conning abattered journal. The girl Megan seemed the onlyactive creature drawing cider and passing with thejugs from cask to table. Seeing them thus about toeat，Garton said：
“Ah！ If you’ll let us，we’ll come back when supper’sover，” and without waiting for an answer theywithdrew again to the parlour. But the colour in thekitchen，the warmth，the scents，and all those faces，heightened the bleakness of their shiny room，andthey resumed their seats moodily.
“Regular gipsy type，those boys. There was only oneSaxon——the fellow cleaning the gun. That girl is avery subtle study psychologically.”
Ashurst’s lips twitched. Garton seemed to him an assjust then. Subtle study！ She was a wild flower. Acreature it did you good to look at. Study！
Garton went on：
“Emotionally she would be wonderful. She wantsawakening.”“Are you going to awaken her？”
Garton looked at him and smiled. “How coarse andEnglish you are！” that curly smile seemed saying.
And Ashurst puffed his pipe. Awaken her！ That foolhad the best opinion of himself！ He threw up thewindow and leaned out. Dusk had gathered thick.The farm buildings and the wheel house were alldim and bluish，the apple trees but a blurredwilderness；the air smelled of woodsmoke from thekitchen fire.
One bird going to bed later than theothers was uttering a half hearted twitter，as thoughsurprised at the darkness. From the stable came thesnuffle and stamp of a feeding horse. And away overthere was the loom of the moor，and away and awaythe shy stars which had not as yet full light，prickingwhite through the deep blue heavens. A quaveringowl hooted. Ashurst drew a deep breath. What anight to wander out in！ A padding of unshod hoofscame up the lane，and three dim，dark shapespassed——ponies on an evening march. Their heads，black and fuzzy，showed above the gate. At the tapof his pipe，and a shower of little sparks，they shiedround and scampered. A bat went fluttering past，uttering its almost inaudible “chip，chip.” Ashurstheld out his hand；on the upturned palm he couldfeel the dew. Suddenly from overhead he heard littleburring boys’ voices，little thumps of boots throwndown，and another voice，crisp and soft——the girl’sputting them to bed，no doubt；and nine clear words“No，Rick，you can’t have the cat in bed”；then camea skirmish of giggles and gurgles，a soft slap，a laughso low and pretty that it made him shiver a little. Ablowing sound，and the glim of the candle whichwas fingering the dusk above，went out；silencereigned. Ashurst withdrew into the room and satdown；his knee pained him，and his soul felt gloomy.
“You go to the kitchen，” he said；“I’m going to bed.”
3
For Ashurst the wheel of slumber was wont to turnnoiseless and slick and swift，but though he seemedsunk in sleep when his companion came up，he wasreally wide awake；and long after Carton，smotheredin the other bed of that low roofed room，wasworshipping darkness with his upturned nose，heheard the owls. Barring the discomfort of his knee，itwas not unpleasant——the cares of life did not loomlarge in night watches for this young man. In fact hehad none；just enrolled a barrister，with literaryaspirations，the world before him，no father ormother，and four hundred a year of his own. Did itmatter where he went，what he did，or when he didit？
His bed，too，was hard，and this preserved himfrom fever. He lay，sniffing the scent of the nightwhich drifted into the low room through the opencasement close to his head. Except for a definiteirritation with his friend，natural when you havetramped with a man for three days，Ashurst’smemories and visions that sleepless night werekindly and wistful and exciting. One vision，specially clear and unreasonable，for he had not evenbeen conscious of noting it，was the face of theyouth cleaning the gun；its intent，stolid，yet startleduplook at the kitchen doorway，quickly shifted to thegirl carrying the cider jug. This red，blue eyed，light lashed，tow haired face stuck as firmly in hismemory as the girl’s own face，so dewy and simple.But at last，in the square of darkness through theuncurtained casement，he saw day coming，andheard one hoarse and sleepy caw. Then followedsilence，dead as ever，till the song of a blackbird，notproperly awake，adventured into the hush. And，fromstaring at the framed brightening light，Ashurst fellasleep.
Next day his knee was badly swollen；the walkingtour was obviously over. Garton，due back inLondon on the morrow，departed at midday with anironical smile which left a scar of irritation—healedthe moment his loping figure vanished round thecorner of the steep lane. All day Ashurst rested hisknee，in a green painted wooden chair on the patchof grass by the yew tree porch，where the sunlightdistilled the scent of stocks and gillyflowers，and aghost of scent from the flowering currant bushes.Beatifically he smoked，dreamed，watched.
A farm in spring is all birth young things coming outof bud and shell，and human beings watching overthe process with faint excitement feeding andtending what has been born. So still the young mansat，that a mother goose，with stately cross footedwaddle，brought her six yellow necked grey backedgoslings to strop their little beaks against the grassblades at his feet. Now and again Mrs.Narracombeor the girl Megan would come and ask if he wantedanything，and he would smile and say： “Nothing，thanks. It’s splendid here.” Towards tea time theycame out together，bearing a long poultice of somedark stuff in a bowl，and after a long and solemnscrutiny of his swollen knee，bound it on. When theywere gone，he thought of the girl’s soft “Oh！”——of herpitying eyes，and the little wrinkle in her brow. Andagain he felt that unreasoning irritation against hisdeparted friend，who had talked such rot about her.When she brought out his tea，he said：
“How did you like my friend，Megan？”
She forced down her upper lip，as if afraid that tosmile was not polite. “He was a funny gentleman；hemade us laugh. I think he is very clever.”“What did he say to make you laugh？”
“He said I was a daughter of the bards. What arethey？”
“Welsh poets，who lived hundreds of years ago.”“Why am I their daughter，please？”
“He meant that you were the sort of girl they sangabout.”She wrinkled her brows. “I think he likes to joke.Am I？”
“Would you believe me，if I told you？”
“Oh，yes.”“Well，I think he was right.”She smiled.
And Ashurst thought： “You are a pretty thing！”
“He said，too，that Joe was a Saxon type. Whatwould that be？”
“Which is Joe？ With the blue eyes and red face？”
“Yes. My uncle’s nephew.”
“Not your cousin，then？”
“No.”“Well，he meant that Joe was like the men who cameover to England about fourteen hundred years ago，and conquered it.”“Oh！ I know about them；but is he？”
“Garton’s crazy about that sort of thing；but I mustsay Joe does look a bit Early Saxon.”“Yes.”That “Yes” tickled Ashurst. It was so crisp andgraceful，so conclusive，and politely acquiescent inwhat was evidently. Greek to her.
“He said that all the other boys were regular gipsies.He should not have said that. My aunt laughed，butshe didn’t like it，of course，and my cousins wereangry. Uncle was a farmer——farmers are not gipsies.It is wrong to hurt people.”
Ashurst wanted to take her hand and give it asqueeze，but he only answered：
“Quite right，Megan. By the way，I heard you puttingthe little ones to bed last night.”She flushed a little. “Please to drink your tea——it isgetting cold. Shall I get you some fresh？”
“Do you ever have time to do anything foryourself？”
“Oh！ Yes.”“I’ve been watching，but I haven’t seen it yet.”She wrinkled her brows in a puzzled frown，and hercolour deepened.
When she was gone，Ashurst thought： “Did she thinkI was chaffing her？ I wouldn’t for the world！” He wasat that age when to some men “Beauty’s a flower，” asthe poet says，and inspires in them the thoughts ofchivalry. Never veryconscious of his surroundings，it was some time before he was aware that the youthwhom Garton had called “a Saxon type” wasstanding outside the stable door；and a fine bit ofcolour he made in his soiled brown velvet cords，muddy gaiters，and blue shirt；red armed，red faced，the sun turning his hair from tow to flax；immovablystolid，persistent，unsmiling he stood. Then，seeingAshurst looking at him，he crossed the yard at thatgait of the young countryman always ashamed not tobe slow and heavy dwelling on each leg，anddisappeared round the end of the house towards thekitchen entrance. A chill came over Ashurst’s mood.Clods？ With all the good will in the world，howimpossible to get on terms with them！ And yet—seethat girl！
Her shoes were split，her hands rough；but——what was it？ Was it really her Celtic blood，asGarton had said？——she was a lady born，a jewel，though probably she could do no more than just readand write！
The elderly，clean shaven man he had seen last nightin the kitchen had come into the yard with a dog，driving the cows to their milking. Ashurst saw thathe was lame.
“You’ve got some good ones there！”
The lame man’s face brightened. He had the upwardlook in his eyes which prolonged suffering oftenbrings.
“Yeas；they’m praaper buties；gude milkers tu.”“I bet they are.”“’Ope as yure leg’s better，zurr.”“Thank you，it’s getting on.”The lame man touched his own： “I know what ’tes，meself；’tes a main worritin’ thing，the knee. I’vea ’ad mine bad this ten year.”Ashurst made the sound of sympathy which comesso readily from those who have an independentincome，and the lame man smiled again.
“Mustn’t complain，though——they mighty near ’ad itoff.”“Ho！”
“Yeas；an’ compared with what ’twas，tes almost sogude as nu.”“They’ve put a bandage of splendid stuff on mine.”“The maid she picks et. She’m a gude maid wi’ theflowers. There’s folks zeem to know the healin’ inthings. My mother was a rare one for that. ’Ope asyu’ll zune be better，zurr. Goo ahn，therr！”
Ashurst smiled. “Wi’ the flowers！” A flower herself！
That evening，after his supper of cold duck，junket，and cider，the girl came in.
“Please，auntie says——will you try a piece of ourMayday cake？”
“If I may come to the kitchen for it.”“Oh，yes！ You’ll be missing your friend.”“Not I. But are you sure no one minds？”
“Who would mind？ We shall be very pleased.”Ashurst rose too suddenly for his stiff knee，staggered，and subsided. The girl gave a little gasp，and held out her hands. Ashurst took them，small，rough，brown；checked his impulse to put them tohis lips，and let her pull him up. She came closebeside him，offering her shoulder. And leaning onher he walked across the room. That shoulderseemed quite the pleasantest thing he had evertouched. But，he had presence of mind enough tocatch his stick out of the rack，and withdraw hishand before arriving at the kitchen.
That night he slept like a top，and woke with hisknee of almost normal size. He again spent themorning in his chair on the grass patch，scribblingdown verses；but in the afternoon he wandered aboutwith the two little boys Nick and Rick. It wasSaturday，so they were early home from school；quick，shy，dark little rascals of seven and six，soontalkative，for Ashurst had a way with children. Byfour o’clock they had shown him all their methods ofdestroying life，except the tickling of trout；and withbreeches tucked up，lay on their stomachs over thetrout stream，pretending they had thisaccomplishment also. They tickled nothing，ofcourse，for their giggling and shouting scared everyspotted thing away. Ashurst，on a rock at the edge ofthe beech clump，watched them，and listened to thecuckoos，till Nick，the elder and less persevering，came up and stood beside him.
“The gipsy bogle zets on that stone，” he said.
“What gipsy bogie？”
“Dunno；never zeen ’e. Megan zays ’e zets there；an’old Jim zeed ’e once. ’E was zettin’ there naight aforeour pony kicked——in father’s ’ead. ’E plays theviddle.”“What tune does he play？”
“Dunno.”“What’s he like？”
“’E’s black. Old Jim zays ’e’s all over ’air. ’E’s apraaper bogle. ’E don’ come only at naight.” Thelittle boy’s oblique dark eyes slid round. “D’yu think’e might want to take me away？ Megan’s feared of’e.”“Has she seen him？”
“No. She’s not afeared o’ yu.”“I should think not. Why should she be？”
“She zays a prayer for yu.”“How do you know that，you little rascal？”
“When I was asleep，she said： ‘God bless us all，an’Mr. Ashes.’ I yeard ’er whisperin’.”“You’re a little ruffian to tell what you hear whenyou’re not meant to hear it！”
The little boy was silent. Then he said aggressively：
“I can skin rabbets. Megan，she can’t bear skinnin’’em. I like blood.”“Oh！ you do；you little monster！”
“What’s that？”
“A creature that likes hurting others.”The little boy scowled. “They’m only dead rabbets，what us eats.”“Quite right，Nick. I beg your pardon.”“I can skin frogs，tu.”But Ashurst had become absent. “God bless us all，and Mr. Ashes！” And puzzled by that suddeninaccessibility，Nick ran back to the stream wherethe giggling and shouts again uprose at once.
When Megan brought his tea，he said：
“What’s the gipsy bogle，Megan？”
She looked up，startled.
“He brings bad things.”“Surely you don’t believe in ghosts？”
“I hope I will never see him.”“Of course you won’t. There aren’t such things. Whatold Jim saw was a pony.”“No！ There are bogies in the rocks；they are the menwho lived long ago.”“They aren’t gipsies，anyway；those old men weredead long before gipsies came.”She said simply： “They are all bad.”“Why？ If there are any，they’re only wild，like therabbits. The flowers aren’t bad for being wild；thethorn trees were never planted——and you don’t mindthem. I shall go down at night and look for yourbogie，and have a talk with him.”“Oh，no！ Oh，no！”
“Oh，yes！ I shall go and sit on his rock.”She clasped her hands together： “Oh，please！”
“Why！ What ’does it matter if anything happens tome？”
She did not answer；and in a sort of pet he added：
“Well，I daresay I shan’t see him，because I suppose Imust be off soon.”“Soon？”
“Your aunt won’t want to keep me here.”“Oh，yes！ We always let lodgings in summer.”Fixing his eyes on her face，he asked：
“Would you like me to stay？”
“Yes.”“I’m going to say a prayer for you to night！”
She flushed crimson，frowned，and went out of theroom. He sat，cursing himself，till his tea wasstewed. It was as if he had hacked with his thickboots at a clump of bluebells. Why had he said sucha silly thing？ Was he just a towny college ass likeRobert Garton，as far from understanding this girl？
Ashurst spent the next week confirming therestoration of his leg，by exploration of the countrywithin easy reach. Spring was a revelation to himthis year. In a kind of intoxication he would watchthe pink white buds of some backward beech treesprayed up in the sunlight against the deep blue sky，or the trunks and limbs of the few Scotch firs，tawnyin violent light，or again，on the moor，the gale bentlarches which had such a look of life when the windstreamed in their young green，above the rusty blackunderboughs. Or he would lie on the banks，gazingat the clusters of dog violets，or up in the deadbracken，fingering the pink，transparent buds of thedewberry，while the cuckoos called and yafeslaughed，or a lark，from very high，dripped its beadsof song. It was certainly different from any spring hehad ever known，for spring was within him，notwithout. In the daytime he hardly saw the family；and when Megan brought in his meals she alwaysseemed too busy in the house or among the youngthings in the yard to stay talking long. But in theevenings he installed himself in the window seat inthe kitchen，smoking and chatting with the lame manJim，or Mrs.Narracombe，while the girl sewed，ormoved about，clearing the supper things away. Andsometimes，with the sensation a cat must feel whenit purrs，he would become conscious that Megan’seyes——those dew grey eyes——were fixed on him witha sort of lingering soft look which was strangelyflattering.
It was on Sunday week in the evening，when he waslying in the orchard listening to a blackbird andcomposing a love poem，that he heard the gate swingto，and saw the girl come running among the trees，with the red cheeked，stolid Joe in swift pursuit.About twenty yards away the chase ended，and thetwo stood fronting each other，not noticing thestranger in the grass——the boy pressing on，the girlfending him off. Ashurst could see her face，angry，disturbed；and the youth’s——who would have thoughtthat red faced yokel could look so distraught！ Andpainfully affected by that sight，he jumped up. Theysaw him then. Megan dropped her hands，and shrankbehind a tree trunk；the boy gave an angry grunt，rushed at the bank，scrambled over and vanished.Ashurst went slowly up to her. She was standingquite still，biting her lip very pretty，with her fine，dark hair blown loose about her face，and her eyescast down.
“I beg your pardon，” he said.
She gave him one upward look，from eyes muchdilated；then，catching her breath，turned away.Ashurst followed.
“Megan！”
But she went on；and taking hold of her arm，heturned her gently round to him.
“Stop and speak to me.”“Why do you beg my pardon？ It is not to me youshould do that.”“Well，then，to Joe.”“How dare he come after me？”
“In love with you，I suppose.”She stamped her foot.
Ashurst uttered a short laugh. “Would you like me topunch his head？”
She cried with sudden passion：
“You laugh at me you laugh at us！”
He caught hold of her hands，but she shrank back，till her passionate little face and loose dark hair werecaught among the pink clusters of the apple blossom.Ashurst raised one of her imprisoned hands and puthis lips to it. He felt how chivalrous he was，andsuperior to that clod Joe——just brushing that small，rough hand with his mouth. Her shrinking ceased suddenly；she seemed to tremble towards him. A sweet warmth overtook Ashurst from top to toe. This slim maiden，so simple and fine and pretty，was pleased，then，at the touch of his lips！ And，yielding to a swift impulse，he put his arms round her，pressed her to him，and kissed her forehead. Then he was frightened she went so pale，closing her eyes，so that the long，dark lashes lay on her pale cheeks； her hands，too，lay inert at her sides. The touch of her breast sent a shiver through him. “Megan！” he sighed out，and let her go. In the utter silence a blackbird shouted. Then the girl seized his hand，put it to her cheek，her heart，her lips，kissed it passionately，and fled away among the mossy trunks of the apple trees，till they hid her from him.
Ashurst sat down on a twisted old tree growing almost along the ground，and，all throbbing and bewildered，gazed vacantly at the blossom which had crowned her hair——those pink buds with one white open apple star. What had he done？ How had he let himself be thus stampeded by beauty——pity——or——just the spring！ He felt curiously happy，all the same；happy and triumphant，with shivers running through his limbs，and a vague alarm. This was the beginning of—— what？ The midges bit him，the dancing gnats tried to fly into his mouth，and all the spring around him seemed to grow more lovely and alive；the songs of the cuckoos and the blackbirds，the laughter of the yaflies，the level slanting sunlight，the apple blossom which had crowned her head！ He got up from the old trunk and strode out of the orchard，wanting space，an open sky，to get on terms with these new sensations. He made for the moor，and from an ash tree in the hedge a magpie flew out to herald him.
Of man——at any age from five years on——who can say he has never been in love？ Ashurst had loved his partners at his dancing class；loved his nursery governess；girls in school holidays；perhaps never been quite out of love，cherishing always some more or less remote admiration. But this was different，not remote at all. Quite a new sensation；terribly delightful，bringing a sense of completed manhood. To be holding in his fingers such a wild flower，to be able to put it to his lips，and feel it tremble with delight against them！ What intoxication，and——embarrassment！ What to do with it——how meet her next time？ His first caress had been cool，pitiful； but the next could not be，now that，by her burning little kiss on his hand，by her pressure of it to her heart，he knew that she loved him. Some natures arecoarsened by love bestowed on them；others，likeAshurst’s，are swayed and drawn，warmed andsoftened，almost exalted，by what they feel to be asort of miracle.
And up there among the tors he was racked betweenthe passionate desire to revel in this new sensation ofspring fulfilled within him，and a vague but very realuneasiness. At one moment he gave himself upcompletely to his pride at having captured thispretty，trustful，dewy eyed thing！ At the next hethought with factitious solemnity： “Yes，my boy！ Butlook out what you’re doing！ You know what comesof it！”