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'Damask cheeks and dewy sister eyelids. Or else the Ercles vein 'God's in His Heaven, all's right with the world. No good, Mr. McCunn. All back numbers. Poetry's not a thing of pretty round phrases or noisy invocations. It's life itself, with the tang of the raw world in it not a sweetmeat for middle-class women in parlours." "Are you a poet, Mr. Heritage?" "No, Dogson, I'm a paper-maker."
And he's rather impident," he concluded, with memories of "Dogson.".... He was very clear that he never wanted to see him again; that was the reason of his early breakfast. Having clarified his mind by definitions, Dickson felt comforted. He paid his bill, took an affectionate farewell of the landlord, and at 7.30 precisely stepped out into the gleaming morning.
More likely some scoundrelly old Dogson long ago found sanctuary in this sort of place. Do you dream about it?" "Not exactly." "Well, I do. The queer thing is that I've got the same prepossession as you. As soon as I spotted this Cruives place on the map this morning, I saw it was what I was after. When I came in sight of it I almost shouted.
When they were alone, Heritage's voice took a different key. "We're in for it, Dogson, old man. There's no doubt these three scoundrels expect reinforcements at any moment, and with them will be one who is the devil incarnate. He's the only thing on earth that that brave girl fears. It seems he is in love with her and has pestered her for years.
He looks to see a tragic grief; to his amazement he beholds something very like exultation. "The trouble with you, Dogson," says Heritage, "is that you're a bit of an anarchist. All you false romantics are. You don't see the extraordinary beauty of the conventions which time has consecrated. You always want novelty, you know, and the novel is usually the ugly and rarely the true.
"Now that's interesting," said Mr. Heritage. "You're obsessed by a particular type of landscape. Ever read Freud?" Dickson shook his head. "Well, you've got an odd complex somewhere. I wonder where the key lies. Cape woods two rivers moor behind. Ever been in love, Dogson?" Mr. McCunn was startled.
Dickson suddenly had an inspiration. "D'you mind the man you said was an Australian at Kirkmichael? I thought myself he was a foreigner. Well, he was asking for a place he called Darkwater, and there's no sich place in the countryside. I believe he meant Dalquharter. I believe he's the man she's feared of." A gasped "By Jove!" came from the darkness. "Dogson, you've hit it.
There was a desperate finality about the quiet tones and the weary face with the shadow of a smile on it. Then Heritage spoke. "I don't think your plan will quite do, Dogson. Supposing we all break for the hinterland and the Danish brig finds the birds flown, that won't end the trouble. They will get on the Princess's trail, and the whole persecution will start again.
Heritage cleared a space on the table and spread out a section of a large-scale Ordnance map. "I must clear my head about the topography, the same as if this were a battle-ground. Look here, Dogson.... The road past the inn that we went by to-night runs north and south."
"I am reconciled," he says. "After all 'tis better to have loved and lost, you know. It has been a great experience and has shown me my own heart. I love her, I shall always love her, but I realize that she was never meant for me. Thank God I've been able to serve her that is all a moth can ask of a star. I'm a better man for it, Dogson.
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