The stream, broken by huge
boulders, rumbled with a soft roar which was the only sound that broke
the stillness. It was the silence, a profound stillness, which makes
one feel as if one has wandered into an unknown world newly made and as
yet untouched by the foot of man, unsullied by his presence.
Stafford could not have quoted a verse of poetry to save his life; it
wasn't in his line; he could ride straight, was a first-rate shot,
waltzed like an angel, and so far his dictionary did not contain the
word "fear;" but he knew nothing of poetry or art, and only liked some
kinds of music, amongst which, it is to be feared, "Soldiers of the
Queen," and the now much-abused chorus from "Faust," ranked high in his
estimation. He was just simply a healthy young Englishman, clean-limbed
and clean-minded, with a tremendous appetite for pleasure, a
magnificent frame, and a heart as light and buoyant as a cork;
therefore, though an artist or a poet would have been thrilled to the
marrow by the wild grandeur of the secluded valley and the grimly
towering hills, and would have longed to put them on canvas or into
verse, Stafford only felt suddenly grave, and as if it were playing it
low down to throw an artificial fly, even of the best make, in such a
spot.
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