The Maid of SkerBlackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge)
General
The Maid of Sker
Blackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge)
Foundlings -- Fiction; Romance fiction; Wales -- Fiction
The sands were all alive with people, and the rocks, and every place
where anything good might have drifted. For Evan Thomas could scarcely
come at a time of such affliction to assert his claims of wreck, and to
belabour right and left. Therefore, for a mile or more, from where the
land begins to dip, and the old stone wall, like a jagged cord, divides
our parish from Kenfig, hundreds of figures might be seen, running along
the grey wet sands, and reflected by their brightness. The day was going
for two of the clock, and the tide growing near to the turn of ebb; and
the landsprings oozing down from the beach, spread the whole of the flat
sands so, with a silver overlaying, that without keen sight it was hard
to tell where the shore ended and sea began. And a great part of this
space was sprinkled with naked feet going pattering--boys and girls, and
young women and men, who had left their shoes up high on the rocks to
have better chance in the racing.
Now it is not for me to say that all or half of these good people were
so brisk because they expected any fine thing for themselves. I would
not even describe them as waiting in readiness for the force of fortune
by the sea administered. I believe that all were most desirous of doing
good, if possible. In the first case, to the poor people drowned; but if
too late, then to console any disconsolate relations: failing of which,
it would be hard if anybody should blame them for picking up something
for themselves.
"What! you here, mother Probyn?" I cried, coming upon a most pious old
woman, who led the groaning at Zoar Chapel, and being for the moment
struck out of all my manners by sight of her.
"Indeed, and so I am, old Davy," she answered, without abashment, and
almost too busy to notice me; "the Lord may bless my poor endeavours to
rescue them poor Injuns. But I can't get on without a rake. If I had
only had the sense to bring my garden-rake. There are so many little
things, scarcely as big as cockleshells; and the waves do drag them away
from me. Oh, there, and there goes another! Gwenny, if I don't smack
you!"
All these people, and all their doings, I left with a sort of contempt,
perhaps, such as breaks out on me now and then at any very great
littleness. And I knew that nothing worth wet of the knees could be
found with the ebb-tide running, and ere the hold of the ship broke up.
So I went toward the great house, whose sorrows and whose desolation
they took little heed of. And nothing made me feel more sad--strange as
it may seem, and was--than to think of poor black Evan, thus unable to
stand up and fight for his unrighteous rights.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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