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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
227
XXIII.
All
through
the
morning,
the
air
was
held
in
an
ominous
stillness.
Sitting
over
my
books,
I
seemed
to
feel
the
silence;
when
I
turned
my
look
to
the
window,
I
saw
nothing
but
the
broad,
grey
sky,
a
featureless
expanse,
cold,
melancholy.
Later,
just
as
I
was
bestirring
myself
to
go
out
for
an
afternoon
walk,
something
white
fell
softly
across
my
vision.
A
few
minutes
more,
and
all
was
hidden
with
a
descending
veil
of
silent
snow.
It
is
a
disappointment.
Yesterday
I
half
believed
that
the
winter
drew
to
its
end;
the
breath
of
the
hills
was
soft;
spaces
of
limpid
azure
shone
amid
slow-drifting
clouds,
and
seemed
the
promise
of
spring.
Idle
by
the
fireside,
in
the
gathering
dusk,
I
began
to
long
for
the
days
of
light
and
warmth.
My
fancy
wandered,
leading
me
far
and
wide
in
a
dream
of
summer
England.
.
.
.
This
is
the
valley
of
the
Blythe.
The
stream
ripples
and
glances
over
its
brown
bed
warmed
with
sunbeams;
by
its
bank
the
green
flags
wave
and
rustle,
and,
all
about,
the
meadows
shine
in
pure
gold
of
buttercups.
The
hawthorn
hedges
are
a
mass
of
gleaming
blossom,
which
scents
the
breeze.
There
above
rises
the
heath,
yellow-mantled
with
gorse,
and
beyond,
if
I
walk
for
an
hour
or
two,
I
shall
come
out
upon
the
sandy
cliffs
of
Suffolk,
and
look
over
the
northern
sea.
.
.
.
I
am
in
Wensleydale,
climbing
from
the
rocky
river
that
leaps
amid
broad
pastures
up
to
the
rolling
moor.
Up
and
up,
till
my
feet
brush
through
heather,
and
the
grouse
whirrs
away
before
me.
Under
a
glowing
sky
of
summer,
this
air
of
the
uplands
has
still
a
life
which
spurs
to
movement,
which
makes
the
heart
bound.
The
dale
is
hidden;
I
see
only
the
brown
and
purple
wilderness,
cutting
against
the
blue
with
great
round
shoulders,
and,
far
away
to
the
west,
an
horizon
of
sombre
heights.
.
.
.
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