White Heather: A Novel (Volume 2 of 3)Black, William
General
White Heather: A Novel (Volume 2 of 3)
Black, William
Scotland -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
’In God’s name let us see if there’s not a bit of blue sky anywhere!’ he
said to himself; and he flung his books aside, and put on his Glengarry
cap, and took a stick in his hand, and went out.
Alas! that there were no light pattering steps following him down the
stone stair; the faithful Harry had had to be left behind, under charge
of Mr. Murray of the inn. And indeed Ronald found it so strange to be
going out without some companion of the kind that when he passed into
the wide, dull thoroughfare, he looked up and down everywhere to see if
he could not find some homeless wandering cur that he could induce to go
with him. But there was no sign of dog-life visible; for the matter of
that there was little sign of any other kind of life; there was nothing
before him but the wide, empty, dull-hued street, apparently terminating
in a great wilderness of india-rubber works and oil-works and the like,
all of them busily engaged in pouring volumes of smoke through tall
chimneys into the already sufficiently murky sky.
But when he got farther north, he found that there were lanes and alleys
permeating this mass of public works; and eventually he reached a canal,
and crossed that, deeming that if he kept straight on he must reach the
open country somewhere. As yet he could make out no distance; blocks of
melancholy soot-begrimed houses, timber-yards, and blank stone walls
shut in the view on every hand; moreover there was a brisk north wind
blowing that was sharply pungent with chemical fumes and also gritty
with dust; so that he pushed on quickly, anxious to get some clean air
into his lungs, and anxious, if that were possible, to get a glimpse of
green fields and blue skies. For, of course, he could not always be at
his books; and this, as he judged, must be the nearest way out into the
country; and he could not do better than gain some knowledge of his
surroundings, and perchance discover some more or less secluded sylvan
retreat, where, in idle time, he might pass an hour or so with his
pencil and his verses and his memories of the moors and hills.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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