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Updated: June 15, 2025
Still she moved; but nerve and strength ebbed; and at last there came a step into infinity a sharp pain and the flame of consciousness went out. The February afternoon in Long Whindale, shortened by the first heavy snowstorm of the winter, passed quickly into darkness.
She had gone back to Whindale in April only to fall into more hopeless discontent than ever. 'She can hardly be civil to anybody, Agnes wrote to Catherine. 'The cry now is all "London" or at least "Berlin," and she cannot imagine why papa should ever have wished to condemn us to such a prison.
In March, Catherine, feeling restless and anxious about her mother, and thinking it hard that Agnes should have all the nursing and responsibility tore herself from her man and her baby, and went north to Whindale for a fortnight, leaving Robert forlorn. Now, however, she was in London, whither she had gone for a few days on her way home, to meet Rose and to shop.
They were thus most her own. She climbed on till at last she reached the crest of the ridge. Behind her lay the valley, and on its further side the fells she had crossed in the afternoon. Before her spread a long green vale, compared to which Whindale with its white road, its church, and parsonage, and scattered houses, was the great world itself. Marrisdale had no road and not a single house.
In this phase, as in the other, there was a touch of extravagance. The girl was developing fast, but had clearly not yet developed. The restlessness, the self-consciousness of Long Whindale were still there; but they spoke to the spectator in different ways. But in her anxious study of her sister Catherine did not forget her place of hostess. 'Did our man bring you through the park, Mr.
The sisters, remembering how she had come in upon them with that look of one 'lifted up, understood why she had not noticed, and refrained from further questions. 'Well, it is to be hoped the young man is recovered enough to stand Long Whindale festivities, said Rose. 'Mrs. Thornburgh means to let them loose on his devoted head to-morrow night. 'Who are coming? asked Mrs. Leyburn eagerly.
She was not thinking of the past, but of the future; she was weaving her story that was to be into the flying notes, playing to the unknown of her Whindale dreams, the strong ardent unknown, 'insufferable, if he pleases, to all the world besides, but to me heaven! She had caught no breath yet of his coming, but her heart was ready for him.
She was sure it squinted, that its back was weaker than other babies, that it cried more than hers had ever done. She loved to be plaintive; it would have seemed to her unladylike to be too cheerful, even over a first grandchild. Agnes meanwhile made herself practically useful, as was her way, and she did almost more than anybody to beguile Catherine's recovery by her hours of Long Whindale chat.
'You are the first tourist, she said coolly, 'who has ever stayed in Whindale. 'Tourist! I repudiate the name. I am a worshipper at the shrine of Wordsworth and Nature. Helen and I long ago defined a tourist as a being with straps. I defy you to discover a strap about me, and I left my Murray in the railway carriage. He looked at her laughing. She laughed too.
During the greater part of its course the valley of Long Whindale is tame and featureless. The hills at the lower part are low and rounded, and the sheep and cattle pasture over slopes unbroken either by wood or rock.
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