Mettle of the Pasture , livre ebook

The Floating Press - Lane Allen James

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

154 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

Though James Lane Allen's The Mettle of the Pasture is rife with the lush descriptions and strong sense of place that imbue his previous works, the central focus of this novel is on the complicated nuances of the blossoming love between protagonists Isabel and Rowan, proving that Allen is as skilled in creating unforgettable characters and dramatic tension as he is at depicting the contours of the natural landscape.

Informations

Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 février 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776530755
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

THE METTLE OF THE PASTURE
* * *
JAMES LANE ALLEN

*
The Mettle of the Pasture First published in 1903 Epub ISBN 978-1-77653-075-5 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77653-076-2 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
*
PART FIRST Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X PART SECOND Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X
*
To My Sister
PART FIRST
*
Chapter I
*
She did not wish any supper and she sank forgetfully back into thestately oak chair. One of her hands lay palm upward on her whitelap; in the other, which drooped over the arm of the chair, sheclasped a young rose dark red amid its leaves—an inverted torch oflove.
Old-fashioned glass doors behind her reached from a high ceiling tothe floor; they had been thrown open and the curtains looped apart.Stone steps outside led downward to the turf in the rear of thehouse. This turf covered a lawn unroughened by plant or weed; butover it at majestic intervals grew clumps of gray pines anddim-blue, ever wintry firs. Beyond lawn and evergreens a flowergarden bloomed; and beyond the high fence enclosing this, tree-topsand house-tops of the town could be seen; and beyond these—away inthe west—the sky was naming now with the falling sun.
A few bars of dusty gold hung poised across the darkening spaces ofthe supper room. Ripples of the evening air, entering through thewindows, flowed over her, lifting the thick curling locks at thenape of her neck, creeping forward over her shoulders and passingalong her round arms under the thin fabric of her sleeves.
They aroused her, these vanishing beams of the day, these arrivingbreezes of the night; they became secret invitations to escape fromthe house into the privacy of the garden, where she could be alonewith thoughts of her great happiness now fast approaching.
A servant entered noiselessly, bringing a silver bowl of frozencream. Beside this, at the head of the table before hergrandmother, he placed scarlet strawberries gathered that morningunder white dews. She availed herself of the slight interruptionand rose with an apology; but even when love bade her go, love alsobade her linger; she could scarce bear to be with them, but shecould scarce bear to be alone. She paused at her grandmother'schair to stroke the dry bronze puffs on her temples—a uniqueimpulse; she hesitated compassionately a moment beside her aunt,who had never married; then, passing around to the opposite side ofthe table, she took between her palms the sunburnt cheeks of ayouth, her cousin, and buried her own tingling cheek in his hair.Instinct at that moment drew her most to him because he was youngas she was young, having life and love before him as she had; only,for him love stayed far in the future; for her it came to-night.
When she had crossed the room and reached the hall, she paused andglanced back, held by the tension of cords which she dreaded tobreak. She felt that nothing would ever be the same again in thehome of her childhood. Until marriage she would remain under itsdear honored roof, and there would be no outward interruption ofits familiar routine; but for her all the bonds of life would havebecome loosened from old ties and united in him alone whom thisevening she was to choose as her lot and destiny. Under theinfluence of that fresh fondness, therefore, which wells up sostrangely within us at the thought of parting from home and homepeople, even though we may not greatly care for them, she now stoodgazing at the picture they formed as though she were alreadycalling it back through the distances of memory and the changes offuture years.
They, too, had shifted their positions and were looking at her withone undisguised expression of pride and love; and they smiled asshe smiled radiantly back at them, waving a last adieu with herspray of rose and turning quickly in a dread of foolish tears.
"Isabel."
It was the youthful voice of her grandmother. She faced them againwith a little frown of feigned impatience.
"If you are going into the garden, throw something around yourshoulders."
"Thank you, grandmother; I have my lace."
Crossing the hall, she went into the front parlor, took from adamask sofa a rare shawl of white lace and, walking to a mirror,threw it over her head, absently noting the effect in profile. Shelifted this off and, breaking the rose from part of its stem,pinned that on her breast. Then, stepping aside to one of thelarge lofty windows, she stood there under the droop of thecurtains, sunk into reverie again and looking out upon the yard andthe street beyond.
Hardly a sound disturbed the twilight stillness. A lamplighterpassed, torching the grim lamps. A sauntering carrier threw theevening newspaper over the gate, with his unintelligible cry. Adog-cart rumbled by, and later, a brougham; people were not yetreturned from driving on the country turnpikes. Once, some belatedgirls clattered past on ponies. But already little children,bare-armed, bare-necked, swinging lanterns, and attended by proudyoung mothers, were on their way to a summer-night festival in thepark. Up and down the street family groups were forming on theverandas. The red disks of cigars could be seen, and the laughterof happy women was wafted across the dividing fences and shrubbery,and vines.
Breaking again through her reverie, which seemed to envelop her,wherever she went, like a beautiful cloud, she left the window andappeared at the front door. Palms stood on each side of thegranite steps, and these arched their tropical leaves far overtoward her quiet feet as she passed down. Along the pavement wereset huge green boxes, in which white oleanders grew, and flamingpomegranates, and crepe myrtle thickly roofed with pink. She wasused to hover about them at this hour, but she strolled past,unmindful now, the daily habit obliterated, the dumb little tiequite broken. The twisted newspaper lay white on the shadowedpavement before her eyes and she did not see that. She walked onuntil she reached the gate and, folding her hands about one of thebrass globes surmounting the iron spikes, leaned over and probedwith impatient eyes the long dusk of the street; as far as he couldbe seen coming she wished to see him.
It was too early. So she filled her eyes with pictures of thedaylight fading over woods and fields far out in the country. Butthe entire flock of wistful thoughts settled at last about a largehouse situated on a wooded hill some miles from town. A lawnsloped upward to it from the turnpike, and there was a gravelleddriveway. She unlatched the gate, approached the house, passedthrough the wide hall, ascended the stairs, stood at the door ofhis room—waiting. Why did he not come? How could he linger?
Dreamily she turned back; and following a narrow walk, passed tothe rear of the house and thence across the lawn of turf toward thegarden.
A shower had fallen early in the day and the grass had been cutafterwards. Afternoon sunshine had drunk the moisture, leaving thefragrance released and floating. The warmth of the cooling earthreached her foot through the sole of her slipper. On the plume ofa pine, a bird was sending its last call after the bright hours,while out of the firs came the tumult of plainer kinds as theymingled for common sleep. The heavy cry of the bullbat fell fromfar above, and looking up quickly for a sight of his winnowingwings under the vast purpling vault she beheld the earliest stars.
Thus, everywhere, under her feet, over her head, and beyond thereach of vision, because inhabiting that realm into which thespirit alone can send its aspiration and its prayer, was oneinfluence, one spell: the warmth of the good wholesome earth, itsbreath of sweetness, its voices of peace and love and rest, themajesty of its flashing dome; and holding all these safe as in thehollow of a hand the Eternal Guardianship of the world.
As she strolled around the garden under the cloudy flush of theevening sky dressed in white, a shawl of white lace over one arm, arose on her breast, she had the exquisiteness of a long past,during which women have been chosen in marriage for health andbeauty and children and the power to charm. The very curve of herneck implied generations of mothers who had valued grace.Generations of forefathers had imparted to her walk and bearingtheir courage and their pride. The precision of the eyebrow, thechiselled perfection of the nostril, the loveliness of the shortred lip; the well-arched feet, small, but sure of themselves; theeyes that were kind and truthful and thoughtful; the sheen of herhair, the fineness of her skin, her nobly cast figure,—all thesewere evidences of descent from a people, that had reached in herthe purity, without having lost the vigor, of one of its highesttypes.
She had supposed that when he came the servant would receive himand announce his arrival, but in a little while the sound of a stepon the gravel reached her ear; she paused and listened. It wasfamiliar, but it was unnatural—she remembered this afterwards.
She began to walk away from him, her beautiful head suddenly archedfar forward, her bosom rising and falling under her clasped hands,her eyes filling with wonderful light. Then regaining composurebecause losing consciousness of herself in the thought of him, sheturned and with divine simplicity