Moths by Ouida — page 241: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

MOTHS. | 23% to her friends, the sparkle of which was like the brightness of an acid drink and contrastéd strongly with the few grave cone strained lines that were penned by Vere, | . One day, when they had but littie more time to spend on the CS a banks, she got together a riding and driving-party to Old ussee, Aussee is quaint, and ancient, and charming, where it stands on its three-branched river; its people are old-fashioned and sim- pie; its encircling mountains and its dark waters are full of peace and solemnity, When the gay world breaks in on these quiet.old towns and deep lakes and snow-girt hills, there seems a profanity in the invasion. It, is only for avery little while. At the first breath of autumn the butterflies flee, and the fishermen and salte workers and timber-hewers and chamois-hunters are left alone with their waters and their hills. The duchess’s driving-party was very piczuresque, very showy, very noisy; ‘* good society” is always very noisy nowadays, and has forgotten that a loud laugh used to be “bad form.” They were all people of very high degree, but they all smoked, they ail chattered shrilly,and they all looked very much as if they had been cut out of the Vie Parisienne and put in motion. Old Aussee, with its legends, its homely Styrian townsfolk, and its grand circle of snow-clad summits, was nothing to them; they liked the Opern- ring, the Bois, or Pall-Mall. Vere got away from them, and went by herself to visit the Spitalkirche. The altar is pure old German work of the four- teenth century, and she had heard of it from Kaulbach. In these old Austrian towns the churches are always very reverend places, dark and tranquil, overladen indeed with ornament and images, but too full of shadow for these to much offend; there ia the scent of centuries of incense; the ivories are yellow with the damp of ages. Mountain suzerains and bold ritters, whose deedg are still sung of in twilight to the cithern, sleep beneath the moss-grown pavement; their shields and crowns are worn flat toe the stone they were embossed on by the passing feet of genera- tions of worshipers. High above in the darkness there is always some colossal carved or molded Christ. Through the half- opened iron-studded door there is always the smell of pine woods, the gleam of water, the greenress of Alpine grass; often, too, there is the silvery falling of rain, and the fresh smell of it_ comes through the church, by whose black benches and dim lamps there will be sure to be some old bent woman praying. The little church was more congenial to Vere than the com- panionshship of her friends, who were boating on the Traun, while their servants unpacked their luncheon and their wines, She managed to elude them, and began to sketch the wings of the altar. - She sent her servant to wait outside. The place waa dreary and dark: the pure Alpine air blew in from an open pane. in a stained window; there was the tinkle of a cow-bell and the sound of running water from without; a dog came and looked ai her. | The altar was not an easy one to copy; the candles were not L ag Le «. A comicbooks.com | rr. 4 say nis ay “eK ? uf ia aN; oll) Me Lae =