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第2部分（第1页）

very　sky　line；　when　the　wind　was　in　the　right　quarter；　the　craggy　top　and　serrated　edges　of　Snowdon　herself　showed　mountainous　among　the　clouds。　For　a　moment　Orlando　stood　counting；　gazing；　recognizing。　That　was　his　father’s　house；　that　his　uncle’s。　His　aunt　owned　those　three　great　turrets　among　the　trees　there。　The　heath　was　theirs　and　the　forest；　the　pheasant　and　the　deer；　the　fox；　the　badger；　and　the　butterfly。

He　sighed　profoundly；　and　flung　himself—there　was　a　passion　in　his　movements　which　deserves　the　word—on　the　earth　at　the　foot　of　the　oak　tree。　He　loved；　beneath　all　this　summer　transiency；　to　feel　the　earth’s　spine　beneath　him；　for　such　he　took　the　hard　root　of　the　oak　tree　to　be；　or；　for　image　followed　image；　it　was　the　back　of　a　great　horse　that　he　was　riding；　or　the　deck　of　a　tumbling　ship—it　was　anything　indeed；　so　long　as　it　was　hard；　for　he　felt　the　need　of　something　which　he　could　attach　his　floating　heart　to；　the　heart　that　tugged　at　his　side；　the　heart　that　seemed　filled　with　spiced　and　amorous　gales　every　evening　about　this　time　when　he　walked　out。　To　the　oak　tree　he　tied　it　and　as　he　lay　there；　gradually　the　flutter　in　and　about　him　stilled　itself；　the　little　leaves　hung；　the　deer　stopped；　the　pale　summer　clouds　stayed；　his　limbs　grew　heavy　on　the　ground；　and　he　lay　so　still　that　by　degrees　the　deer　stepped　nearer　and　the　rooks　wheeled　round　him　and　the　swallows　dipped　and　circled　and　the　dragonflies　shot　past；　as　if　all　the　fertility　and　amorous　activity　of　a　summer’s　evening　were　woven　web–like　about　his　body。

After　an　hour　or　so—the　sun　was　rapidly　sinking；　the　white　clouds　had　turned　red；　the　hills　were　violet；　the　woods　purple；　the　valleys　black—a　trumpet　sounded。　Orlando　leapt　to　his　feet。　The　shrill　sound　came　from　the　valley。　It　came　from　a　dark　spot　down　there；　a　spot　pact　and　mapped　out；　a　maze；　a　town；　yet　girt　about　with　walls；　it　came　from　the　heart　of　his　own　great　house　in　the　valley；　which；　dark　before；　even　as　he　looked　and　the　single　trumpet　duplicated　and　reduplicated　itself　with　other　shriller　sounds；　lost　its　darkness　and　became　pierced　with　lights。　Some　were　small　hurrying　lights；　as　if　servants　dashed　along　corridors　to　answer　summonses；　others　were　high　and　lustrous　lights；　as　if　they　burnt　in　empty　banqueting–halls　made　ready　to　receive　guests　who　had　not　e；　and　others　dipped　and　waved　and　sank　and　rose；　as　if　held　in　the　hands　of　troops　of　serving　men；　bending；　kneeling；　rising；　receiving；　guarding；　and　escorting　with　all　dignity　indoors　a　great　Princess　alighting　from　her　chariot。　Coaches　turned　and　wheeled　in　the　courtyard。　Horses　tossed　their　plumes。　The　Queen　had　e。

Orlando　looked　no　more。　He　dashed　downhill。　He　let　himself　in　at　a　wicket　gate。　He　tore　up　the　winding　staircase。　He　reached　his　room。　He　tossed　his　stockings　to　one　side　of　the　room；　his　jerkin　to　the　other。　He　dipped　his　head。　He　scoured　his　hands。　He　pared　his　finger　nails。　With　no　more　than　six　inches　of　looking–glass　and　a　pair　of　old　candles　to　help　him；　he　had　thrust　on　crimson　breeches；　lace　collar；　waistcoat　of　taffeta；　and　shoes　with　rosettes　on　them　as　big　as　double　dahlias　in　less　than　ten　minutes　by　the　stable　clock。　He　was　ready。　He　was　flushed。　He　was　excited；　But　he　was　terribly　late。

By　short　cuts　known　to　him；　he　made　his　way　now　through　the　vast　congeries　of　rooms　and　staircases　to　the　banqueting–hall；　five　acres　distant　on　the　other　side　of　the　house。　But　half–way　there；　in　the　back　quarters　where　the　servants　lived；　he　stopped。　The　door　of　Mrs　Stewkley’s　sitting–room　stood　open—she　was　gone；　doubtless；　with　all　her　keys　to　wait　upon　her　mistress。　But　there；　sitting　at　the　servant’s　dinner　table　with　a　tankard　beside　him　and　paper　in　front　of　him；　sat　a　rather　fat；　shabby　man；　whose　ruff　was　a　thought　dirty；　and　whose　clothes　were　of　hodden　brown。　He　held　a　pen　in　his　hand；　but　he　was　not　writing。　He　seemed　in　the　act　of　rolling　some　thought　up　and　down；　to　and　fro　in　his　mind　till　it　gathered　shape　or　momentum　to　his　liking。　His　eyes；　globed　and　clouded　like　some　green　stone　of　curious　texture；　were　fixed。　He　did　not　see　Orlando。　For　all　his　hurry；　Orlando　stopped　dead。　Was　this　a　poet？　Was　he　writing　poetry？　‘Tell　me’；　he　wanted　to　say；　‘everything　in　the　whole　world’—for　he　had　the　wildest；　most　absurd；　extravagant　ideas　about　poets　and　poetry—but　how　speak　to　a　man　who　does　not　see　you？　who　sees　ogres；　satyrs；　perhaps　the　depths　of　the　sea　instead？　So　Orlando　stood　gazing　while　the　man　turned　his　pen　in　his　fingers；　this　way　and　that　way；　and　gazed　and　mused；　and　then；　very　quickly；　wrote　half–a–dozen　lines　and　looked　up。　Whereupon　Orlando；　overe　with　shyness；　darted　off　and　reached　the　banqueting–hall　only　just　in　time　to　sink　upon　his　knees　and；　hanging　his　head　in　confusion；　to　offer　a　bowl　of　rose　water　to　the　great　Queen　herself。

Such　was　his　shyness　that　he　saw　no　more　of　her　than　her　ringed　hands　in　water；　but　it　was　enough。　It　was　a　memorable　hand；　a　thin　hand　with　long　fingers　always　curling　as　if　round　orb　or　sceptre；　a　nervous；　crabbed；　sickly　hand；　a　manding　hand　too；　a　hand　that　had　only　to　raise　itself　for　a　head　to　fall；　a　hand；　he　guessed；　attached　to　an　old　body　that　smelt　like　a　cupboard　in　which　furs　are　kept　in　camphor；　which　body　was　yet　caparisoned　in　all　sorts　of　brocades　and　gems；　and　held　itself　very　upright　though　perhaps　in　pain　from　sciatica；　and　never　flinched　though　strung　together　by　a　thousand　fears；　and　the　Queen’s　eyes　were　light　yellow。　All　this　he　felt　as　the　great　rings　flashed　in　the　water　and　then　something　pressed　his　hair—which；　perhaps；　accounts　for　his　seeing　nothing　more　likely　to　be　of　use　to　a　historian。　And　in　truth；　his　mind　was　such　a　welter　of　opposites—of　the　night　and　the　blazing　candles；　of　the　shabby　poet　and　the　great　Queen；　of　silent　fields　and　the　clatter　of　serving　men—that　he　could　see　nothing；　or　only　a　hand。

By　the　same　showing；　the　Queen　herself　can　have　seen　only　a　head。　But　if　it　is　possible　from　a　hand　to　deduce　a　body；　informed　with　all　the　attributes　of　a　great　Queen；　her　crabbedness；　courage；　frailty；　and　terror；　surely　a　head　can　be　as　fertile；　looked　down　upon　from　a　chair　of　state　by　a　lady　whose　eyes　were　always；　if　the　waxworks　at　the　Abbey　are　to　be　trusted；　wide　open。　The　long；　curled　hair；　the　dark　head　bent　so　reverently；　so　innocently　before　her；　implied　a　pair　of　the　finest　legs　that　a　young　nobleman　has　ever　stood　upright　upon；　and　violet　eyes；　and　a　heart　of　gold；　and　loyalty　and　manly　charm—all　qualities　which　the　old　woman　loved　the　more　the　more　they　failed　her。　For　she　was　growing　old　and　worn　and　bent　before　her　time。　The　sound　of　cannon　was　always　in　her　ears。　She　saw　always　the　glistening　poison　drop　and　the　long　stiletto。　As　she　sat　at　table　she　listened；　she　heard　the　guns　in　the　Channel；　she　dreaded—was　that　a　curse；　was　that　a　whisper？　Innocence；　simplicity；　were　all　the　more　dear　to　her　for　the　dark　background　she　set　them　against。　And　it　was　that　same　night；　so　tradition　has　it；　when　Orlando　was　sound　asleep；　that　she　made　over　formally；　putting　her　hand　and　seal　finally　to　the　parchment；　the　gift　of　the　great　monastic　house　that　had　been　the　Archbishop’s　and　then　the　King’s　to　Orlando’s　father。

Orlando　slept　all　night　in　ignorance。　He　had　been　kissed　by　a　queen　without　knowing　it。　And　perhaps；　for　women’s　hearts　are　intricate；　it　was　his　ignorance　and　the　start　he　gave　when　her　lips　touched　him　that　kept　the　memory　of　her　young　cousin　（for　they　had　blood　in　mon）　green　in　her　mind。　At　any　rate；　two　years　of　this　quiet　country　life　had　not　passed；　and　Orlando　had　written　no　more　perhaps　than　twenty　tragedies　and　a　dozen　histories　and　a　score　of　sons　when　a　message　came　that　he　was　to　attend　the　Queen　at　Whitehall。

‘Here’；　she　said；　watching　him　advance　down　the　long　gallery　towards　her；　‘es　my　innocent！’　（There　was　a　serenity　about　him　always　which　had　the　look　of　innocence　when；　technically；　the　word　was　no　longer　applicable。）

‘e！’　she　said。　She　was　sitting　bolt　upright　beside　the　fire。　And　she　held　him　a　foot’s　pace　from　her　and　looked　him　up　and　down。　Was　she　matching　her　speculations　the　other　night　with　the　truth　now　visible？　Did　she　find　her　guesses　justified？　Eyes；　mouth；　nose；　breast；　hips；　hands—she　ran　them　over；　her　lips　twitched　visibly　as　she　looked；　but　when　she　saw　his　legs　she　laughed　out　loud。　He　was　the　very　image　of　a　noble　gentleman。　But　inwardly？　She　flashed　her　yellow　hawk’s　eyes　upon　him　as　if　she　would　pierce　his　soul。　The　young　man　withstood　her　gaze　blushing　only　a　damask　rose　as　became　him。　Strength；　grace；　romance；　folly；　poetry；　youth—she　read　him　like　a　page。　Instantly　she　plucked　a　ring　from　her　finger　（the　joint　was　swollen　rather）　and　as　she　fitted　it　to　his；　named　him　her　Treasurer　and　Steward；　next　hung　about　him　chains　of　office；　and　bidding　him　bend　his　knee；　tied　round　it　at　the　slenderest　part　the　jewelled　order　of　the　Garter。　Nothing　after　that　was　denied　him。　When　she　drove　in　state　he　rode　at　her　carriage　door。　She　sent　him　to　Scotland　on　a　sad　embassy　to　the　unhappy　Queen。　He　was　about　to　sail　for　the　Polish　wars　when　she　recalled　him。　For　how　could　she　bear　to　think　of　that　tender　flesh　torn　and　that　curly　head　rolled　in　the　dust？　She　kept　him　with　her。　At　the　height　of　her　triumph　when　the　guns　were　booming　at　the　Tower　and　the　air　was　thick　enough　with　gunpowder　to　make　one　sneeze　and　the　huzzas　of　the　people　rang　beneath　the　windows；　she　pulled　him　down　among　the　cushions　where　her　women　had　laid　her　（she　was　so　worn　and　old）　and　made　him　bury　his　face　in　that　astonishing　position—she　had　not　changed　her　dress　for　a　month—which　smelt　for　all　the　world；　he　thought；　recalling　his　boyish　memory；　like　some　old　cabi　at　home　where　his　mother’s　furs　were　stored。　He　rose；　half　suffocated　from　the　embrace。　‘This’；　she　breathed；　‘is　my　victory！’—even　as　a　rocket　roared　up　and　dyed　her　cheeks　scarlet。

For　the　old　woman　loved　him。　And　the　Queen；　who　knew　a　man　when　she　saw　one；　though　not；　it　is　said；　in　the　usual　way；　plotted　for　him　a　splendid　ambitious　career。　Lands　were　given　him；　houses　assigned　him。　He　was　to　be　the　son　of　her　old　age；　the　limb　of　her　infirmity；　the　oak　tree　on　which　she　leant　her　degradation。　She　croaked　out　these　promises　and　strange　domineering　tendernesses　（they　were　at　Richmond　now）　sitting　bolt　upright　in　her　stiff　brocades　by　the　fire　which；　however　high　they　piled　it；　never　kept　her　warm。

Meanwhile；　the　long　winter　months　drew　on。　Every　tree　in　the　Park　was　lined　with　frost。　The　river　ran　sluggishly。　One　day　when　the　snow　was　on　the　ground　and　the　dark　panelled　rooms　were　full　of　shadows　and　the　stags　were　barking　in　the　Park；　she　saw　in　the　mirror；　which　she　kept　for　fear　of　spies　always　by　her；　through　the　door；　which　she　kept　for　fear　of　murderers　always　open；　a　boy—could　it　be　Orlando？—kissing　a　girl—who　in　the　Devil’s　name　was　the　brazen　hussy？　Snatching　at　her　golden–hilted　sword　she　struck　violently　at　the　mirror。　The　glass　crashed；　people　came　running；　she　was　lifted　and　set　in　her　chair　again；　but　she　was　stricken　after　that　and　groaned　much；　as　her　days　wore　to　an　end；　of　man’s　treachery。

It　was　Orlando’s　fault　perhaps；　yet；　after　all；　are　we　to　bl

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