Fantasy fiction, English; Paranormal fiction, English
A few minutes' careful walking brought them in sight of the Black Lake,
the special object of their excursion. And it certainly was well worth
coming to see, if not to paint; probably too, better seen in the
greyness of a late autumn day than in the summer sun, whose bright rays
reflected on its surface would have little harmonised with its character
of gloom and loneliness. The lake was equal to several acres in extent,
but from where they stood could not all be seen, as its farther end
was hidden by the undulations of the land. In colour it was a dull,
leaden grey, and looking at it, one's mind spontaneously reverted to
travellers' descriptions of the Dead Sea, for _dead_ was essentially the
word by which to describe it. There were no fish to be caught in it
Griffith told them, and as for its depth he had never heard tell of any
one's sounding it. The effect of the whole scene was very peculiar, and
so Helen and Edith felt it to be, as they stood gazing at the leaden
water and the great, apparently boundless moorland. It was difficult to
realise that they were so far above the ordinary haunts of men, for
there was nothing in that great plain to remind them of the existence
even of hills and mountains, except a steady-blowing breeze of that
peculiar freshness pertaining only to sea or mountain air. Pleasantly
invigorating at first, but soon becoming too chilly to make one care to
stand about, or, worse still, to _sit_, as our young ladies now
prepared to do.
"We are very lucky in the weather," remarked Helen, as they prepared for
their sketching. "I should fancy it is just the day to see the lake to
the best advantage."
"Or disadvantage," said Edith, "for I do think it is the most horrible
place I ever saw. I don't know," added she dreamily, "but what it would
seem even more desolate on a bright, sunny day. I don't know why."
"I understand how you mean," replied her sister, "the contrast would be
so strange. Like a skeleton dressed in a golden robe. Dear me, I am
becoming quite poetical. But look, Edith, how do you like this?" And a
consultation on their work ensued.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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