The Young Man

           ChesneyWoldisshutup,carpetsarerolledintogreatscrollsincornersofcomfortlessrooms,brightdamaskdoespenanceinbrownholland,carvingandgildingputsonmortification,andtheDedlockancestorsretirefromthelightofdayagain.Aroundandaroundthehousetheleavesfallthick,butneverfast,fortheycomecirclingdownwithadeadlightnessthatissombreandslow.Letthegardenersweepandsweeptheturfashewill,andpresstheleavesintofullbarrows,andwheelthemoff,stilltheylieankle-deep.HowlstheshrillwindroundChesneyWold;thesharprainbeats,thewindowsrattle,andthechimneysgrowl.Mistshideintheavenues,veilthepointsofview,andmoveinfuneral-wiseacrosstherisinggrounds.Onallthehousethereisacold,blanksmelllikethesmellofalittlechurch,thoughsomethingdryer,suggestingthatthedeadandburiedDedlockswalkthereinthelongnightsandleavetheflavouroftheirgravesbehindthem.Butthehouseintown,whichisrarelyinthesamemindasChesneyWoldatthesametime,seldomrejoicingwhenitrejoicesormourningwhenitmourns,exceptingwhenaDedlockdiesthehouseintownshinesoutawakened.Aswarmandbrightassomuchstatemaybe,asdelicatelyredolentofpleasantscentsthatbearnotraceofwinterashothouseflowerscanmakeit,softandhushedsothatthetickingoftheclocksandthecrispburningofthefiresalonedisturbthestillnessintherooms,itseemstowrapthosechilledbonesofSirLeicester’sinrainbow-colouredwool.

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