“Tim has got this name so pat, that my curiosity begins to be aroused. ‘Who the deuce is William Jones?’ ‘Sure, thin,’ says Tim, ‘he’s the man that lives down beyant, by the sea.’ I demand, somewhat irritably, if the place contains only one inhabitant. Devil another did Tim see, he explains,—barrin’ William Jones.
“2.30 a.m. (s.c.)—Start painting in the open air, under the shade of a large white cotton umbrella. Paint on till 1 p.m.
“1 p.m.—Take a long walk among the sand-hills, avoiding the settlement beyond the lake. Don’t want to meet any of the aboriginals, more particularly William Jones. Walking here is like running up and down Atlantic billows, assuming said billows to be solid; now I am lost in the trough of the sand, now I re-emerge on the crest of the solid wave. Amusing, but fatiguing. I soon lose myself, every hillock being exactly like another. Suddenly, a hare starts from under my feet, and goes leisurely away. I remember an old amusement of mine in the west of Ireland, and I track puss by her footprints—now clearly and beautifully printed in the soft sand of the hollows, now more faintly marked on the harder sides of the ridges. The sun blazes down, the refraction of the heat from the sand is overpowering, the air is quivering, sparkling, and pulsating, as if full of innumerable sand-crystals. A horrible croak from overhead startles me, and looking up, I see an enormous raven, wheeling along in circles, and searching the ground for mice or other prey.
“Looking at my watch, I find that I have been toiling in this sandy wilderness for quite two hours. Time to get back and dine. Climb the nearest hillock, and look round to discover where I am. Can see nothing but the sandy billows on every side, and am entirely at a loss which way to go. At last, after half an hour’s blind wandering, stumble by accident on the road by the lakeside, and see the caravan in the distance.
“4 p.m.—Dinner. Boiled potatoes, boiled eggs, fried bacon. Tim’s cooking is primitive, but I could devour anything—even William Jones’s fossil bread. I asked if any human being has visited the camp. ‘Sorra one,’ Tim says, looking rather disappointed. He has got to feel himself a public character, and misses the homage of the vulgar.
“Paint again till 6 p.m.
“A beautiful sunset. The sand-hills grow rosy in the light, the lake deepens from crimson to purple, the moon comes out like a silver sickle over the sandy sea. A thought seizes me as the shadows increase. Now is the time to entice the pink trout from their depths in the lake. I get out my fishing-rod and line, and, selecting two or three flies which seem suitable, prepare for action. My rod is only a small singlehanded one, and it is difficult to cast beyond the sedges, but the fish are rising thickly out in the tranquil pools, and, determined not to be beaten, I wade in to the knees. Half a dozen small trout, each about the size of a small herring, reward my enterprise. When I have captured them, the moon is high up above the sand-hills, and it is quite dark.
“Such is the chronicle of the past day. By the light of my lamp inside the caravan I have written it down. It has been all very tranquil and uneventful, but very delightful, and a day to be marked with a white stone in one respect—that from dawn to sunset I have not set eyes on a human being, except my servant.
“Stop, though! I am wrong. Just as I was returning from my piscatorial excursion to the lake I saw, passing along the road in the direction of the sea, a certain solitary horseman, who accosted me not too civilly on the roadside the night before last. He scowled at me in passing, and of course recognized me by the aid of the caravan. His name is Monk, of Monkshurst, and he seems to be pretty well monarch of all he surveys. I have an impression that Mr. Monk, of Monkshurst, and myself are destined to be better, or worse, acquainted.”