Read Online The Innocent Moon by Henry Williamson - Free Book Online

wanted to go away on business to London, to see about the money affairs of her two charges, and would I look after them for her until she returned from her week-end. Well, Boy, that was the last I saw of my neighbour.”
    “Two and a half years is a long week-end, Aunt Dora.”
    “Now they are my Babies, and so helpless! One is nearly blind, the other a little weak in the head.”
    He was relieved that his aunt made no mention of his having spent a month in prison after leaving the army. But obviously she was anxious about his future; she asked many questions about his work, and listened sympathetically to the somewhat jerky confession of his hopes as a writer.
    “But you must not forget the old saying, Boy—‘Literature is a good stick, but a bad crutch’.”
    “I have both crutch, stick, and Brooklands Road Special Norton, Aunt Dora!”
    “Good for you, Boy! But carry on with your present job, and write in your spare time.”
    “That’s what I’m doing!”
    “And don’t fret too much, Boy. Both you and your father are worrying sorts, you know. Oh, I am not criticising you, far from it, but you were the most unhappy small boy I ever saw, and that condition in later life tends to make one subjective, youknow, and subjective writing is not the best kind of writing. It can produce beautiful poetry, but seldom poetry that is universal. I am deeply devoted to Francis Thompson, as a man—I used to see him sometimes at the Meynells’ home—but his poetry is association poetry, if you know what I mean. We think of him and his tragic life when we read it; whereas classic poetry is impersonal, in the sense that it illuminates the universal. I hope you are not the subjective kind, Boy, for unhappiness lies that way. But there, you are tired, I must not lecture you! Are you going far today?”
    He told her about Spica.
    “She sounds to be a sweet girl, Boy, but she is young; and while she may know her own feelings, that is not the same thing as knowing her own mind. Give her time. Now you must be on your journey.”
    Kentisbury Hill led to Exmoor up a long narrow rough track, hardly road, of red ironstone to over a thousand feet. He was just past the county gate when rain began to fall. Soon his trench-coat was soaked and water running down his neck, his legs cold from thighs to rain-filled shoes. The worst part was the slipping of the rubber belt within the pulley flanges; the engine raced while the machine slowed up. But when the pot-holes of the red road across the moor and below Porlock hill were passed, and he came to Bridgwater, the rain held off. He rested in a tea-shop and ceased to shiver; optimism returned. But the rain returned also, and by the time he got to Devizes the engine had revved so much that all the petrol in the tank was gone, and having spent the last of his money at a garage, he had none for food or lodging.
    He spent the night beside a haystack in the rain, having tried without success to light a fire of wet sticks; and went on at first light, the belt slipping most of the way across the downs to Swindon, the canvas core showing on both sides of the rubber belt and the holes of the fastener beginning to widen. But after Oxford the weather cleared and he was nearly dry when he reached Cambridge at four o’clock in the afternoon, to enquire the way to Spica’s address and, leaving the Norton on its stand, to go up the steps of the house where she was staying for her first visit with the parents of the undergraduate acquaintance.
    A tea party was about to begin. About a dozen young men and women were gathered in the drawing-room, he saw through the bow window. The maid said she would speak to her mistress. This lady came, and invited him into the hall. Then Spica cameout of the room. He saw her cheeks go pale. She looked steadily at him, drew a quiveringly deep breath, and said almost inaudibly, “What a ruffian you look!”
    “I’m growing a beard,” he said with a forced smile.
    “I can see