Lavengro by George Borrow (read me a book txt) 📕

am I altered for the better? And then I looked at my hands and my apparel, and sighed again. I was not wont of yore to appear thus on the Sabbath day.

For a long time I continued in a state of deep meditation, till at last I lifted up my eyes to the sun, which, as usual during that glorious summer, was shining in unclouded majesty; and then I lowered them to the sparkling water, in which hundreds of the finny brood were disporting themselves, and then I thought what a fine thing it was to be a fish on such a fine summer day, and I wished myself a fish, or at least amongst the fishes; and then I looked at my hands again, and then, bending over the water, I looked at my face in the crystal mirror, and started when I saw it, for it looked squalid and miserable.

Forthwith I started up, and said to myself, I should like to bathe and cleanse myself from the squalor produced by my late hard life and by Mrs. Herne’s drow. I wonder if there is any harm in bathing on the Sabbath day. I will ask Winifred when she comes home; in the meantime I will bathe, provided I can find a fitting place.

But the brook, though a very delightful place for fish to disport in, was shallow, and by no means adapted for the recreation of so large a being as myself; it was, moreover, exposed, though I saw nobody at hand, nor heard a single human voice or sound. Following the winding of the brook I left the meadow, and, passing through two or three thickets, came to a place where between lofty banks the water ran deep and dark, and there I bathed, imbibing new tone and vigour into my languid and exhausted frame.

Having put on my clothes, I returned by the way I had come to my vehicle beneath the oak tree. From thence, for want of something better to do, I strolled up the hill, on the top of which stood the farmhouse; it was a large and commodious building built principally of stone, and seeming of some antiquity, with a porch, on either side of which was an oaken bench. On the right was seated a young woman with a book in her hand, the same who had brought the tray to my friends and myself.

“Good day,” said I, “pretty damsel, sitting in the farm porch.”

“Good day,” said the girl, looking at me for a moment, and then fixing her eyes on her book.

“That’s a nice book you are reading,” said I.

The girl looked at me with surprise. “How do you know what book it is?” said she.

“How do I know⁠—never mind; but a nice book it is⁠—no love, no fortune-telling in it.”

The girl looked at me half offended. “Fortune-telling!” said she, “I should think not. But you know nothing about it;” and she bent her head once more over the book.

“I tell you what, young person,” said I, “I know all about that book; what will you wager that I do not?”

“I never wager,” said the girl.

“Shall I tell you the name of it,” said I, “O daughter of the dairy?”

The girl half started. “I should never have thought,” said she, half timidly, “that you could have guessed it.”

“I did not guess it,” said I, “I knew it; and meet and proper it is that you should read it.”

“Why so?” said the girl.

“Can the daughter of the dairy read a more fitting book than the Dairyman’s Daughter?”

“Where do you come from?” said the girl.

“Out of the water,” said I. “Don’t start, I have been bathing; are you fond of the water?”

“No,” said the girl, heaving a sigh; “I am not fond of the water, that is, of the sea;” and here she sighed again.

“The sea is a wide gulf,” said I, “and frequently separates hearts.”

The girl sobbed.

“Why are you alone here?” said I.

“I take my turn with the rest,” said the girl, “to keep at home on Sunday.”

“And you are⁠—” said I.

“The master’s niece!” said the girl. “How came you to know it? But why did you not go with the rest and with your friends?”

“Who are those you call my friends?” said I.

“Peter and his wife.”

“And who are they?” said I.

“Do you not know?” said the girl; “you came with them.”

“They found me ill by the way,” said I; “and they relieved me: I know nothing about them.”

“I thought you knew everything,” said the girl.

“There are two or three things which I do not know, and this is one of them. Who are they?”

“Did you never hear of the great Welsh preacher, Peter Williams?”

“Never,” said I.

“Well,” said the girl, “this is he, and Winifred is his wife, and a nice person she is. Some people say, indeed, that she is as good a preacher as her husband, though of that matter I can say nothing, having never heard her preach. So these two wander over all Wales and the greater part of England, comforting the hearts of the people with their doctrine, and doing all the good they can. They frequently come here, for the mistress is a Welsh woman, and an old friend of both, and then they take up their abode in the cart beneath the old oaks down there by the stream.”

“And what is their reason for doing so?” said I; “would it not be more comfortable to sleep beneath a roof?”

“I know not their reasons,” said the girl, “but so it is; they never sleep beneath a roof unless the weather is very severe. I once heard the mistress say that Peter had something heavy upon his mind; perhaps that is the cause. If he is unhappy, all I can say is, that I wish him otherwise, for he is a good man and a kind⁠—”

“Thank you,” said I, “I will now depart.”

“Hem!” said the girl, “I was wishing⁠—”

“What? to ask me a question?”

“Not exactly;