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Weir of Hermiston-Part11_ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON(1850-1894)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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burning, and almost of scandal, in that infinitesimal kirk company.

Mrs. Hob had said her say at Cauldstaneslap. "Daft-like!" she had



pronounced it. "A jaiket that'll no meet! Whaur's the sense of a

jaiket that'll no button upon you, if it should come to be weet? What



do ye ca' thir things? Demmy brokens, d'ye say? They'll be brokens wi'

a vengeance or ye can win back! Weel, I have nae thing to do wi' it -



it's no good taste." Clem, whose purse had thus metamorphosed his

sister, and who was not insensible to the advertisement, had come to the



rescue with a "Hoot, woman! What do you ken of good taste that has

never been to the ceety?" And Hob, looking on the girl with pleased



smiles, as she timidly displayed her finery in the midst of the dark

kitchen, had thus ended the dispute: "The cutty looks weel," he had



said, "and it's no very like rain. Wear them the day, hizzie; but it's

no a thing to make a practice o'." In the breasts of her rivals, coming



to the kirk very conscious of white under-linen, and their faces

splendid with much soap, the sight of the toilet had raised a storm of



varying emotion, from the mere unenvious admiration that was expressed

in a long-drawn "Eh!" to the angrier feeling that found vent in an



emphatic "Set her up!" Her frock was of straw-coloured jaconet muslin,

cut low at the bosom and short at the ankle, so as to display her DEMI-



BROQUINS of Regency violet, crossing with many straps upon a yellow

cobweb stocking. According to the pretty fashion in which our



grandmothers did not hesitate to appear, and our great-aunts went forth

armed for the pursuit and capture of our great-uncles, the dress was



drawn up so as to mould the contour of both breasts, and in the nook

between, a cairngorm brooch maintained it. Here, too, surely in a very



enviable position, trembled the nosegay of primroses. She wore on her

shoulders - or rather on her back and not her shoulders, which it



scarcely passed - a French coat of sarsenet, tied in front with Margate

braces, and of the same colour with her violet shoes. About her face



clustered a disorder of dark ringlets, a little garland of yellow French

roses surmounted her brow, and the whole was crowned by a village hat of



chipped straw. Amongst all the rosy and all the weathered faces that

surrounded her in church, she glowed like an open flower - girl and



raiment, and the cairngorm that caught the daylight and returned it in a

fiery flash, and the threads of bronze and gold that played in her hair.



Archie was attracted by the bright thing like a child. He looked at her

again and yet again, and their looks crossed. The lip was lifted from



her little teeth. He saw the red blood work vividly under her tawny

skin. Her eye, which was great as a stag's, struck and held his gaze.



He knew who she must be - Kirstie, she of the harsh diminutive, his

housekeeper's niece, the sister of the rusticprophet, Gib - and he



found in her the answer to his wishes.

Christina felt the shock of their encountering glances, and seemed to



rise, clothed in smiles, into a region of the vague and bright. But the

gratification was not more exquisite than it was brief. She looked away



abruptly, and immediately began to blame herself for that abruptness.

She knew what she should have done, too late - turned slowly with her



nose in the air. And meantime his look was not removed, but continued

to play upon her like a battery of cannonconstantly aimed, and now



seemed to isolate her alone with him, and now seemed to uplift her, as

on a pillory, before the congregation. For Archie continued to drink



her in with his eyes, even as a wayfarer comes to a well-head on a

mountain, and stoops his face, and drinks with thirst unassuageable. In






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