One night, when the summer was in full prime, and the weather almost
blameless, this young Squire Carne rode slowly back from Springhaven to
his worn-out castle. The beauty of the night had kept him back, for
he hated to meet people on the road. The lingering gossips, the tired
fagot-bearers, the youths going home from the hay-rick, the man with
a gun who knows where the hares play, and beyond them all the
truant sweethearts, who cannot have enough of one another, and wish
"good-night" at every corner of the lane, till they tumble over one
another's cottage steps--all these to Caryl Carne were a smell to be
avoided, an eyesore to shut the eyes at. He let them get home and pull
their boots off, and set the frying-pan a-bubbling--for they ended the
day with a bit of bacon, whenever they could cash or credit it--and then
he set forth upon his lonely ride, striking fear into the heart of any
bad child that lay awake.
"Almost as good as France is this," he muttered in French, though for
once enjoying the pleasure of good English air; "and better than France
would it be, if only it were not cut short so suddenly. There will come
a cold wind by-and-by, or a chilly black cloud from the east, and then
all is shivers and rawness. But if it only remained like this, I could
forgive it for producing me. After all, it is my native land; and I saw
the loveliest girl to-day that ever I set eyes on. None of their made-up
and highly finished demoiselles is fit to look at her--such simple
beauty, such charms of nature, such enchanting innocence! Ah, that is
where those French girls fail--they are always studying how they look,
instead of leaving us to think of it.
Pages:
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157