The Ghost’s Walk

           WhileEsthersleeps,andwhileEstherwakes,itisstillwetweatherdownattheplaceinLincolnshire.Therainiseverfalling—drip,drip,drip—bydayandnightuponthebroadflaggedterrace-pavement,theGhost’sWalk.TheweatherissoverybaddowninLincolnshirethattheliveliestimaginationcanscarcelyapprehenditseverbeingfineagain.Notthatthereisanysuperabundantlifeofimaginationonthespot,forSirLeicesterisnothere(and,truly,evenifhewere,wouldnotdomuchforitinthatparticular),butisinPariswithmyLady;andsolitude,withduskywings,sitsbroodinguponChesneyWold.TheremaybesomemotionsoffancyamongtheloweranimalsatChesneyWold.Thehorsesinthestables—thelongstablesinabarren,red-brickcourt-yard,wherethereisagreatbellinaturret,andaclockwithalargeface,whichthepigeonswholivenearitandwholovetoperchuponitsshouldersseemtobealwaysconsulting—THEYmaycontemplatesomementalpicturesoffineweatheronoccasions,andmaybebetterartistsatthemthanthegrooms.Theoldroan,sofamousforcross-countrywork,turninghislargeeyeballtothegratedwindownearhisrack,mayrememberthefreshleavesthatglistenthereatothertimesandthescentsthatstreamin,andmayhaveafinerunwiththehounds,whilethehumanhelper,clearingoutthenextstall,neverstirsbeyondhispitchforkandbirch-broom.

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