Great Britain -- History -- Civil War, 1642-1649 -- Fiction
And Dorothy sat as it were at the spring-head of the waters, for,
through her dominion over the fire-engine, she had become the naiad of
Raglan. The same hour in which lord Herbert departed she went to
Kaltoff, and was by him instructed in its mysteries. On the third day
after, so entirely was the Dutchman satisfied with her understanding and
management of it, that he gave up to her the whole water-business. And
now, as I say, she sat at the source of all the streams and fountains of
the place, and governed them all. The horse of marble spouted and ceased
at her will, but in general she let the stream from his mouth flow all
day long. Every water-cock on the great tower was subject to her. From
the urn of her pleasure the cistern was daily filled, and from the
summit of defence her flood went pouring into the moat around its feet,
until it mantled to the brim, turning the weeds into a cold shadowy
pavement of green for a foil to its pellucid depth. She understood all
the secrets of the aqueous catapult, at which its contriver had little
more than hinted on that memorable night when he disclosed so much, and
believed she could arrange it for action without assistance. At the same
time her new responsibilities required but a portion of her leisure, and
lady Margaret was not the less pleased with the wise-headed girl, whose
manners and mental ways were such a contrast to her own, that her
husband considered her fit to be put in charge of his darling invention.
But Dorothy kept silence concerning the trust to all but her mistress,
who, on her part, was prudent enough to avoid any allusion which might
raise yet higher the jealousy of her associates, by whom she was already
regarded as supplanting them in the favour of their mistress.
One lovely evening in May, the moon at the full, the air warm yet fresh,
the apple-blossoms at their largest, with as yet no spot upon their fair
skin, and the nightingales singing out of their very bones, the season,
the hour, the blossoms, and the moon had invaded every chamber in the
castle, seized every heart of both man and beast, and turned all into
one congregation of which the nightingales were the priests. The cocks
were crowing as if it had been the dawn itself instead of its ghost they
saw; the dogs were howling, but whether that was from love or hate of
the moon, I cannot tell; the pigeons were cooing; the peacock had turned
his train into a paralune, understanding well that the carnival could
not be complete without him and his; and the wild beasts were restless,
uttering a short yell now and then, at least aware that something was
going on. All the inhabitants of the castle were out of doors, the
ladies and gentlemen in groups here and there about the gardens and
lawns and islands, and the domestics, and such of the garrison as were
not on duty, wandering hither and thither where they pleased, careful
only not to intrude on their superiors.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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