Great Britain -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Mystery fiction
A broad lawn, overshadowed at one end by fine old trees--flower beds and
shrubberies, and winding paths prettily and invitingly laid out--made
the garden a welcome refuge on that fine summer morning. The novelty
of the scene, after her experience in the West Indies, the delicious
breezes cooled by the rain of the night, exerted their cheering
influence even on the sullen disposition of Francine. She smiled, in
spite of herself, as she followed the pleasant paths, and heard the
birds singing their summer songs over her head.
Wandering among the trees, which occupied a considerable extent of
ground, she passed into an open space beyond, and discovered an old
fish-pond, overgrown by aquatic plants. Driblets of water trickled from
a dilapidated fountain in the middle. On the further side of the pond
the ground sloped downward toward the south, and revealed, over a low
paling, a pretty view of a village and its church, backed by fir woods
mounting the heathy sides of a range of hills beyond. A fanciful little
wooden building, imitating the form of a Swiss cottage, was placed so as
to command the prospect. Near it, in the shadow of the building, stood a
rustic chair and table--with a color-box on one, and a portfolio on the
other. Fluttering over the grass, at the mercy of the capricious breeze,
was a neglected sheet of drawing-paper. Francine ran round the pond, and
picked up the paper just as it was on the point of being tilted into
the water. It contained a sketch in water colors of the village and the
woods, and Francine had looked at the view itself with indifference--the
picture of the view interested her. Ordinary visitors to Galleries of
Art, which admit students, show the same strange perversity. The work of
the copyist commands their whole attention; they take no interest in the
original picture.
Looking up from the sketch, Francine was startled. She discovered a man,
at the window of the Swiss summer-house, watching her.
“When you have done with that drawing,” he said quietly, “please let me
have it back again.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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