Kirsteen: The Story of a Scotch Family Seventy Years AgoOliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
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Kirsteen: The Story of a Scotch Family Seventy Years Ago
Oliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
Domestic fiction; Scotland -- Fiction
The Sunday which followed was strange yet delightful to Kirsteen. It was
like the last day of a sailor on shore before setting forth upon the
unknown, but rather of a sailor like Columbus trusting himself
absolutely to the sea and the winds, not knowing what awaited him, than
the well-guided mariners of modern days with charts for every coast and
lighthouses at every turn. Kirsteen looked
“On land and sea and shore,
As she might never see them more.”
All was strange to her even here, but how much stranger, dark,
undeciphered, unknown was that world upon the edge of which she stood,
and where there was absolutely nothing to guide her as to what she
should encounter! Kirsteen was not quite sure whether she could
understand the language which was spoken in London; the ways of the
people she was sure she would not understand. Somewhere in the darkness
that great city lay as the western world lay before its discoverer.
Kirsteen formed an image to herself of something blazing into the night
full of incomprehensible voices and things; and she had all the
shrinking yet eagerness of a first explorer not knowing what horrors
there might be to encounter, but not his faith in everything good. The
Sunday came like a strange dream into the midst of this eagerness yet
alarm. She was almost impatient of the interruption, yet was happy in it
with the strangest troubled happiness; though it was so real it was
bewildering too, it was a glimpse of paradise on the edge of the dark,
yet unreal in its pleasure as that vast unknown was unreal. She played
with the children, and she heard them say their prayers, the two little
voices chiming together, the two cherub faces lifted up, while father
and mother sat adoring. It was like something she had seen in a
dream--where she was herself present, and yet not present, noting what
every one did. For up to this time everything had been familiar in her
life--there had been no strangeness, no new views of the relationship of
events with which she was too well acquainted to have any room for
flights of fancy.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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