The Robber, A Tale.James, G. P. R. (George Payne Rainsford)
General
The Robber, A Tale.
James, G. P. R. (George Payne Rainsford)
England -- Social life and customs -- 17th century -- Fiction
The lawyer was very pale, as well as his patron, but he answered,
distinctly. "I do understand, my lord!"
As he spoke, a sudden flash of the lightning glared upon the
countenance of each. That of the peer was stern, calm, and determined;
that of the lawyer was quivering under a fearful degree of emotion: but
what is singular, though the storm had been proceeding during the whole
time they were together, so fierce had been the struggle in the bosom
of each that neither had noticed the strife of the elements without.
The moment, however, that the fearful words had passed, that the dark
determination was taken, both remarked the flash and heard the peal of
thunder that followed. They were neither of them men to shrink at
portents; and though the thunder made the lawyer start, it seemed to
both but a confirmation of their compact.
"It is a tremendous night," said the Earl; "you must sleep here, my
good friend."
The lawyer muttered forth some few words of thanks, and withdrew; but
sleep visited not that night the soft pillow on which he laid his head.
CHAPTER XVII.
The storm of the preceding night had ceased, and left the earth all
glittering with golden drops, when the sun rose up and poured the full
tide of his glorious light upon that world where, during his absence,
so many dark and fearful scenes had been enacted. About nine o'clock,
and along a tortuous and unscientific road, which seemed to have been
cut solely with a view of mingling the bright sunshine and the cool
green shades amidst the pleasant woods through which it wandered, rode
along Alice Herbert and her father. Their thoughts were full of matter
of deep moment: cares, fears, anxieties, were busy in their bosoms; but
yet it were false to say that the sweet scenes through which their way
was laid, the cheerful aspect of the summer world, the voice of the
blackbird and the lark, the soft calm air of the bright morning, did
not soften and soothe all their feelings. It is not alone that in the
breast of almost every one there goes on a sort of silent superstition,
drawing auguries almost unknown to ourselves from every varying feature
of the scenes through which we are led, finding the frowning look of
boding fate upon the sky, when the dark clouds roll over it, or the
bright smile of hope when it spreads out clear and bright above us; but
it is that there are mysterious links of harmony between all our
feelings and the universal creations of our God; and that the fine
electric chain along which so many strange and thrilling vibrations
run, is carried from the heart of man to the uttermost verge of heaven.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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