Daphne du Maurier, Arthur Quiller-Couch
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A spellbinding love story, Castle Dor was the unfinished last novel of the British novelist Sir Arthur Quiller-Crouch, better known as "Q." The novel was passed on to Daphne du Maurier by his daughter, who was sure that du Maurier's storytelling skills were perfectly suited to completing the tale.
The result is a magical, compelling retelling of Tristan and Iseult, the star-crossed lovers transplanted in time to the Cornwall of the last century. A chance encounter between the Breton onion-seller, Amyot Trestane, and the newly-wed Linnet Lewarne launches their tragic story, taking them in the fateful footsteps of the doomed lovers of Cornish legend.
side, and pulled out to draw his nets early, between the morn and the dawn. His was a mixed employ—woodman, gardener’s help, fisherman for his master’s great house above. The bay had, for a week past, been teeming red mullet. There was a company of guests “up at the mansion,” and the red mullet is of all fish perhaps the most delicious at breakfast, baked, fresh out of the sea. The fisher—by name Eli Rowe—was by no means a man to see visions, but while preoccupied with his work he heard a sudden
m’sieur—no, sir.” “I understand French,” said the collector. He pushed up his spectacles and eyed Amyot; pulled them down and eyed him again. “Then belike some woman got hold of ye?” he suggested, not harshly. Amyot winced, and then, as he took the full innuendo, threw up his chin, proud as fire. “It was not like that, sir!” “Ah, well: I’m no speirin’. Only knowin’ a bit anent seamen and youngsters—we’ll say no more about it. And now what’s to be done? I like your look, lad: only you mustn’t
marked her brother’s face but not his nature, had exercised a more profound effect upon fourteen-year-old Mary who, keenly sensitive, and a prey to all new emotions, blamed herself for the whole affair. If she had not slept so soundly on that fatal morning she could have prevented the tumble, and Amyot’s arrest into the bargain. As it was, not even Johnny’s recovery, and Amyot’s release, could wipe out the memory of that first morning’s anguish, when her stout avowal that Johnny “must have gone
Mary who had been her ally the previous night, and stood white and tense in the background, holding Bess’s smallest pup tight in her arms. Instinctively Mary felt Mrs. Lewarne had done wrong to visit Amyot in the woods, that it would do his cause no good, that somehow the secret of his presence hidden in Woodget Pyll, known to the three of them, had become tainted overnight; the motives for his hiding were suddenly mixed, his abrupt departure from the farm in the first place was connected with
poor Ledru, and then Tregentil, had in some way set the appalling thing in motion, while the impressionable lad from Brittany and the impulsive young woman born at Castle Dor, had acted as mediums to a source of power which, if tapped, might revolutionize the whole conception of time in its relation to the unconscious mind. If a man, standing under the stars, could be so imbued with the spirit of a place that in delivering a child he breathed into her his own sense of haunting tragedy, dooming