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
If he doubted her insanity at all his suspicion had no stiffer ground
than the shallow sand on which reposed his hope that she was acting.
Throughout this passage he did not think to consider her as the child
of a great actress. To him she had always been a gentle, sweet,
undemonstrative girl, ingenuous in speech, kind, charitable, beloved by
the poor, one whose pursuits were amiable and pure. She was nimble and
poetical with her pencil. She sang pretty songs prettily. Her beauty
informed with a colour of its own the melodies her fingers evoked from
the keys or strings of the instruments she touched. He could not think
of her as having the talents of an actress, or even the tastes of
one. He had never heard of her taking a part in a performance above a
charade. Nothing, therefore, but madness or an extraordinary dramatic
genius which it was impossible for him to think of her as possessing,
could create those parts which she had enacted before him in a manner
so immoderately life-like, so absolutely in unison with what he himself
could conceive of the behaviour of madness, that deep in his soul might
be found the conviction that she had lost her reason, and that his
passionate, unprincipled love was the cause of it.
Shortly before twelve the people of the _Minorca_ beheld on the
starboard bow one of those bland and beautiful pictures of the sea
which have vanished from the face of the waters to be seen no more.
The Lizard was painted in a soft, blue looming mass against the sky,
and to the right of it upon the sea-line, there sprang like stars in
their rising, the white cloths of ships--a numerous convoy from Torbay;
they rose fast with a pleasant breeze on the quarter, and one hundred
and sixty sail could have been counted with three line-of-battle ships
and some frigates to look after them. They were of all rigs known in
those days, from the commanding Indiaman armed like a man-o'-war,
hoisting her huge main and fore-yards by jeers, loosing her vast
topsails out of the tops, clothed as no ship now goes clothed with
sprit-sail and sprit-topsail, water sails and other devices in canvas
to catch even the faintest cat's paw that should tarnish the burnished
calm, down to the little snow bound to Lisbon; a gallant, an imposing,
a splendid sight, when every hull was shaped upon the sea which seemed
to be transformed into a mighty plain, brilliant for leagues with the
shining white cones of tents.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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