Where England sets her feet: a romance — John Shaqi
Where England sets her feet: a romanceCapes, Bernard
History
Where England sets her feet: a romance
Capes, Bernard
Adventure stories; Great Britain -- History -- Elizabeth, 1558-1603 -- Fiction; Historical fiction
Now, one instantly healthy effect this awakening had on him was to
send him abroad again hawking over the moors. Thither had she gone,
and there, presumably, was to be sought. He had a confidence that
somehow he would alight on her again, and without seeking, however
cautiously, to identify and run her to earth. As to that he was
jealous, too, of making his quest a public matter: it would dilute the
heady romance of the situation, and deprive it of its most intimate
charm. So he breathed no word of his secret to living soul, but
carried it in his breast, like an anachronous electric torch, himself
alone aware of the light which dwelt within him, awaiting on his touch
either to flash into being or to vanish.
He took to wandering far afield in these days, even affecting to
himself a topical interest in his explorations, while his eyes were
unceasingly alert for some sign or token of their real objective. But
enough pride remained to him to make him feign a nonchalance he was
remote from feeling. He returned to angling, as it were to give some
colour to his persistent haunting of the moors, and, recalling
Clerivault’s instructions, dabbed and dibbled assiduously in the becks
and streams, but without much success. However, as it happened, this
pretext did actually at last lead him to the attainment of the company
he coveted.
He had pushed, one glowing afternoon in May, to a point on the moor,
where a couple of little sturdy brooks, running separately in their
valleys, came together, like two romping dogs, and headed straight in
one course for the Dart. South of him lay Holne Chase, where the rich
City Knight dwelt--a beautiful domain contained within an arm of the
river, here sunk in a rocky ravine whose heights were thick with
foliage. Northward, rising above the heave and tumble of green, stood
Buckland Tor, the beacon planted on its summit like a great red tulip
waiting to flower; and at his feet bubbled the pretty rivulet,
swirling and eddying, and in places returning upon itself to linger in
still pools very inviting for a fisherman’s purpose.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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