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Updated: May 7, 2025
The rain, forecast by that red sky, fell in soft showers upon the verdant isle, and the grateful earth gave back its sweetest perfumes to the cool, moist air. Miss Skipwith came softly in to look at her charge, saw her sleeping peacefully, and as softly retired.
When dinner was over the Captain went off to smoke his cigar in the garden, and this Vixen thought a good time for making her escape. "I should like to take a walk with my dog, if you will excuse me, Miss Skipwith," she said politely.
Then, at last, feeling that she was treating poor Miss Skipwith badly, and that her prolonged absence might give alarm in that dreary household, she retraced her steps, and at the foot of the craggy mount asked the nearest way to Les Tourelles.
"My dear, our Creator gave us minds, and the power of working out our own salvation," replied Miss Skipwith. "Here are half-a-dozen volumes. In these you will find the history of Egyptian theology, from the golden age of the god Râ to the dark and troubled period of Persian invasion. Some of these works are purely philosophical. I should recommend you to read the historical volumes first.
But, after all, if the old lady and Miss Skipwith were both happy in their harmless self-deceptions, why should one pity them? The creature to be pitied is the man or woman who keenly sees and feels the hard realities of life, and cannot take pleasure in phantoms. Vixen ran off to her room to get her hat and gloves, delighted to find herself free.
When I abandon them I shall have done with life," replied Miss Skipwith gravely. "But you have not yet published your book." "No; I hope when I do that even you will hear of it." "I have no doubt it will make a sensation." "If it does not I have lived and laboured in vain. But my book may make a sensation, and yet fall far short of the result which I have toiled and hoped for." "And that is "
Non semper arcum tendit Apollo!" "I'll go for my favourite walk to Mount Orgueil. I don't think there'll be any more rain. Please excuse me if I am not home in time for dinner. I can have a little cold meat, or an egg, for my tea." "You had better take a sandwich with you," said Miss Skipwith, with unusual thoughtfulness. "You have been eating hardly anything lately."
"My dog is not savage, to Persians or anyone else," cried Vixen, wondering what inauspicious star had led the footsteps of an oriental wander to so dreary a refuge as Les Tourelles. "You would like to see your bedroom, perhaps?" suggested Miss Skipwith, and on Violet's assenting, she was handed over to Hannah Doddery, the woman who had opened the gate.
Her thin gray hair was shaded by a black lace cap, decorated with bugles and black weedy grasses. She wore black mittens, and jet jewellery, and was altogether as deeply sable as if she had been in mourning for the whole of the Skipwith race. She received Miss Tempest with a formal politeness which was not encouraging.
Sir John Skipwith stayed in the island and became a large landowner, and died at an advanced age there is nothing to kill people here, you see and the Skipwiths have been Jersey people ever since. They were once the richest family in the island. They are now one of the poorest. When I say they, I mean my aunt. She is the last of her race.
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