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Overview
Then came her mother's last illness, and Plaxy vanished. Once or twice
I received a letter from her, giving no address, but suggesting that I
might reply to her "care of the Post Office" in a village in North
Wales, sometimes one, sometimes another. In temper these letters
ranged from a perfunctory amiability to genuine longing to have me
again. They contained mysterious references to "a strange duty,"
which, she said, was connected with her father's work. The great
physiologist, I knew, had been engaged on very sensational experiments
on the brains of the higher mammals. He had produced some marvelously
intelligent sheep-dogs, and at the time of his death it was said that
he was concerned with even more ambitious research. One of the colder
of Plaxy's letters spoke of an "unexpectedly sweet reward" in
connection with her new duty, but in a more passionate one she cried
out against "this exacting, fascinating, dehumanizing life." Sometimes
she seemed to be in a state of conflict and torture about something
which she must not explain. One of these letters was so distraught
that I feared for her sanity. I determined therefore to devote my
approaching leave to walking in North Wales in the hope of finding
her.
I spent ten days wandering from pub to pub in the region indicated by
the addresses, asking everywhere if a Miss Trelone was known in the
neighbourhood. At last, in Llan Ffestiniog, I heard of her. There was
a young lady of that name living in a shepherd's cottage on the fringe
of the moor somewhere above Trawsfynydd. The local shopkeeper who gave
me this information said with an air of mystery, "She is a strange
young lady, indeed. She has friends, and I am one of them; but she has
enemies."
Following his directions, I walked for some miles along the winding
Trawsfynydd road and then turned to the left up a lane. After another
mile or so, right on the edge of the open moor, I came upon a minute
cottage built of rough slabs of shale, and surrounded by a little
garden and stunted trees. The door was shut, but smoke rose from a
chimney. I knocked. The door remained shut. Peering through a window,
I saw a typical cottage kitchen, but on the table was a pile of books.
I sat down on a rickety seat in the garden and noted the neat rows of
cabbages and peas. Away to my right, across the deep Cynfal gorge, was
Ffestiniog, a pack of slate-grey elephants following their leader, the
unsteepled church, down a spur of hill towards the valley. Behind and
above stood the Moelwyn range.
I was smoking my second cigarette when I heard Plaxy's voice in the
distance. It was her voice that had first attracted me to her. Sitting
in a cafe, I had been enthralled by that sensitive human sound coming
from some unknown person behind me. And now once more I heard but did
not see her. For a moment I listened with delight to her speech,
which, as I had often said, was like the cool sparkling talk of small
waves on the pebbly shore of a tarn on a hot day.
I rose to meet her, but something strange arrested me. Interspersed
with Plaxy's remarks was no other human voice but a quite different
sound, articulate but inhuman. Just before she came round the corner
of the house she said, "But, my dear, don't _dwell_ on your
handlessness so! You have triumphed over it superbly." There followed
a strange trickle of speech from her companion; then through the gate
into the garden came Plaxy and a large dog.
She halted, her eyes wide with surprise, and (I hoped) with joy; but
her brows soon puckered. Laying a hand on the dog's head, she stood
silent for a moment. I had time to observe that a change had come over
her. She was wearing rather muddy corduroy trousers and a blue shirt.
The same grey eyes, the same ample, but decisive mouth, which had
recently seemed to me to belie her character, the same shock of
auburn, faintly carroty hair. But instead of a rather pale face, a
ruddy brown one, and a complete absence of make-up. No lip-stick,
even. The appearance of rude health was oddly contradicted by a
darkness under the eyes and a tautness round the mouth. Strange how
much one can notice in a couple of seconds, when one is in love!
Her hand deserted the dog's head, and was stretched out to me in
welcome. "Oh well," she said smiling, "since you have nosed us out, we
had better take you into our confidence." There was some embarrassment
in her tone, but also perhaps a ring of relief. "Hadn't we, Sirius,"
she added, looking down at the great dog.
I received a letter from her, giving no address, but suggesting that I
might reply to her "care of the Post Office" in a village in North
Wales, sometimes one, sometimes another. In temper these letters
ranged from a perfunctory amiability to genuine longing to have me
again. They contained mysterious references to "a strange duty,"
which, she said, was connected with her father's work. The great
physiologist, I knew, had been engaged on very sensational experiments
on the brains of the higher mammals. He had produced some marvelously
intelligent sheep-dogs, and at the time of his death it was said that
he was concerned with even more ambitious research. One of the colder
of Plaxy's letters spoke of an "unexpectedly sweet reward" in
connection with her new duty, but in a more passionate one she cried
out against "this exacting, fascinating, dehumanizing life." Sometimes
she seemed to be in a state of conflict and torture about something
which she must not explain. One of these letters was so distraught
that I feared for her sanity. I determined therefore to devote my
approaching leave to walking in North Wales in the hope of finding
her.
I spent ten days wandering from pub to pub in the region indicated by
the addresses, asking everywhere if a Miss Trelone was known in the
neighbourhood. At last, in Llan Ffestiniog, I heard of her. There was
a young lady of that name living in a shepherd's cottage on the fringe
of the moor somewhere above Trawsfynydd. The local shopkeeper who gave
me this information said with an air of mystery, "She is a strange
young lady, indeed. She has friends, and I am one of them; but she has
enemies."
Following his directions, I walked for some miles along the winding
Trawsfynydd road and then turned to the left up a lane. After another
mile or so, right on the edge of the open moor, I came upon a minute
cottage built of rough slabs of shale, and surrounded by a little
garden and stunted trees. The door was shut, but smoke rose from a
chimney. I knocked. The door remained shut. Peering through a window,
I saw a typical cottage kitchen, but on the table was a pile of books.
I sat down on a rickety seat in the garden and noted the neat rows of
cabbages and peas. Away to my right, across the deep Cynfal gorge, was
Ffestiniog, a pack of slate-grey elephants following their leader, the
unsteepled church, down a spur of hill towards the valley. Behind and
above stood the Moelwyn range.
I was smoking my second cigarette when I heard Plaxy's voice in the
distance. It was her voice that had first attracted me to her. Sitting
in a cafe, I had been enthralled by that sensitive human sound coming
from some unknown person behind me. And now once more I heard but did
not see her. For a moment I listened with delight to her speech,
which, as I had often said, was like the cool sparkling talk of small
waves on the pebbly shore of a tarn on a hot day.
I rose to meet her, but something strange arrested me. Interspersed
with Plaxy's remarks was no other human voice but a quite different
sound, articulate but inhuman. Just before she came round the corner
of the house she said, "But, my dear, don't _dwell_ on your
handlessness so! You have triumphed over it superbly." There followed
a strange trickle of speech from her companion; then through the gate
into the garden came Plaxy and a large dog.
She halted, her eyes wide with surprise, and (I hoped) with joy; but
her brows soon puckered. Laying a hand on the dog's head, she stood
silent for a moment. I had time to observe that a change had come over
her. She was wearing rather muddy corduroy trousers and a blue shirt.
The same grey eyes, the same ample, but decisive mouth, which had
recently seemed to me to belie her character, the same shock of
auburn, faintly carroty hair. But instead of a rather pale face, a
ruddy brown one, and a complete absence of make-up. No lip-stick,
even. The appearance of rude health was oddly contradicted by a
darkness under the eyes and a tautness round the mouth. Strange how
much one can notice in a couple of seconds, when one is in love!
Her hand deserted the dog's head, and was stretched out to me in
welcome. "Oh well," she said smiling, "since you have nosed us out, we
had better take you into our confidence." There was some embarrassment
in her tone, but also perhaps a ring of relief. "Hadn't we, Sirius,"
she added, looking down at the great dog.
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940013696648 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | WDS Publishing |
| Publication date: | 01/21/2012 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 204 KB |
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