Still glides the stream, p.1
Still Glides the Stream, page 1
STILL GLIDES THE STREAM
D. E. Stevenson
© D. E. Stevenson 1959
D. E. Stevenson has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1959 by Collins Clear-Type Press.
This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide,
As being past away. — Vain sympathies!
For backward, Duddon, as I cast my eyes,
I see what was, and is, and will abide;
Still Glides the Stream, and shall forever glide;
The Form remains, the Function never dies.
Valedictory Sonnet to the River Duddon
william wordsworth
Table of Contents
PART ONE
Broadmeadows
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
PART TWO
The Wild Goose
Chase
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
PART THREE
Langford
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Envoi
PART ONE
Broadmeadows
Chapter 1
I travell’d among unknown men
In lands beyond the sea …
Will Hastie remembered this scrap of poetry as he rode up the hill. The words came into his head—it was almost as if somebody had said them—but he could not remember their context nor who had written them. No doubt he would remember later when he was not trying; that was the way one’s brain worked.
For years Will had travelled among unknown men; now that he was home he could not make up his mind whether he felt like Rip van Winkle or whether he felt as if he had been here yesterday riding his pony through these self-same woods. The trees had not changed a whit—they were hard-wood trees, beeches and oaks and chestnuts—the turf of the ride was as smooth and green as ever, and when Will emerged from the woods on to the open moor he could see Cloudhill with a small white puffy cloud like a scrap of cotton-wool hovering over its summit. There was nearly always a cloud—sometimes small and white, sometimes dark and thundery—hovering over Cloudhill. Looking at it now, Will remembered the day he had climbed the hill with his father; it was a clear sunny day but when they reached the top the cloud came down and enveloped them in its damp embrace. It had been quite an uncanny experience and if he had not been with his father it would have alarmed him considerably.
There were queer stories about Cloudhill. Some of the local people would tell you that the cloud was a device of “Auld Hornie” and he could call it up out of a clear summer sky. The hill-top belonged to him—so they said—and there were folk in Torfoot who would swear to having seen Auld Hornie himself, complete with horns, standing upon a rock near the summit—and laughing. Other folk, less credulous, declared that Auld Hornie of Cloudhill was no more than a mountain goat.
Will did not know which of these theories to believe but his father was there so it did not matter. “Dear me, it’s like a wet blanket,” said Mr. Hastie cheerfully. “We’ll have to hold hands, Will.” So they had come down holding hands and in a surprisingly few minutes had emerged into sunshine.
It was odd to remember that little incident after all these years (and to remember it so clearly) but all sorts of odd and unrelated memories were crowding into Will’s mind to-day. On his right was a cluster of rocks rising from amongst the trees in a conical formation. It had been Will’s look-out tower, for although it was not really very high it was so situated that it gave one a view into the next valley where the river ran and where Langford House lay upon the other side of the ford. Langford had been Will’s second home, and the young Elliot Murrays—Rae and Patience—had been more like a brother and a sister than ordinary friends, so although Will was an only child and his father had often been away on business Will had never felt lonely.
Never? Well, hardly ever! thought Will … for now he remembered an occasion when he had felt very lonely indeed. It was during the Christmas holidays, and Will had been in contact with a miserable child who was discovered to be suffering from mumps, so he was debarred from visiting Langford—he was exiled for three weeks! Will formed the habit of climbing the huddle of rocks and looking down at the house by the river. After the first day of his discovery Will took a small spy-glass with him and this brought Langford nearer. He could see old Brown in the kitchen-garden, and noted (with a child’s detachment) that old Brown did not work nearly as hard as the gardener at Broadmeadows—MacLaggan by name. He could see Colonel Elliot Murray go out in his car and Rae and Patty come home from their morning walk. Will liked to visit his look-out tower about four o’clock in the afternoon and to watch the lights go on … and especially to watch for the light to go on in the window of the play-room in the attic where Rae and Patty had their tea and indulged in all sorts of interesting pastimes.
The light went on and immediately afterwards somebody—either Rae or Patty—pulled down the scarlet blind; the window became a bright-red rectangle shining in the gathering darkness. All the other windows in Langford House had yellow blinds, so even when it was quite dark, even when it was a little misty, there was no mistaking which was the window of the play-room. Later, when his quarantine was over and Will had been welcomed back to Langford with open arms, he told Rae and Patty about his discovery and Rae suggested a use for the scarlet blind.
“It can be a signal,” said Rae. “You can watch for it, can’t you? I mean if Patty and I have got to go to that frightful tea-fight to-morrow we’ll pull the blind half-way down and you’ll know it’s no use coming—see?”
Will saw. “Half-mast,” he agreed nodding.
After that there was a regular code of signals—the blind could even be used for morse—and, although it would have been easier to telephone messages between Broadmeadows and Langford, it was far more romantic to send them by way of the blind—as any properly minded child will know.
What fun we had! thought Will, with a nostalgic sigh for his childhood. How lucky I was to have Langford—and Rae and Patty to play with!
2
So far everything had looked the same to Will; the trees, the rocks, Cloudhill with its cap of white; but when he looked westwards towards Craigrowan Will saw that the plantation of conifers which he remembered as tiny seedlings had grown into fine young trees. (That shows you! thought Will, gazing across the valley in astonishment.) Of course he knew perfectly well that he had not been home for twelve years, but all the same he was astonished at the transformation.
It was almost exactly twelve years since Will had been at Broadmeadows. His last visit had been during the war when he had been wounded—not very seriously—and had been granted a fortnight’s sick-leave. The first few days of leave had been a period of absolute bliss, but after that he was not quite so happy.
One evening when Will and his father were sitting in the smoking-room together Mr. Hastie had said quite suddenly, “I shall have to tell you, Will. You won’t like it, but it can’t be helped; I’ve decided to let Broadmeadows.”
“Let Broadmeadows!” echoed Will in horrified tones.
“I’m afraid so, my boy. It’s a bit of a wrench but we must face facts. I told you I’ve been offered that post in London—and you’ve got your profession. You’ve made up your mind to stay on in the Army after the war is over, haven’t you? So you see it would mean this place standing empty for months on end. There doesn’t seem much sense in that—and what’s more we can’t afford it. If we let Broadmeadows the money will put us on our legs again.”
Will said reluctantly, “Well, perhaps if you can get a good offer——”
“But I have! That’s the point. I’ve got an extremely good offer. It’s a fellow called Levison, a business-man from Manchester. He wants a place on the Borders with a bit of shooting and fishing. As a matter of fact I wasn’t too keen—couldn’t bear the idea somehow—but Levison is determined to have Broadmeadows and doesn’t seem to mind what he pays for it … so there you are! Quite honestly I see no reasonable alternative. You see, Will, I want to come home to Broadmeadows when I retire and I shall want money to put the whole place into repair. The estate really needs a good deal of money spent on repairs.”
This was true, every word of it. So the old family estate had been let for ten years to Mr. Levison, and Will had spent his infrequent periods of leave at his father’s flat in London. In a way it had been very pleasant; Will and his father were cronies, they had gone gay together and enjoyed it, but both of them had always looked forward to going home.
Two years ago Mr. Hastie had retired and returned to Broadmeadows and now Will also had retired for although he was only thirty-five he had had his fill of travelling in lands beyond the sea and was glad to take advantage of the special terms offered to officers on the reorganisation of the Army. Will wanted to return to his own place and become a farmer.
It was di fficult to believe that he was here “for keeps”—almost too good to be true! Here he was and here he would remain for the rest of his life; he was his own master, no longer at the beck and call of those mythical beings at the War Office who seemed to delight in sending you off to the end of the world at the most inconvenient moments.
Spring time is the most beautiful time of the year in the Scottish Borders. It comes slowly and shyly as if it feared that Jack Frost might return and give it a mischievous nip. The tender buds unfold in the pale golden sunshine and in sheltered nooks you may find a scatter of yellow primroses or some purple violets hiding amongst their green leaves. To-day was that sort of day, beautiful and peaceful. The light breeze rustled in the grasses and far in the distance Will heard the call of a grouse. There was no other sound to disturb the perfect stillness.
After a bit Will rode on across the moor and presently came to the dry-stone dyke which marked the boundary of his father’s property. He noticed that the gate, which had always been a ramshackle affair, had been replaced by a sound one. That’s the stuff! thought Will in approval. Father was right; it was worth while letting the place and getting the money to put things in order. We’ll get everything ship-shape—and we’ll make it pay. The farms ought to pay if they’re properly modernised—and I don’t see why we shouldn’t plant conifers. I must learn, thought Will. I must find out about forestry …
3
Will’s head was full of ideas as he rode down the steep path to the river but they vanished when he rounded an outcrop of rocks, for coming towards him along the path was Colonel Elliot Murray; there was no mistaking the tall thin figure of the laird. Twelve years had laid their mark upon him; his hair which had been iron-grey was now silver and his shoulders were not so straight and soldierly. Twelve years and the loss of his only son were enough to age any man, so Will ought to have been prepared to see a change in him … but Will was not prepared.
Why—he’s an old man! thought Will—and his heart contracted strangely, for ever since he could remember Colonel Elliot Murray had been his hero, and heroes should never grow old. Will thought there was nobody like the Colonel—nobody so brave, nobody so full of integrity, nobody so good and kind. (Nor was Will singular in this respect for everybody in the district was fond of him and proud of him; he was pointed out to visitors as one of the “sights” of Torfoot. “That’s the laird,” people would say. “He won the V.C. in the First War—but there’s no side about him. He’s the same to everybody. Take a good look at him for you’ll not see his like in the whole of Scotland.”)
By this time they had approached near enough for the Colonel to recognise Will and to wave and hasten his steps.
“My dear fellow!” he exclaimed. “My dear Will, this is a delightful surprise! Your father told me you were coming but I had no idea it would be so soon …”
Will slipped off the pony’s back and they shook hands.
“We were all so glad when your father came back,” continued the Colonel. “Mr. Levison was a very pleasant neighbour but it seemed all wrong to have strangers at Broadmeadows—we couldn’t get used to it at all. And now you’re home! Are you glad to be home, Will?”
A few minutes ago Will had been glad—indeed almost unbearably happy—but now he was almost unbearably sad. He had known it would be distressing to meet Colonel Elliot Murray but he had not realised it would be so heart-rending. That’s what it was—heart-rending. He was almost ashamed of being here, alive and well, standing upon the hillside and talking to Rae’s father (or rather, not talking to Rae’s father because there was such a large lump in his throat that he couldn’t speak). Will was more upset now, at this moment, than he had been when he first heard that Rae had been killed in action. That had been bad enough in all conscience, but it was war-time and life was a precarious affair; people were being killed every day; his own life was in constant danger. In war you can’t go on grieving even for your best friend. Now it was different and the grief and misery rose like a tidal wave and nearly swamped him. Here he was, home again, and Rae was not here! If he went down to Langford House, which he could see lying peaceful and secure in the hollow by the river, Rae would not be there. The play-room in the attic would be empty. Rae’s fishing-rods would be stacked tidily in the corner; the table would be clear of books and papers and bottles of gun-oil and boxes of cartridges and all the other impedimenta with which it had been cluttered in bygone days …
“Are you coming to lunch, Will?” asked Colonel Elliot Murray.
“Not to-day, sir,” replied Will, finding his voice with difficulty. “You see it’s my first day at home——”
“Of course! How foolish of me! Your father will want you to have lunch with him … but come as soon as you can and tell us all your news. Patty will be delighted to see you, and—and Margaret.”
“How is Mrs. Elliot Murray?”
“Wonderfully well. She forgets things, you know; so you—you mustn’t be surprised—but otherwise wonderfully well. She won’t have forgotten you, of course. You were always a favourite of hers.”
It was difficult to know what to say, except that he would come as soon as he could—possibly on Friday.
“That’s right, Will. Come on Friday,” said the Colonel. “Friday is Patty’s day for practising the organ at St. Martin’s, but she’ll be home in plenty of time for lunch.”
Chapter 2
Friday was a cloudy day with scatters of rain and bursts of sunshine. It was weather which fitted perfectly with Will’s feelings. The truth was he could not make up his mind if he wanted to go to Langford or not. Of course he wanted to see Patty … but lunch would be a miserable business.
“You’re sure you can spare me, Father?” asked Will as he rose from the breakfast table. He had asked the question before and had been answered in the affirmative. This time Mr. Hastie put down The Scotsman and looked at Will gravely.
“Better get it over,” said Mr. Hastie. “Take the pony and ride down to Langford. You’d much better get it over.”
“Get it over?”
“Yes, it’s got to be done, you know. Never any good putting things off. I felt the same when I came home to Broadmeadows—if that’s any consolation to you.”
“Do you mean——”
Mr. Hastie nodded. “Langford is—is sort of—empty.” He hesitated and then added, “But remember it’s eleven years since Rae was killed so they’ve had time to get used to it.”
“Are they—used to it?” asked Will lingering by his chair.
“People have got to get used to things—or else go off their heads. It took me a long time to get used to the empty feeling in this house when your mother died. You don’t remember her of course?”
“Not really,” admitted Will.
“It took me a long time,” repeated Mr. Hastie. “As a matter of fact the emptiness was so unbearable that I decided to move—I thought it might be better somewhere else—but it seemed like running away—and Mary admired courage—so I stuck to my guns. I had you and I had my work so I worstled through. There was a bad patch when you went off to Glenalmond but I got through that too.” Mr. Hastie took up his paper and added, “Always stick to your guns, Will.”
“Yes,” said Will. He would have liked to say more but he was so astonished that he was almost speechless. He and his father had always been the best of friends but he had never had an inkling of his father’s feelings—had never suspected that his father had any feelings at all.
Why didn’t I? thought Will as he went out to fetch the pony. It must have been frightful for him. Why didn’t I understand? I could have been nicer to him, thought Will, remorsefully.
Of course there was no need for Will to feel remorse, for he had always been extremely “nice” to his father. He had been too young when his mother died to grieve for her so it had never occurred to him that his father might miss her companionship. Children take their circumstances for granted and it had seemed quite natural to Will that he had no mother. Perhaps he would have missed her, or at least felt a blank in his life, if it had not been for Lucy, who had come to Broadmeadows to look after Mrs. Hastie in her last illness and had stayed on to look after her baby son. Lucy had been quite a young girl in those days and not very experienced but what she lacked in knowledge she had made up for in love. Lucy had stayed with the Hasties, father and son, until Will was able to look after himself and then had left to be married—she had gone to Glasgow and disappeared from view.
