I have
been long enough in England to understand the significance of the
candles. Doubtless the White Witch had paid four shillings a week
for each of them in her prison lodging, and she naturally wished to
burn them to the end.
One has no need, though, of pictures on the walls here, for the
universe seems unrolled at one's very feet. As I look out of my
window the last thing before I go to sleep, I see the lights of
Great Belvern, the dim shadows of the distant cathedral towers, the
quaint priory seven centuries old, and just the outline of Holly
Bush Hill, a sacred seat of magic science when the Druids
investigated the secrets of the stars, and sought, by auspices and
sacrifices, to forecast the future and to penetrate the designs of
the gods.
It makes me feel very new, very undeveloped, to look out of that
window. If I were an Englishwoman, say the fifty-fifth duchess of
something, I could easily glow with pride to think that I was part
and parcel of such antiquity; the fortunate heiress not only of land
and titles, but of historic associations. But as I am an American
with a very recent background, I blow out my candle with the feeling
that it is rather grand to be making history for somebody else to
inherit.
Chapter XIX. The heart of the artist.
I am almost too comfortable with Mrs.
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