The Yarn of Old Harbour TownRussell, William Clark
General
The Yarn of Old Harbour Town
Russell, William Clark
English fiction -- 20th century; Historical fiction; Sea stories
"I am thankful to hear you speak of dancing. If ever your clothes
should become rags and flutter to the measures of your feet, your
beauty will still make them a finer garment, at least in my sight, than
the apparel of royalty in state. But you shall not want for clothes,"
he said, speaking in his gentlest voice, which, as he held command
over fine vocal powers that rendered him at the piano, or at any other
instrument, a sweet and engaging and manly singer, would have been
found soothing by any ear that had not Lucy Acton's to hear with. "Your
dress will last you till our arrival, and then you shall have plenty;
whatever your choice selects you may already call your own."
She delivered the same wild, screaming laugh which had before filled
the cabin with its insane music, and said, dropping her note into one
of plaintiveness, whilst she extended her skirt with both hands as
though she was about to make a step or two in a dance: "Think of poor
Lucy Acton in rags! Think of the lady who was notable, before a liar
and a rogue stole her from her father, for her fine dresses and modish
hats and bonnets; oh, think of her"--she paused to sigh deeply--"in
rags, a prisoner in a ship owned by her father, who would kill the
wretch that tore her from his side!"
And thus speaking she turned to the bulkhead, and putting her arm
against it buried her face in her sleeve, and fell to sobbing so
piteously that you would have thought her poor little heart was broken.
CHAPTER XI
PRINCESS TATTERS
Mr Lawrence approached the figure of the young lady sobbing against
the bulkhead, and placed his hand lightly upon her shoulder. She shook
him off with a passionate convulsion of her whole form, which was full
of disgust, aversion, and contemptuous wrath. It was a masterpiece of
movement, eloquent in the highest possible degree of what she chose
him to believe was in her mind. Her mother, Mrs Kitty O'Hara, had
been famous for her artful strokes in this way. No actress surpassed
her, and few were the equals of Mrs O'Hara in the remarkable gift of
personification of passion by action.
Mr Lawrence drew back a step.
"Loving you as I do," he exclaimed softly, "loving me as I know you
do, my dearest girl, my sweet mistress, the sole star of my desire,
how must it grieve me to see you weeping, how much more that I am to
think those tears flow through me? But I have faith in time, in the
unconquerable quality of my love, and in the assurance of my soul, for
though I have descended to artifice to enable me to win you, pure gem
of your sex as you are, you do not despise me for my struggle. You
recognise and approve an effort which has cost me many little pangs;
for, dearest madam, my sweetest Lucy, 'tis all for love, and the world
would be lost for me if you denied me, if I did not win you."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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