Mad: A Story of Dust and AshesFenn, George Manville
General
Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes
Fenn, George Manville
Fiction
What was there to live for now? she asked herself again and again. Was
life to be only a dreary blank--a struggle for mere existence? And then
she blamed herself for her folly and ambition. Had Arthur Sterne never
crossed the light of her life she could have patiently toiled on, never
wearying of the plaints of her mother; but now, after months, almost
years of hopefulness, to come to this! Well might the sleep be fitful,
and the dreams those which brought trouble, for the sun of her life
seemed clouded, and hope a thing of the past.
Again a sigh, and a few muttered words, and then the weary head was
turned a little so that when the first grey dawn of the coming day crept
down the court, and struggled into the room, driving forth shadow after
shadow, it rested smilingly upon Lucy's cheek, pausing lovingly upon the
first pure thing it had encountered that morning in the misery-smitten
region around. Had Arthur Sterne known all, he would have given
position, advancement, all, to have pressed his lips where the pale
light now rested, and asked for pardon. But he knew only that which he
had seen, and, racked by suspicion, he wearied himself with doubt and
surmise without end.
Again a sigh, and again a restless turn, when the colour flushed through
Lucy's pale cheeks. It was sunrise, and some hopeful thoughts must have
come with its brightness; or was it that the words breathed far off
above the rushing river had at length reached their goal? But the
cheeks soon paled again, the sigh was repeated, and Lucy slept heavily.
"Tsu weet, tsu weet, tsweet, tsweet, tsweet!" sang in long and joyous
trill the speckled-breasted lark, as, raising its crest and the plumage
of its throat, it fluttered by the prison-bars, and poured forth that
joyous song whose every note told of bright skies, pure air, and the
daisy-sprinkled mead; of waving cornfields, rippling brooks, and
many-tinted woods. "Tsweet, tsweet, tsweet!" sang the bird of the
joyous heart-stirring song, prisoned here in a foul court, but panting
for the elastic air and some loving mate.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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