ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Agatha's Husband, by Dinah Maria Craik (AKA: Dinah Maria Mulock)This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copyit, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: Agatha's Husband       A NovelAuthor: Dinah Maria Craik (AKA: Dinah MariaMulock)Posting Date: March 13, 2009 [EBook #21767]Release Date: June 8, 2007Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AGATHA'S HUSBAND ***David WidgerAGATHA'S HUSBANDANOVELBy The Author Of'John Halifax, Gentleman'DINAH MARIA CRAIK,AKA: Dinah Maria MulockWith Illustrations By Walter CraneMacmillan And Co.1875INSCRIBED TO M, P.,INMEMORIAL OF THE FRIENDSHIP OF ALIFETIME1852.LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.The husband's farewell"She began leisurely to read""Will you accept it, with my love?"Arrival at Kingcombe HolmOn horsebackAlong the roadAGATHA'S HUSBAND.CHAPTER I.--Ifthere ever was a woman thoroughly like her name, it was AgathaBowen. She was good, in the first place--right good at heart, thoughwith a slight external roughness (like the sound of the g in her name),which tookaway all sentimentalism. Then the vowels--the three broadrich a's--which no one can pronounce with nimini-pimini closed lips--howthoroughly they answered to her character!--a character in the which wasnothingsmall, mean, cramped, or crooked.But if we go on unfolding her in this way, there will not be theslightest use in writing her history, or that of one in whom her life isbeautifully involved and enclosed--as every marriedwoman's should be--He was still in clouded mystery--an individual yet to be; and two otherindividuals had been "talking him over," feminine-fashion, in MissAgatha Bowen's drawing-room, much to that lady'samusement andedification. For, being moderately rich, she had her own suite of roomsin the house where she boarded; and having no mother--sorrowful lot fora girl of nineteen!--she sometimes filled her drawing-roomwith veryuseless and unprofitable acquaintances. These two married ladies--oneyoung, the other old--Mrs. Hill and Mrs. Thornycroft--had been for thelast half-hour vexing their very hearts out to find Agatha ahusband--aweakness which, it must be confessed, lurks in the heart of almost everymarried lady.Agatha had been laughing at it, alternately flushing up or lookingscornful, as her mouth had a natural propensity forlooking; balancingherself occasionally on the arm of the sofa, which, being rather smalland of a light figure, she could do with both impunity and grace; orelse rushing to the open window, ostensibly to let her blackkitteninvestigate street-sights from its mistress's shoulder. Agatha was verymuch of a child still, or could be when she chose.Mrs. Hill had been regretting some two or three "excellent matches" ofwhich she felt sureMiss Bowen had thrown away her chance; and youngMrs. Thornycroft had tried hard to persuade her dearest Agatha how verymuch happier she would be in a house of her own, than as a boarder evenin this excellentphysician's family. But Agatha only laughed on, anddevoted herself more than ever to the black kitten.She was, I fear, a damsel who rather neglected the _biensÃ©ances_ oflife. Only, in her excuse, it must be allowedthat her friends weredoing what they had no earthly business to do; since; if there is onesubject above all upon which a young woman has a right to keep herthoughts, feelings, and intentions to herself, and to exactfrom othersthe respect of silence, it is that of marriage. Possibly, Agatha Bowenwas of this opinion."Mrs. Hill, you are a very kind, good soul: and Emma Thornycroft, I likeyou very much; but if--(Oh! be quiet,Tittens!)--if you could manage tolet me and 'my Husband' alone."These were the only serious words she said--and they were but halfserious; she evidently felt such an irresistible propensity to laugh."Now," continuedshe, turning the conversation, and putting on adignified aspect, which occasionally she took it into her head toassume, though more in playfulness than earnest--"now let me tell youwho you will meet here at dinnerto-day.""Major Harper, of course.""I do not see the 'of course' Mrs. Thornycroft," returned Agatha,rather sharply; then, melting into a smile, she added: "Well, 'ofcourse,' as you say; what more likely visitor could I havethan myguardian?""Trustee, my dear; guardians belong to romances, where young ladies arealways expected to hate, or fall in love with them."Agatha flushed slightly. Now, unlike most girls, Miss Bowen did notlookpretty when she blushed; her skin being very dark, and not over clear,the red blood coursing under it dyed her cheek, not "celestial, rosyred," but a warm mahogany colour. Perhaps a consciousness of thisdeepenedthe unpleasant blushing fit, to which, like most sensitivepeople at her age, she was always rather prone."Not," continued Mrs. Thornycroft, watching her,--"not that I think anylove affair is likely to happen in your case;Major Harper is far toomuch of a settled-down bachelor, and at the same time too old."Agatha pulled a comical face, and made a few solemn allusions toMethuselah. She had a peculiarly quick, even abrupt manner ofspeaking,saying a dozen words in the time most young ladies would take to drawlout three; and possessing, likewise, the rare feminine quality of neversaying a word more than was necessary."Agatha, how funny youare!" laughed her easily-amused friend. "But,dear, tell me who else is coming?" And she glanced doubtfully down on agown that looked like a marriage-silk "dyed and renovated.""Oh, no ladies--and gentlemen neversee whether one is dressed inbrocade or sackcloth," returned Agatha, rather maliciously;--"only,'old Major Harper' as you are pleased to call him, and"----"Nay, I didn't call him very old--just forty, orthereabouts--though hedoes not look anything like it. Then he is so handsome, and, I must say,Agatha, pays you such extreme attention."Agatha laughed again--the quick, light-hearted laugh of nineteen--andherbrown eyes brightened with innocent pleasure.Young Mrs. Thornycroft again looked down uneasily at her dress--not fromovermuch vanity, but because her hounded mind recurred instinctivelyfrom extraneous or largeinterests to individual and lesser ones."Is there really any one particular coming, my dear? Of course, _you_have no trouble about evening dress; mourning is such easy comfortablewear." (Agatha turned her headquickly aside.) "That handsome silkof yours looks quite well still; and mamma there," glancing at thecontentedly knitting Mrs. Hill--"old ladies never require much dress;but if you had only told me to prepare forcompany"----"Pretty company! Merely our own circle--Dr. Ianson, Mrs. Ianson, andMiss Ianson--you need not mind outshining her now"----"No, indeed! I am married.""Then the 'company' dwindles down to two besidesyourselves; MajorHarper and his brother.""Oh! What sort of a person is the brother?""I really don't know; I have never seen him. He is just come home fromCanada; the youngest of the family--and I hate boys," repliedAgatha,running the sentences one upon the other in her quick fashion."The youngest of the family--how many are there in all?" inquired theelder lady, her friendly anxiety being probably once more onmatrimonialthoughts intent."I am sure, Mrs. Hill, I cannot tell. I have never seen any of them butMajor Harper, and I never saw him till my poor father died; all whichcircumstances you know quite well, and Emma too;so there is no need totalk a thing twice over."From her occasional mode of speech, some people might say, and did say,that Agatha Bowen "had a temper of her own." It is very true, she wasnot one of those mild,amiable heroines who never can give a sharp wordto any one. And now and then, probably from the morbid restlessnessof unsatisfied youth--a youth, too, that fate had deprived of thosehome-ties, duties, andsacrifices, which are at once so arduous and sowholesome--she had a habit of carrying, not only the real black kitten,but the imaginary and allegorical "little black dog," on her shoulder.It was grinning there invisiblynow; shaking her curls with shortquick motion, swelling her rich full lips--those sort of lips which areglorious in smiles, but which in repose are apt to settle into a gravitynot unlike crossness.She was looking thus--nother best, it must be allowed--when a servant,opening the drawing-room door, announced "Visitors for Miss Bowen."The first who entered, very much in advance of the other, appeared withthat easy, agreeable air whichat once marks the gentleman, and one longaccustomed to the world in all its phases, especially to the femininephase; for he bowed over Agatha's hand, and smiled in Agatha's nowbrightening face, with a sort of tendermanliness, that implied hisbeing used to pleasing women, and having an agreeable though not anungenerous consciousness of the fact."Are you better--really better? Are you quite sure you have no coldleft? Nothing tomake your friends anxious about you?" (Agatha shook herhead smilingly.) "That's right; I am so glad."And no doubt Major Harper was; for a true kind-heartedness, softenedeven to tender-heartedness, was visible inhis handsome face. Which facehad been for twenty years the admiration of nearly every woman in everydrawing-room he entered: a considerable trial for any man. Now and thensome independent young lady, who hadreasons of her own for preferringrosy complexions, turn-up noses, and "runaway" chins, might quarrelwith the Major's fine Roman profile and jet-black moustache and hair;but--there was no denying it--he was, even atforty, a remarkablyhandsome man; one of the old school of Chesterfield perfection, which isfast dying out.Everybody liked him, more or less; and some people--a few men and not afew women, had either in friendshipor in warmer fashion--deeplyloved him. Society in general was quite aware of this; nor, it must beconfessed, did Major Harper at all attempt to disprove or ignore thefact. He wore his honours--as he did a cross won, noone quite knewhow, during a brief service in the Peninsula--neither pompously norboastingly, but with the mild indifference of conscious desert.All this could be at once discerned in his face, voice, and manner;fromwhich likewise a keen observer might draw the safe conclusion that,though a decided man of fashion, and something of a dandy, he was aboveeither puppyism or immorality. And Agatha's rich Anglo-Indian fatherhadnot judged foolishly when he put his only child and her property in thetrust of, as he believed, that rare personage, an honest man.If the girl Agatha, who took honesty as a matter of course in everygentleman,endowed this particular one with a few qualities more than hereally possessed, it was an amiable weakness on her part, for which,as Major Harper would doubtless have said with a seriously troubledcountenance, "noone could possibly blame _him._"In speaking of the Major we have taken little notice--as little, indeed,as Agatha did--of the younger Mr. Harper."My brother, Miss Bowen. He came home when my sister Emily died."Thebrief introduction terminated in a slight fall of voice, which made theyoung lady look sympathisingly at the handsome face that took shades ofsadness as easily as shades of mirth. In her interest for the Majorshemerely bowed to his brother; just noticed that the stranger was a tall,fair "boy," not at all resembling her own friend; and after a politespeech or two of welcome, to which Mr. Harper answered very briefly,she hardlylooked at him again until she and her guests adjourned to thefamily drawing-room of Dr. Ianson.There, the Major happening to be engrossed by doing earnest politenessto Mrs. Thornycroft and her mother, Agatha hadto enter side by sidewith the younger brother, and likewise to introduce him to the worthyfamily whose inmate she was.She did so, making the whole circuit of the room towards Miss JaneIanson, in the hope that hewould cast anchor, or else be grappled bythat young lady, and so she should get rid of him. However, fate wasadverse; the young gentleman showed no inclination to be thus put aside,and Miss Bowen, driven todespair, was just going to extinguish himaltogether with some specimen of the unceremonious manner which sheoccasionally showed to "boys," when, observing him more closely, shediscovered that he could notexactly come under this category.His fair face, fair hair, and thin, stripling-like figure, had deceivedher. Investigating deeper, there was a something in his grave eyeand firmly-set mouth which bespoke the man, not theboy. Agatha, who,treating him with a careless womanly superiority that girls of nineteenuse, had asked "how long he had been in Canada?" and been answered"Fifteen years,"--hesitated at her next intendedquestion--the very rudeand malicious one--"How old he was when he left home?""I was, as you say, very young when I quitted England," he answered, toa less pointed remark of Miss Ianson's. "I must have been a ladof nineor ten--little more."Agatha quite started to think of the disrespectful way in which shehad treated a gentleman twenty-five years old! It made her shy anduncomfortable for some minutes, and she rather repentedof her habit ofpatronising "boys."However, what was even twenty-five? A raw, uncouth age. No man wasreally good for anything until he was thirty. And, as quickly ascourtesy and good feeling allowed her, she glidedfrom the uninterestingyounger brother to the charmed circle where the elder was talking away,as only Major Harper could talk, using all the weapons of conversationby turns, to a degree that never can be trulydescribed. Like Taglioni's_entrechats_, or Grisi's melodious notes, such extrinsic talent dies onthe senses of the listener, who cannot prove, scarcely even explain, butonly say that it was so. Nevertheless, with all hispower of amusing, akeen observer might have discerned in Major Harper a want of depth--ofreading--of thought; a something that marked out the man of societyin contradiction to the man of intellect or of letters. Hadhe been anauthor--which he was once heard to thank Heaven he was not--he wouldprobably have been one of those shallow, fashionable sentimentalistswho hang like Mahomed's coffin between earth and heaven, aneyesore untoboth. As it was, his modicum of talent made him a most pleasant man inhis own sphere--the drawing-room."Really," whispered the good, corpulent Dr. Ianson, who had beenlaughing so much that he quiteforgot dinner was behind time, "my dearMiss Bowen, your friend is the most amusing, witty, delightful person.It is quite a pleasure to have such a man at one's table.""Quite a pleasure, indeed," echoed Mrs. Ianson,deeply thankful toanything or anybody that stood in the breach between herself, herhusband, and the dilatory cook.Agatha looked gratified and proud. Casting a shy glance towards whereher friend was talking to EmmaThomycroft and Miss Ianson, she metthe eye of the younger brother. It expressed such keen, thoughgrave observance of her, that she felt her cheeks warm into the old,unbecoming, uncomfortable blush.It was rather asatisfaction that, just then, they were summonedto dinner; Major Harper, in his half tender, half paternal manner,advancing to take her downstairs; which was his custom, when, asfrequently happened, Agatha Bowenwas the woman he liked best in theroom. This was indeed his usual way in all societies, except when out ofkindliness of heart he now and then made a temporary sacrifice in favourof some woman who he thought liked_him_ best. Though even in this case,perhaps, he would not have erred, or felt that he erred, in offering hisarm to Agatha.She looked happy, as any young girl would, in receiving the attentionsof a man whom alladmired; and was quite contented to sit next to him,listening while he talked cheerfully and brilliantly, less for herpersonal, entertainment than that of the table in general. Which shethought, considering the dulness ofthe Ianson circle, and that even herown kind-hearted, long-known friend, Emma Thomycroft, was not the mostintellectual woman in the world,--showed great good nature on the partof Major Harper.Perhaps the mostsilent person at table was the younger brother, whoseChristian name Agatha did not know. However, hearing the Major callhim once or twice by an odd-sounding word, something like "Beynell" or"Ennell," she had thecuriosity to inquire."Oh, it is N. L.--his initials; which I call him by, instead of thevery ugly name his cruel godfathers and godmothers imposed upon him as alife-long martyrdom.""What name is that?" asked Agatha,looking across at the luckless victimof nomenclature, who seemed to endure his woes with great equanimity.He met her eye, and answered for himself, showing he had been listeningto her all the time. "I am calledNathanael--it is an old familyname--Nathanael Locke Harper.""You don't look very like a Nathanael," observed his neighbour, Mrs.Thornycroft, doubtless wishing to be complimentary."I think he does," said Agatha,kindly, for she was struck by theinfinitely sweet and "good" expression which the young man's face justthen wore. "He looks like the Nathanael of Scripture, 'in whom therewas no guile.'"A pause--for the Iansons werethose sort of religious people who thinkany Biblical allusions irreverent. But Major Harper said, heartily,"That's true!" and cordially, nay affectionately, pressed Agatha'shand. Nathanael slightly coloured, as if withpleasure, though he madeno answer of any kind. He was evidently unused to bandy either jests orcompliments.If anything could be objected to in a young man so retiring andunobtrusive as he, it was a certainsomething the very opposite ofhis brother's cheerful frankness. His features, regular, delicate, andperfectly colourless; his hair long, straight, and of the palest brown,without any shadow of what painters would call a"warm tint," auburn orgold, running through it; his slow, quiet movements, rare speech, and acertain passive composure of aspect, altogether conveyed the impressionof a nature which, if not positively repellant, wasdecidedly cold.Agatha felt it, and though from the rule of opposites, this species ofcharacter awoke in her a spice of interest, yet was the interest of toofaint and negative a kind to attract her more than momentarily.Inher own mind she set down Nathanael Harper as "a very odd sort ofyouth"--(_a youth_ she still persisted in calling him)--and turnedagain to his brother.They had dined late,--and the brief evening bade fair to passasafter-dinner evenings do. Arrived in the drawing-room, old Mrs. Hillwent to sleep; Miss Ianson, a pale young woman, in delicate health,disappeared; Mrs. Ianson and Mrs. Thornycroft commenced alow-toned,harmless conversation, which was probably about "servants" and "babies."Agatha being at that age when domestic affairs are very uninteresting,and girlish romance has not yet ripened into the sweet andsolemninstincts of motherhood, stole quietly aside, and did the very rudething of taking up a book and beginning to read "in company." But, asbefore stated, Miss Agatha had a will of her own, which she usuallyfollowedout, even when it ran a little contrary to the ultra-refinedlaws of propriety.The book not being sufficiently interesting, she was beginning, likemany another clever girl of nineteen, to think the society of marriedladies agreat bore, and to wonder when the gentlemen would comeup-stairs'. Her wish was shortly gratified by the door's opening--butonly to admit the "youth" Nathanael.However, partly for civility, and partly through lack ofentertainment,Agatha smiled upon even him, and tried to make him talk.This was not an easy matter, since in all qualities he seemed to behis elder brother's opposite. Indeed, his reserve and brevity of speechemulatedAgatha's own; so they got on together ill enough, until by somehappy chance they lighted on the subject of Canada and the Backwoods.Where is there boy or girl of romantic imagination who did not, atsome juvenileperiod of existence, revel in descriptions of Americanforest-life? Agatha had scarcely passed this, the latest of her variousmanias; and on the strength of it, she and Mr. Harper became moresociable. She evencondescended to declare "that it was a pleasure tomeet with one who had absolutely seen, nay, lived among red Indians.'""Ay, and nearly died among them too," added Major Harper, coming up sounexpectedly thatAgatha had not noticed him. "Tell Miss Bowen how youwere captured, tied to the stake, half-tomahawked, etc.--how you livedIndian fashion for a whole year, when you were sixteen. Wonderful lad! Asecond NathanielBumppo!" added he, tapping his brother's shoulder.The young man drew back, merely answered "that the story would notinterest Miss Bowen," and retired, whether out of pride or shyness itwas impossible to say.The


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                                   THE BOONDOCK SAINTS                                        Written by                                        TROYDUFFY                                   Shooting Script:  White August 28, 1997                               INT.  GOTHIC CHURCH  10:00 A.M.  ST. PATRICK'S DAY               DOWNTOWNBOSTON               As we open we see the inside of an enormous church. A young                looking PRIEST in his mid-thirties is finishing the delivery                of the Lords Prayer. In the back of the church, inthe last                pew, there are two who kneel on the cold, stone floor.               They do not stand to sing, nor do they offer signs of peace                when told, but they pray. They grip and rub theirrosaries.                They mutter their words in Latin.               CONNOR and MURPHY MacMANUS (mid-twenties) are shrouded in                thick waist length navy P-coats, worn leather boots and the                hungryclothes of the poor. The boys heads are shaved and                they have facial hair.                                     MONSIGNOR                              (dismissingyoung                               priest)                         Thank you Father Macklepenny, for                          coming all the way across town to be                          our guest speaker today. I hopeyou                          found our little parish to your                          liking.               Macklepenny takes his seat on the alter along side the regular                priests of the church. The MacManus brothers suddenlystand,                as all others remain seated. Each church goer between them                and the aisle shifts his/her position to allow the boys                passage, as if on command. The two turn and begin tostride                for the alter, eyes down, determined.                                     ANNABELLE MACMANUS (V.O.)                              (thick Irish accent)                         They've never been like anyoneelse.                          From the moment they were born, of                          the same womb, on the same day, they                          just had their own way, my boys did.                          And I always knew that oneday they                          would do something of true greatness.                          I just never expected they would                          bring about such a... such a                          reckoning.               The MacManusbrothers are fraternal twins. As Annabelle                MacManus speaks, Macklepenny is taken aback as he scans the                congregation amazed to find that he is the only one who thinks                this out of theordinary.               The monsignor begins his sermon. Macklepenny rises to stop                the boys from this disgraceful disturbance.               The elder clergyman finds Macklepenny's arm, keepinghim                seated while shaking his head. Macklepenny's confusion gives                way to awe as he watches the brothers step onto the altar,                brush by the six seated priests, and approach theenormous                crucifix.               They both fall to their knees and kiss the feet of Christ.                They rise and as abruptly as they came, they turn and head                back down the aisle for the front door.They stop at the                rear of the church, turning to listen to the sermon.                                     MONSIGNOR                              (loud, authoritative)                         ...and I am reminded of thisholy                          day of the sad story of Kitty                          Geneviese. This poor soul cried out                          time and time again for help but no                          person answered her calls.Though                          many saw, not one so much as called.                          Her assailant wiped the bloody knife                          off on her lifeless little body.                          They watched as he simplywalked                          away. Nobody wanted to get involved.                          Nobody wanted to take a stand... We                          must fear evil men and deal with                          them accordingly but what wemust                          truly guard against, what we must                          fear most                              (beat)                         Is the indifference of good men.               The MacManuses turn and walk out thedoor.               EXT. CHURCH STEPS  SUNNY MORNING               The boys put on their dark glasses and pause at the top of                the steps to light up their cigarettes. They both rolltheir                cigarette butts along their tongues and screw them into their                lips. In this unique way they light up, seemingly oblivious                to their synchronicity andmimic.                                     CONNOR                              (Irish accent)                         I do believe the Monsignor finally                          got apoint.                                     MURPHY                              (Irish accent)                         Aye.               They leave.               INT. NOLAND'S MEAT PACKING PLANT  4:00 P.M.  SAMEDAY               Murphy, wearing a white blood soaked smock and apron stands                around the corner of the entrance to the loading dock. He                grips a gigantic, bloody slab of meat and smirks.Connor                flips his cigarette out the loading dock and passes his                brother's hiding place. He notices the workers have stopped,                and are looking athim.                                     CONNOR                         What?               Murphy slaps Connor square in the face with the bloody slab.               Connor's face is caked with blood as he stands stunned.He                then leaps on Murphy, sending him into a pile of nearby                hamburger. He grabs a large cow tongue from a nearby heap                and begins slapping Murphy in the face with it as theyboth                laugh and the workers cheer.               Their boss, McGERKIN approaches with a very large woman.               Her head is clean-shaven. The two are still laughing, out of                breath, theyturn.                                     MCGERKIN                         Boys this is Rose, Baum, Gurtle...                          Gurtle.                                     ROZ                         RozengurtleBaumgartner.                                     MCGERKIN                         You'll be training her today, and do                          a good job.                                     BOTHBOYS                         Aye.                                     CONNOR                              (wipes hand and extends                               it)                         Pleased ta meet ya Rozie.               She points to atattoo on her neck that reads untouched by                man.                                     ROZ                         I prefer to be called Rozengurtleby                          men.                                     CONNOR                              (taken aback)                         Okay then... let's get ya started.               Connor exits withRoz.                                     MURPHY                         Christ, that's the largest woman                          I've ever seen.                                     MCGERKIN                         It's self-imposedaffirmative action.                          If we hire big, fat, angry lesbians,                          then the leftist groups representing                          big, fat angry lesbians, won't think                          we're violating theirrights.                                     MURPHY                         Well, how politically correct you                          are. That's good stuff.                                     MCGERKIN                         Hey, thosepeople can shut ya down.                          They'll sue you into the ground                          claiming they were put under mental                          duress, inner pain. andsufferin'.                                     MURPHY                         Well, as long as we're hirin' fat                          lesbians, give your ma a call.               Murphy laughs as he jogsaway.                                     MCGERKIN                         Fuck you Murphy.               INT. NOLAND'S MEAT PACKING PLANT  CUT STATION  SAME DAY               Rozengurtle and Connor stand infront of a bunch of co-workers                who are cutting meat as it goes by on assembly.                                     CONNOR                         Okay, just cut off as much fat as                          you can as itgoes by and the rule                          of thumb here is...                                     ROZ                         Rule ofthumb?                                     CONNOR                              (questioningly)                         Yeah?                                     ROZ                         Do you know where that termcomes                          from? In the early 1900's it was                          legal for men to beat their wives as                          long as they used a stick no wider                          than their thumb.               Connorholds up his thumb and stares at it.                                     CONNOR                         Can't do much damage with that.                          Perhaps, it shoulda been the rule of                          wrist.Ha!                              (he elbows her)                         Rule of wrist.               She returns an icy stare. He hands her the knife. The co-               workers all seem wary of Roz.               Murphy stands on one side ofRoz, Connor on the other,                surrounded by a tight group of workers. Everyone is within                ear shot of one another, cutting meat as it goes by. Knowing                glances are shared by everyone. It is anuncomfortable mood.                                     CONNOR                         HeyMurphy?                                     MURPHY                         Aye.                                     CONNOR                              (slight smirk)                         How many feminists does it taketo                          screw in a light bulb?                                     MURPHY                         How many?                                     CONNOR                         Two. One ta screw it in and oneta                          suck my cock.               Everyone burst out laughing. Rozengurtle jabs a knife in a                piece of meat and turns to Connor. She pushes him and starts                walking toward him. He startsbacking up, laughing.                                     ROZ                              (angry)                         I knew you two pricks would give me                          problems. Give me shit cause I'ma                          woman. I'm not gonna take your male                          dominance bullshit!                                     CONNOR                              (trying to calm her,                               but still


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Reef, by Edith WhartonThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under theterms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: The ReefAuthor: Edith WhartonPosting Date: July 12, 2008 [EBook #283]Release Date: June, 1995Language:English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE REEF ***Produced by Gail Jahn, and John HammTHE REEFby Edith WhartonBOOK II"Unexpected obstacle. Please don't come till thirtieth. Anna."All the wayfrom Charing Cross to Dover the train had hammered the wordsof the telegram into George Darrow's ears, ringing every change of ironyon its commonplace syllables: rattling them out like a discharge ofmusketry,letting them, one by one, drip slowly and coldly into hisbrain, or shaking, tossing, transposing them like the dice in some gameof the gods of malice; and now, as he emerged from his compartment atthe pier, and stoodfacing the wind-swept platform and the angry seabeyond, they leapt out at him as if from the crest of the waves, stungand blinded him with a fresh fury of derision."Unexpected obstacle. Please don't come till thirtieth.Anna."She had put him off at the very last moment, and for the second time:put him off with all her sweet reasonableness, and for one of her usual"good" reasons--he was certain that this reason, like the other,(thevisit of her husband's uncle's widow) would be "good"! But it was thatvery certainty which chilled him. The fact of her dealing so reasonablywith their case shed an ironic light on the idea that there had beenanyexceptional warmth in the greeting she had given him after their twelveyears apart.They had found each other again, in London, some three monthspreviously, at a dinner at the American Embassy, and when shehad caughtsight of him her smile had been like a red rose pinned on her widow'smourning. He still felt the throb of surprise with which, amongthe stereotyped faces of the season's diners, he had come uponherunexpected face, with the dark hair banded above grave eyes; eyes inwhich he had recognized every little curve and shadow as he would haverecognized, after half a life-time, the details of a room he had playedinas a child. And as, in the plumed starred crowd, she had stood outfor him, slender, secluded and different, so he had felt, the instanttheir glances met, that he as sharply detached himself for her. All thatand more hersmile had said; had said not merely "I remember," but "Iremember just what you remember"; almost, indeed, as though her memoryhad aided his, her glance flung back on their recaptured moment itsmorningbrightness. Certainly, when their distracted Ambassadress--withthe cry: "Oh, you know Mrs. Leath? That's perfect, for General Farnhamhas failed me"--had waved them together for the march to thedining-room,Darrow had felt a slight pressure of the arm on his, a pressure faintlybut unmistakably emphasizing the exclamation: "Isn't it wonderful?--InLondon--in the season--in a mob?"Little enough, on the part ofmost women; but it was a sign of Mrs.Leath's quality that every movement, every syllable, told with her. Evenin the old days, as an intent grave-eyed girl, she had seldom misplacedher light strokes; and Darrow, onmeeting her again, had immediatelyfelt how much finer and surer an instrument of expression she hadbecome.Their evening together had been a long confirmation of this feeling. Shehad talked to him, shyly yetfrankly, of what had happened to her duringthe years when they had so strangely failed to meet. She had told himof her marriage to Fraser Leath, and of her subsequent life in France,where her husband's mother, left awidow in his youth, had beenre-married to the Marquis de Chantelle, and where, partly in consequenceof this second union, the son had permanently settled himself. She hadspoken also, with an intense eagerness ofaffection, of her little girlEffie, who was now nine years old, and, in a strain hardly less tender,of Owen Leath, the charming clever young stepson whom her husband'sdeath had left to her care...A porter, stumblingagainst Darrow's bags, roused him to the fact thathe still obstructed the platform, inert and encumbering as his luggage."Crossing, sir?"Was he crossing? He really didn't know; but for lack of any morecompellingimpulse he followed the porter to the luggage van, singledout his property, and turned to march behind it down the gang-way. Asthe fierce wind shouldered him, building up a crystal wall against hisefforts, he felt anewthe derision of his case."Nasty weather to cross, sir," the porter threw back at him as they beattheir way down the narrow walk to the pier. Nasty weather, indeed; butluckily, as it had turned out, there was no earthlyreason why Darrowshould cross.While he pushed on in the wake of his luggage his thoughts slipped backinto the old groove. He had once or twice run across the man whom AnnaSummers had preferred to him, andsince he had met her again he had beenexercising his imagination on the picture of what her married life musthave been. Her husband had struck him as a characteristic specimen ofthe kind of American as to whom oneis not quite clear whether helives in Europe in order to cultivate an art, or cultivates an art as apretext for living in Europe. Mr. Leath's art was water-colour painting,but he practised it furtively, almost clandestinely,with the disdain ofa man of the world for anything bordering on the professional, whilehe devoted himself more openly, and with religious seriousness, to thecollection of enamelled snuff-boxes. He was blond andwell-dressed, withthe physical distinction that comes from having a straight figure, athin nose, and the habit of looking slightly disgusted--as who shouldnot, in a world where authentic snuff-boxes were growing dailyharder tofind, and the market was flooded with flagrant forgeries?Darrow had often wondered what possibilities of communion there couldhave been between Mr. Leath and his wife. Now he concluded that therehadprobably been none. Mrs. Leath's words gave no hint of her husband'shaving failed to justify her choice; but her very reticence betrayedher. She spoke of him with a kind of impersonal seriousness, as if hehad been acharacter in a novel or a figure in history; and what shesaid sounded as though it had been learned by heart and slightly dulledby repetition. This fact immensely increased Darrow's impression thathis meeting with herhad annihilated the intervening years. She, who wasalways so elusive and inaccessible, had grown suddenly communicative andkind: had opened the doors of her past, and tacitly left him to draw hisown conclusions. Asa result, he had taken leave of her with thesense that he was a being singled out and privileged, to whom she hadentrusted something precious to keep. It was her happiness in theirmeeting that she had given him, hadfrankly left him to do with as hewilled; and the frankness of the gesture doubled the beauty of the gift.Their next meeting had prolonged and deepened the impression. They hadfound each other again, a few days later,in an old country house fullof books and pictures, in the soft landscape of southern England.The presence of a large party, with all its aimless and agitateddisplacements, had served only to isolate the pair and give them(atleast to the young man's fancy) a deeper feeling of communion, and theirdays there had been like some musical prelude, where the instruments,breathing low, seem to hold back the waves of sound that pressagainstthem.Mrs. Leath, on this occasion, was no less kind than before; but shecontrived to make him understand that what was so inevitably coming wasnot to come too soon. It was not that she showed any hesitationas tothe issue, but rather that she seemed to wish not to miss any stage inthe gradual reflowering of their intimacy.Darrow, for his part, was content to wait if she wished it. Heremembered that once, in America, whenshe was a girl, and he hadgone to stay with her family in the country, she had been out when hearrived, and her mother had told him to look for her in the garden. Shewas not in the garden, but beyond it he had seenher approaching down along shady path. Without hastening her step she had smiled and signed tohim to wait; and charmed by the lights and shadows that played upon heras she moved, and by the pleasure ofwatching her slow advance towardhim, he had obeyed her and stood still. And so she seemed now to bewalking to him down the years, the light and shade of old memories andnew hopes playing variously on her, andeach step giving him the visionof a different grace. She did not waver or turn aside; he knew she wouldcome straight to where he stood; but something in her eyes said "Wait",and again he obeyed and waited.On thefourth day an unexpected event threw out his calculations.Summoned to town by the arrival in England of her husband's mother, sheleft without giving Darrow the chance he had counted on, and he cursedhimself for adilatory blunderer. Still, his disappointment was temperedby the certainty of being with her again before she left for France;and they did in fact see each other in London. There, however, theatmosphere had changedwith the conditions. He could not say that sheavoided him, or even that she was a shade less glad to see him; butshe was beset by family duties and, as he thought, a little too readilyresigned to them.The Marquise deChantelle, as Darrow soon perceived, had the samemild formidableness as the late Mr. Leath: a sort of insistentself-effacement before which every one about her gave way. It wasperhaps the shadow of this lady'spresence--pervasive even during heractual brief eclipses--that subdued and silenced Mrs. Leath. The latterwas, moreover, preoccupied about her stepson, who, soon after receivinghis degree at Harvard, had beenrescued from a stormy love-affair, andfinally, after some months of troubled drifting, had yielded to hisstep-mother's counsel and gone up to Oxford for a year of supplementarystudy. Thither Mrs. Leath went once ortwice to visit him, and herremaining days were packed with family obligations: getting, as shephrased it, "frocks and governesses" for her little girl, who hadbeen left in France, and having to devote the remaining hoursto longshopping expeditions with her mother-in-law. Nevertheless, during herbrief escapes from duty, Darrow had had time to feel her safe in thecustody of his devotion, set apart for some inevitable hour; and thelastevening, at the theatre, between the overshadowing Marquise and theunsuspicious Owen, they had had an almost decisive exchange of words.Now, in the rattle of the wind about his ears, Darrow continued tohear themocking echo of her message: "Unexpected obstacle." In such anexistence as Mrs. Leath's, at once so ordered and so exposed, he knewhow small a complication might assume the magnitude of an "obstacle;"yet, evenallowing as impartially as his state of mind permitted forthe fact that, with her mother-in-law always, and her stepsonintermittently, under her roof, her lot involved a hundred smallaccommodations generally foreign tothe freedom of widowhood--even so,he could not but think that the very ingenuity bred of such conditionsmight have helped her to find a way out of them. No, her "reason",whatever it was, could, in this case, benothing but a pretext; unlesshe leaned to the less flattering alternative that any reason seemed goodenough for postponing him! Certainly, if her welcome had meant what heimagined, she could not, for the secondtime within a few weeks,have submitted so tamely to the disarrangement of their plans; adisarrangement which--his official duties considered--might, for all sheknew, result in his not being able to go to her formonths."Please don't come till thirtieth." The thirtieth--and it was now thefifteenth! She flung back the fortnight on his hands as if he had beenan idler indifferent to dates, instead of an active young diplomatistwho, torespond to her call, had had to hew his way through a veryjungle of engagements! "Please don't come till thirtieth." That was all.Not the shadow of an excuse or a regret; not even the perfunctory "havewritten" withwhich it is usual to soften such blows. She didn't wanthim, and had taken the shortest way to tell him so. Even in his firstmoment of exasperation it struck him as characteristic that she shouldnot have padded herpostponement with a fib. Certainly her moral angleswere not draped!"If I asked her to marry me, she'd have refused in the same language.But thank heaven I haven't!" he reflected.These considerations, which hadbeen with him every yard of the way fromLondon, reached a climax of irony as he was drawn into the crowd on thepier. It did not soften his feelings to remember that, but for her lackof forethought, he might, at thisharsh end of the stormy May day, havebeen sitting before his club fire in London instead of shivering in thedamp human herd on the pier. Admitting the sex's traditional right tochange, she might at least have advisedhim of hers by telegraphingdirectly to his rooms. But in spite of their exchange of letters shehad apparently failed to note his address, and a breathless emissary hadrushed from the Embassy to pitch her telegram intohis compartment asthe train was moving from the station.Yes, he had given her chance enough to learn where he lived; and thisminor proof of her indifference became, as he jammed his way through thecrowd, themain point of his grievance against her and of his derisionof himself. Half way down the pier the prod of an umbrella increased hisexasperation by rousing him to the fact that it was raining. Instantlythe narrow ledgebecame a battle-ground of thrusting, slanting, parryingdomes. The wind rose with the rain, and the harried wretches exposed tothis double assault wreaked on their neighbours the vengeance they couldnot take on theelements.Darrow, whose healthy enjoyment of life made him in general a goodtraveller, tolerant of agglutinated humanity, felt himself obscurelyoutraged by these promiscuous contacts. It was as though all thepeopleabout him had taken his measure and known his plight; as though theywere contemptuously bumping and shoving him like the inconsiderablething he had become. "She doesn't want you, doesn't want you,doesn'twant you," their umbrellas and their elbows seemed to say.He had rashly vowed, when the telegram was flung into his window: "Atany rate I won't turn back"--as though it might cause the sender amalicious joyto have him retrace his steps rather than keep on toParis! Now he perceived the absurdity of the vow, and thanked his starsthat he need not plunge, to no purpose, into the fury of waves outsidethe harbour.With thisthought in his mind he turned back to look for his porter;but the contiguity of dripping umbrellas made signalling impossible and,perceiving that he had lost sight of the man, he scrambled up again tothe platform. As hereached it, a descending umbrella caught him in thecollar-bone; and the next moment, bent sideways by the wind, it turnedinside out and soared up, kite-wise, at the end of a helpless femalearm.Darrow caught theumbrella, lowered its inverted ribs, and looked up atthe face it exposed to him."Wait a minute," he said; "you can't stay here."As he spoke, a surge of the crowd drove the owner of the umbrellaabruptly down on him.Darrow steadied her with extended arms, andregaining her footing she cried out: "Oh, dear, oh, dear! It's inribbons!"Her lifted face, fresh and flushed in the driving rain, woke in hima memory of having seen it at adistant time and in a vaguelyunsympathetic setting; but it was no moment to follow up such clues, andthe face was obviously one to make its way on its own merits.Its possessor had dropped her bag and bundles toclutch at the tatteredumbrella. "I bought it only yesterday at the Stores; and--yes--it'sutterly done for!" she lamented.Darrow smiled at the intensity of her distress. It was food for themoralist that, side by side withsuch catastrophes as his, human naturewas still agitating itself over its microscopic woes!"Here's mine if you want it!" he shouted back at her through theshouting of the gale.The offer caused the young lady to look athim more intently. "Why,it's Mr. Darrow!" she exclaimed; and then, all radiant recognition: "Oh,thank you! We'll share it, if you will."She knew him, then; and he knew her; but how and where had they met? Heputaside the problem for subsequent solution, and drawing her into amore sheltered corner, bade her wait till he could find his porter.When, a few minutes later, he came back with his recovered property,and the news thatthe boat would not leave till the tide had turned, sheshowed no concern."Not for two hours? How lucky--then I can find my trunk!"Ordinarily Darrow would have felt little disposed to involve himselfin the adventure of ayoung female who had lost her trunk; but at themoment he was glad of any pretext for activity. Even should he decide totake the next up train from Dover he still had a yawning hour to fill;and the obvious remedy wasto devote it to the loveliness in distressunder his umbrella."You've lost a trunk? Let me see if I can find it."It pleased him that she did not return the conventional "Oh, WOULD you?"Instead, she corrected him with alaugh--"Not a trunk, but my trunk; I'veno other--" and then added briskly: "You'd better first see to gettingyour own things on the boat."This made him answer, as if to give substance to his plans by discussingthem: "Idon't actually know that I'm going over.""Not going over?""Well...perhaps not by this boat." Again he felt a stealing indecision."I may probably have to go back to London. I'm--I'm waiting...expectinga letter...(She'llthink me a defaulter," he reflected.) "But meanwhilethere's plenty of time to find your trunk."He picked up his companion's bundles, and offered her an arm whichenabled her to press her slight person more closelyunder his umbrella;and as, thus linked, they beat their way back to the platform, pulledtogether and apart like marionettes on the wires of the wind, hecontinued to wonder where he could have seen her. He hadimmediatelyclassed her as a compatriot; her small nose, her clear tints, a kindof sketchy delicacy in her face, as though she had been brightly butlightly washed in with water-colour, all confirmed the evidence ofherhigh sweet voice and of her quick incessant gestures. She was clearly anAmerican, but with the loose native quality strained through a closerwoof of manners: the composite product of an enquiring andadaptablerace. All this, however, did not help him to fit a name to her, for justsuch instances were perpetually pouring through the London Embassy, andthe etched and angular American was becoming rarer than thefluid type.More puzzling than the fact of his being unable to identify her wasthe persistent sense connecting her with something uncomfortable anddistasteful. So pleasant a vision as that gleaming up at him betweenwetbrown hair and wet brown boa should have evoked only associations aspleasing; but each effort to fit her image into his past resulted in thesame memories of boredom and a vague discomfort...II"Don't you rememberme now--at Mrs. Murrett's?" She threw the question atDarrow across a table of the quiet coffee-room to which, after a vainlyprolonged quest for her trunk, he had suggested taking her for a cup oftea.In this mustyretreat she had removed her dripping hat, hung it on thefender to dry, and stretched herself on tiptoe in front of the roundeagle-crowned mirror, above the mantel vases of dyed immortelles, whileshe ran her fingerscomb-wise through her hair. The gesture had acted onDarrow's numb feelings as the glow of the fire acted on his circulation;and when he had asked: "Aren't your feet wet, too?" and, afterfrank inspection of astout-shod sole, she had answered cheerfully:"No--luckily I had on my new boots," he began to feel that humanintercourse would still be tolerable if it were always as free fromformality.The removal of his companion'shat, besides provoking this reflection,gave him his first full sight of her face; and this was sofavourable that the name she now pronounced fell on him with a quitedisproportionate shock of dismay."Oh, Mrs.Murrett's--was it THERE?"He remembered her now, of course: remembered her as one of the shadowysidling presences in the background of that awful house in Chelsea, oneof the dumb appendages of the shriekingunescapable Mrs. Murrett, intowhose talons he had fallen in the course of his head-long pursuit ofLady Ulrica Crispin. Oh, the taste of stale follies! How insipid it was,yet how it clung!"I used to pass you on the stairs,"she reminded him.Yes: he had seen her slip by--he recalled it now--as he dashed up tothe drawing-room in quest of Lady Ulrica. The thought made him steal alonger look. How could such a face have been merged in


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lothair, by Benjamin DisraeliThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under theterms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: LothairAuthor: Benjamin DisraeliRelease Date: April, 2005  [EBook #7835]Posting Date: July 27, 2009Language:English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOTHAIR ***Produced by K. Kay ShearinLOTHAIRBy Benjamin DisraeliCHAPTER 1"I remember him a little boy," said the duchess, "a pretty little boy,but veryshy. His mother brought him to us one day. She was a dearfriend of mine; you know she was one of my bridesmaids?""And you have never seen him since, mamma?" inquired a married daughter,who looked like theyounger sister of her mother."Never; he was an orphan shortly after; I have often reproached myself,but it is so difficult to see boys. Then, he never went to school, butwas brought up in the Highlands with a rathersavage uncle; and if heand Bertram had not become friends at Christchurch, I do not well seehow we ever could have known him."These remarks were made in the morning-room of Brentham, where themistress of themansion sat surrounded by her daughters, all occupiedwith various works. One knitted a purse, another adorned a slipper athird emblazoned a page. Beautiful forms in counsel leaned over framesembroidery, while twofair sisters more remote occasionally burst intomelody as they tried the passages of a new air, which had been dedicatedto them in the manuscript of some devoted friend.The duchess, one of the greatest heiresses ofBritain, singularlybeautify and gifted with native grace, had married in her teens one ofthe wealthiest and most powerful of our nobles, and scarcely order thanherself. Her husband was as distinguished for hisappearance and hismanners as his bride, and those who speculate on race were interestedin watching the development of their progeny, who in form and color, andvoice, and manner, and mind, were a reproduction oftheir parents,who seemed only the elder brother and sister of a gifted circle. Thedaughters with one exception came first, and all met the same fate.After seventeen years of a delicious home they were presented,andimmediately married; and all to personages of high consideration. Afterthe first conquest, this fate seemed as regular as the order of Nature.Then came a son, who was now at Christchurch, and then severalothers,some at school, and some scarcely out of the nursery. There was onedaughter unmarried, and she was to be presented next season. Thoughthe family likeness was still apparent in Lady Corisande, ingeneralexpression she differed from her sisters. They were all alike with theirdelicate aquiline noses, bright complexions, short upper lips, and eyesof sunny light. The beauty of Lady Corisande was even moredistinguishedand more regular, but whether it were the effect of her dark-brown hairand darker eyes, her countenance had not the lustre of the res, and itsexpression was grave and perhaps pensive.The duke, thoughstill young, and naturally of a gay and joyoustemperament, had a high sense of duty, and strong domestic feelings. Hewas never wanting in his public place, and he was fond of his wife andhis children; still more, proudof them. Every day when he looked intothe glass, and gave the last touch to his consummate toilet, he offeredhis grateful thanks to Providence that his family was not unworthy ofhim.His grace was accustomed to saythat he had only one misfortune, andit was a great one; he had no home. His family had married so manyheiresses, and he, consequently, possessed so many halls and castles, atall of which, periodically, he wished,from a right feeling, to reside,that there was no sacred spot identified with his life in which hisheart, in the bustle and tumult of existence, could take refuge.Brentham was the original seat of his family, and he wasevenpassionately fond of it; but it was remarkable how very short a periodof his yearly life was passed under its stately roof. So it was hiscustom always to repair to Brentham the moment the season was over, andhewould exact from his children, that, however short might be the time,they would be his companions under those circumstances. The daughtersloved Brentham, and they loved to please their father; but thesons-in-law,though they were what is called devoted to their wives,and, unusual as it may seem, scarcely less attached to their legalparents, did not fall very easily into this arrangement. The countryin August without sport wasunquestionably to them a severe trial:nevertheless, they rarely omitted making their appearance, and, if theydid occasionally vanish, sometimes to Cowes, sometimes to Switzerland,sometimes to Norway, they alwayswrote to their wives, and alwaysalluded to their immediate or approaching return; and their lettersgracefully contributed to the fund of domestic amusement.And yet it would be difficult to find a fairer scene thanBrenthamoffered, especially in the lustrous effulgence of a glorious Englishsummer. It was an Italian palace of freestone; vast, ornate, and inscrupulous condition; its spacious and graceful chambers filled withtreasuresof art, and rising itself from statued and stately terraces.At their foot spread a gardened domain of considerable extent, brightwith flowers, dim with coverts of rare shrubs, and musical withfountains. Its limit reached apark, with timber such as the midlandcounties only can produce. The fallow deer trooped among its fernysolitudes and gigantic oaks; but, beyond the waters of the broad andwinding lake, the scene became moresavage, and the eye caught the darkforms of the red deer on some jutting mount, shrinking with scorn fromcommunion with his gentler brethren.CHAPTER 2Lothair was the little boy whom the duchess remembered. Hewas aposthumous child, and soon lost a devoted mother. His only relation wasone of his two guardians, a Scotch noble--a Presbyterian and a Whig.This uncle was a widower with some children, but they were girls,and,though Lothair was attached to them, too young to be his companions.Their father was a keen, hard man, honorable and just but with nosoftness of heart or manner. He guarded with precise knowledge andwithunceasing vigilance over Lothair's vast inheritance, which was in manycounties and in more than one kingdom; but he educated him in a Highlandhome, and when he had reached boyhood thought fit to send him totheHigh School of Edinburgh. Lothair passed a monotonous, if not a dull,life; but he found occasional solace in the scenes of a wild andbeautiful nature, and delight in all the sports of the field and forest,in which he wasearly initiated and completely indulged. Although anEnglishman, he was fifteen before he re-visited his country, and thenhis glimpses of England were brief, and to him scarcely satisfactory. Hewas hurried sometimes tovast domains, which he heard were his own; andsometimes whisked to the huge metropolis, where he was shown St. Paul'sand the British-Museum. These visits left a vague impression of bustlewithout kindness andexhaustion without excitement; and he was glad toget back to his glens, to the moor and the mountain-streams.His father, in the selection of his guardians, had not contemplatedthis system of education. While hesecured by the appointment of hisbrother-in-law, the most competent and trustworthy steward of his son'sfortune, he had depended on another for that influence which shouldmould the character, guide the opinions,and form the tastes of hischild. The other guardian was a clergyman, his father's private tutorand heart-friend; scarcely his parent's senior, but exercising overhim irresistible influence, for he was a man of shiningtalents andabounding knowledge, brilliant and profound. But unhappily, shortlyafter Lothair became an orphan, this distinguished man seceded from theAnglican communion, and entered the Church of Rome. From thismomentthere was war between the guardians. The uncle endeavored to drive hiscolleague from the trust: in this he failed, for the priest would notrenounce his office. The Scotch noble succeeded, however, in makingita fruitless one: he thwarted every suggestion that emanated from theobnoxious quarter; and, indeed, the secret reason of the almost constantresidence of Lothair in Scotland, and of his harsh education, was thefearof his relative, that the moment he crossed the border he might, bysome mysterious process, fall under the influence that his guardian somuch dreaded and detested.There was however, a limit to these severeprecautions, even beforeLothair should reach his majority. His father had expressed in his willthat his son should be educated at the University of Oxford, and at thesame college of which he had been a member. Hisuncle was of opinion hecomplied with the spirit of this instruction by sending Lothair to theUniversity of Edinburgh, which would give the last tonic to his moralsystem; and then commenced a celebrated chancery-suit,instituted by theRoman Catholic guardian, in order to enforce a literal compliancewith the educational condition of the will. The uncle looked uponthis movement as a popish plot, and had recourse to everyavailableallegation and argument to baffle it: but ultimately in vain. With everyprecaution to secure his Protestant principles, and to guard against theinfluence, or even personal interference of his Roman Catholicguardian,the lord-chancellor decided that Lothair should be sent to Christchurch.Here Lothair, who had never been favored with a companion of his ownage and station, soon found a congenial one in the heir ofBrentham.Inseparable in pastime, not dissociated even in study, sympathizingcompanionship soon ripened into fervent friendship. They lived somuch together that the idea of separation became not only painfulbutimpossible; and, when vacation arrived, and Brentham was to be visitedby its future lord, what more natural than that it should be arrangedthat Lothair should be a visitor to his domain?CHAPTER 3Although Lothairwas the possessor of as many palaces and castles as theduke himself, it is curious that his first dinner at Brentham wasalmost his introduction into refined society. He had been a guest at theoccasional banquets of hisuncle; but these were festivals of thePicts and Scots; rude plenty and coarse splendor, with noise instead ofconversation, and a tumult of obstructive defendants, who impeded, bytheir want of skill, the very conveniencewhich they were purposed tofacilitate. How different the surrounding scene! A table covered withflowers, bright with fanciful crystal, and porcelain that had belongedto sovereigns, who had given a name to its color orits form. Asfor those present, all seemed grace and gentleness, from the radiantdaughters of the house to the noiseless attendants that anticipated allhis wants, and sometimes seemed to suggest his wishes.Lothair satbetween two of the married daughters. They addressed himwith so much sympathy that he was quite enchanted. When they asked theirpretty questions and made their sparkling remarks, roses seemed to dropfromtheir lips, and sometimes diamonds. It was a rather large party,for the Brentham family were so numerous that they themselves madea festival. There were four married daughters, the duke and twosons-in-law, aclergyman or two, and some ladies and gentlemen who wereseldom absent from this circle, and who, by their useful talents andvarious accomplishments, alleviated the toil or cares of life from whicheven princes are notexempt.When the ladies had retired to the duchess's drawing-room, all themarried daughters clustered round their mother."Do you know, mamma, we all think him very, good-looking," said theyoungest marrieddaughter, the wife of the listless and handsome St.Aldegonde."And not at all shy," said Lady Montairy, "though reserved.""I admire deep-blue eyes with dark lashes," said the duchess.Notwithstanding the decision ofLady Montairy, Lothair was scarcely freefrom embarrassment when he rejoined the ladies; and was so afraid ofstanding alone, or talking only to men, that he was almost on the pointof finding refuge in hisdinner-companions, had not he instinctivelyfelt that this would have been a social blunder. But the duchessrelieved him: her gracious glance caught his at the right moment, andshe rose and met him some way as headvanced. The friends had arrivedso late, that Lothair had had only time to make a reverence of ceremonybefore dinner."It is not our first meeting," said her grace; "but that you cannotremember.""Indeed I do," saidLothair, "and your grace gave me a golden heart.""How can you remember such things," exclaimed the duchess, "which I hadmyself forgotten!""I have rather a good memory," replied Lothair; "and it is notwonderfulthat I should remember this, for it is the only present that ever wasmade me."The evenings at Brentham were short, but they were sweet. It was amusical family, without being fanatical on the subject. Therewas alwaysmusic, but it was not permitted that the guests should be deprived ofother amusements. But music was the basis of the evening's campaigns.The duke himself sometimes took a second; the four marrieddaughterswarbled sweetly; but the great performer was Lady Corisande. When herimpassioned tones sounded, there was a hushed silence in every chamber;otherwise, many things were said and done amidaccompanying melodies,that animated without distracting even a whistplayer. The duke himselfrather preferred a game of piquet or cart with Captain Mildmay,and sometimes retired with a troop to a distant, but stillvisible,apartment, where they played with billiard-balls games which were notbilliards.The ladies had retired, the duke had taken his glass of seltzer-water,and had disappeared. The gentry lingered and looked at eachother, as ifthey were an assembly of poachers gathering for an expedition, and thenLord St. Aldegonde, tall, fair, and languid, said to Lothair, "do yousmoke?""No!""I should have thought Bertram would have seducedyou by this time. Thenlet us try. Montairy will give you one of his cigarettes, so mild thathis wife never finds him out."CHAPTER 4The breakfast-room at Brentham was very bright. It opened on a gardenof its own,which, at this season, was so glowing, and cultured intopatterns so fanciful and finished, that it had the resemblance of a vastmosaic. The walls of the chamber were covered with bright drawings andsketches of ourmodern masters, and frames of interesting miniatures,and the meal was served on half a dozen or more round tables, which viedwith each other in grace and merriment; brilliant as a cluster of Greekor Italian republics,instead of a great metropolitan table, likea central government absorbing all the genius and resources of thesociety.Every scene In this life at Brentham charmed Lothair, who, though notconscious of being of aparticularly gloomy temper, often felt thathe had, somehow or other, hitherto passed through life rarely withpleasure, and never with joy.After breakfast the ladies retired to their morning-room, and thegentlemenstrolled to the stables, Lord St. Aldegonde lighting a Manillacheroot of enormous length. As Lothair was very fond of horses, thisdelighted him. The stables at Brentham were rather too far from thehouse, but they weremagnificent, and the stud worthy of them. It wasnumerous and choice, and, above all it was useful. It could supply,a readier number of capital riding-horses than any stable in England.Brentham was a great ridingfamily. In the summer season the dukedelighted to head a numerous troop, penetrate far into the country, andscamper home to a nine-o'clock dinner. All the ladies of the house werefond and fine horse-women. Themount of one of these riding-parties wasmagical. The dames and damsels vaulted on their barbs, and genets,and thorough-bred hacks, with such airy majesty; they were absolutelyoverwhelming with their bewilderinghabits and their bewitching hats.Every thing was so new in this life at Brentham to Lothair, as wellas so agreeable, that the first days passed by no means rapidly; for,though it sounds strange, time moves with equalslowness whether weexperience many impressions or none. In a new circle every character isa study, and every incident an adventure; and the multiplicity of theimages and emotions restrains the hours. But after a fewdays, thoughLothair was not less delighted, for he was more so, he was astonishedat the rapidity of time. The life was exactly the same, but equallypleasant; the same charming companions, the same refined festivity,thesame fascinating amusements; but to his dismay Lothair recollected thatnearly a fortnight had elapsed since his arrival. Lord St. Aldegondealso was on the wing; he was obliged to go to Cowes to see a sickfriend,though he considerately left Bertha behind him. The otherson-in-law remained, for he could not tear himself away from his wife.He was so distractedly fond of Lady Montairy that he would onlysmoke cigarettes. Lothairfelt it was time to go, and he broke thecircumstance to his friend Bertram.These two "old fellows," as they mutually described each other, couldnot at all agree as to the course to be pursued. Bertram lookeduponLothair's suggestion as an act of desertion from himself. At their timeof life, the claims of friendship are paramount. And where could Lothairgo to? And what was there to do? Nowhere, and nothing. Whereas, ifhewould remain a little longer, as the duke expected and also the duchess,Bertram would go with him anywhere he liked, and do any thing he chose.So Lothair remained.In the evening, seated by Lady Montairy, Lothairobserved on hersister's singing, and said, "I never heard any of our great singers, butI cannot believe there is a finer voice in existence.""Corisande's is a fine voice," said Lady Montairy, "but I admire herexpressionmore than her tone; for there are certainly many finervoices, and some day you will hear them.""But I prefer expression," said Lothair very decidedly."Ah, yes! doubtless," said Lady Montairy, who was working a purse,"andthat's what we all want, I believe; at least we married daughters,they say. My brother, Granville St. Aldegonde, says we are all too muchalike, and that Bertha St. Aldegonde would be parallel if she had nosisters.""Idon't at all agree with Lord St. Aldegonde," said Lothair, withenergy. "I do not think it is possible to have too many relatives likeyou and your sisters."Lady Montairy looked up with a smile, but she did not meet asmilingcountenance. He seemed, what is called an earnest young man, this friendof her brother Bertram.At this moment the duke sent swift messengers for all: to come, eventhe duchess, to partake in a new game justarrived from Russia, somemiraculous combination of billiard-balls. Some rose directly, somelingering a moment arranging their work, but all were in motion.Corisande was at the piano, and disencumbering herself ofsome music.Lothair went up to her rather abruptly:"Your singing," he said, "is the finest thing I ever heard. I am sohappy that I am not going to leave Brentham to-morrow. There is no placein the world that I thinkequal to Brentham.""And I love it, too, and no other place," she replied; "and I should bequite happy if I never left it."CHAPTER 5Lord Montairy was passionately devoted to croquet. He flattered himselfthat he was themost accomplished male performer existing. He would havethought absolutely the most accomplished, were it not for the unrivalledfeats of Lady Montairy. She was the queen of croquet. Her sistersalso used the malletwith admirable skill, but not like Georgina. LordMontairy always looked forward to his summer croquet at Brentham. Itwas a great croquet family, the Brentham family; even listless Lord St.Aldegonde would sometimesplay, with a cigar never out of his mouth.They did not object to his smoking in the air. On the contrary, "theyrather liked it." Captain Mildmay, too, was a brilliant hand, and hadwritten a treatise on croquet--the bestgoing.There was a great croquet-party one morning at Brentham. Some neighborshad been invited who loved the sport. Mr. Blenkinsop a grave younggentleman, whose countenance never relaxed while he played, andwho wasunderstood, to give his mind entirely up to croquet. He was the ownerof the largest estate in the county, and it was thought would have verymuch liked to have allied himself with one of the young ladies ofthehouse of Brentham; but these flowers were always plucked so quickly,that his relations with the distinguished circle never grew moreintimate than croquet. He drove over with some fine horses, and severalcases andbags containing instruments and weapons for the fray. Hissister came with him, who had forty thousand pounds, but, they said, insome mysterious manner dependent on his consent to her marriage; andit was added


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Rainbow Valley, by Lucy Maud MontgomeryThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-useit under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: Rainbow ValleyAuthor: Lucy Maud MontgomeryRelease Date: March, 2004 [EBook #5343]This file wasfirst posted on July 3, 2002Last Updated: April 15, 2013Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAINBOW VALLEY ***Produced by Bernard J. Farber, Carmen Baxter, Dona Rucci,ElizabethMorton, Rebekah Neely, Joe Johnson, Joan Chovan,Judith Fetterolf, Mary Nuzzo, Sally Drake, Sally Starks,Steve Callis, Virginia Mohlere-Dellinger, Mary MarkOckerbloom and Ben CrowderRAINBOW VALLEYBy L. M.MontgomeryAuthor of "Anne of Green Gables," "Anne of the Island," "Anne's House ofDreams," "The Story Girl," "The Watchman,"etc.________________________________________________________________________This book has been put on-line as part of the BUILD-A-BOOK Initiative atthe Celebration of Women Writers through thecombined work of Bernard J.Farber, Carmen Baxter, Dona Rucci, Elizabeth Morton, Rebekah Neely, JoeJohnson, Joan Chovan, Judith Fetterolf, Mary Nuzzo, Sally Drake,Sally Starks, Steve Callis, VirginiaMohlere-Dellinger and Mary MarkOckerbloom.http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/Reformatted by BenCrowder________________________________________________________________________               "The thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."               --LONGFELLOWTO THE MEMORY OFGOLDWINLAPP, ROBERT BROOKES AND MORLEY SHIERWHO MADE THE SUPREME SACRIFICE THAT THE HAPPY VALLEYS OF THEIR HOME LANDMIGHT BE KEPT SACRED FROM THE RAVAGE OF THE INVADERCONTENTS      I.Home Again     II. Sheer Gossip    III. The Ingleside Children     IV. The Manse Children      V. The Advent of Mary Vanse     VI. Mary Stays at the Manse    VII. A Fishy Episode   VIII. Miss Cornelia Intervenes     IX. UnaIntervenes      X. The Manse Girls Clean House     XI. A Dreadful Discovery    XII. An Explanation and a Dare   XIII. The House on the Hill    XIV. Mrs. Alec Davis Makes a Call     XV. More Gossip    XVI. Tit for Tat   XVII.A Double Victory  XVIII. Mary Brings Evil Tidings    XIX. Poor Adam!     XX. Faith Makes a Friend    XXI. The Impossible Word   XXII. St. George Knows All About It  XXIII. The Good-Conduct Club   XXIV. A CharitableImpulse    XXV. Another Scandal and Another "Explanation"   XXVI. Miss Cornelia Gets a New Point of View  XXVII. A Sacred Concert XXVIII. A Fast Day   XXIX. A Weird Tale    XXX. The Ghost on the Dyke   XXXI. CarlDoes Penance  XXXII. Two Stubborn People XXXIII. Carl Is--not--whipped  XXXIV. Una Visits the Hill   XXXV. "Let the Piper Come"RAINBOW VALLEYCHAPTER I. HOME AGAINIt was a clear, apple-green evening in May,and Four Winds Harbour wasmirroring back the clouds of the golden west between its softly darkshores. The sea moaned eerily on the sand-bar, sorrowful even in spring,but a sly, jovial wind came piping down the redharbour road along whichMiss Cornelia's comfortable, matronly figure was making its way towardsthe village of Glen St. Mary. Miss Cornelia was rightfully Mrs. MarshallElliott, and had been Mrs. Marshall Elliott forthirteen years, but evenyet more people referred to her as Miss Cornelia than as Mrs.Elliott. The old name was dear to her old friends, only one of themcontemptuously dropped it. Susan Baker, the gray and grim andfaithfulhandmaiden of the Blythe family at Ingleside, never lost an opportunityof calling her "Mrs. Marshall Elliott," with the most killing andpointed emphasis, as if to say "You wanted to be Mrs. and Mrs. you shallbewith a vengeance as far as I am concerned."Miss Cornelia was going up to Ingleside to see Dr. and Mrs. Blythe, whowere just home from Europe. They had been away for three months, havingleft in February to attend afamous medical congress in London; andcertain things, which Miss Cornelia was anxious to discuss, had takenplace in the Glen during their absence. For one thing, there was a newfamily in the manse. And such afamily! Miss Cornelia shook her headover them several times as she walked briskly along.Susan Baker and the Anne Shirley of other days saw her coming, as theysat on the big veranda at Ingleside, enjoying the charmof the cat'slight, the sweetness of sleepy robins whistling among the twilit maples,and the dance of a gusty group of daffodils blowing against the old,mellow, red brick wall of the lawn.Anne was sitting on the steps, herhands clasped over her knee, looking,in the kind dusk, as girlish as a mother of many has any right to be;and the beautiful gray-green eyes, gazing down the harbour road, wereas full of unquenchable sparkle anddream as ever. Behind her, in thehammock, Rilla Blythe was curled up, a fat, roly-poly little creatureof six years, the youngest of the Ingleside children. She had curly redhair and hazel eyes that were now buttoned upafter the funny, wrinkledfashion in which Rilla always went to sleep.Shirley, "the little brown boy," as he was known in the family "Who'sWho," was asleep in Susan's arms. He was brown-haired, brown-eyedandbrown-skinned, with very rosy cheeks, and he was Susan's especiallove. After his birth Anne had been very ill for a long time, and Susan"mothered" the baby with a passionate tenderness which none of theotherchildren, dear as they were to her, had ever called out. Dr. Blythe hadsaid that but for her he would never have lived."I gave him life just as much as you did, Mrs. Dr. dear," Susan was wontto say. "He is just asmuch my baby as he is yours." And, indeed, it wasalways to Susan that Shirley ran, to be kissed for bumps, and rockedto sleep, and protected from well-deserved spankings. Susan hadconscientiously spanked all theother Blythe children when she thoughtthey needed it for their souls' good, but she would not spank Shirleynor allow his mother to do it. Once, Dr. Blythe had spanked him andSusan had been stormily indignant."Thatman would spank an angel, Mrs. Dr. dear, that he would," she haddeclared bitterly; and she would not make the poor doctor a pie forweeks.She had taken Shirley with her to her brother's home during hisparents'absence, while all the other children had gone to Avonlea, and she hadthree blessed months of him all to herself. Nevertheless, Susan was veryglad to find herself back at Ingleside, with all her darlings aroundheragain. Ingleside was her world and in it she reigned supreme. Even Anneseldom questioned her decisions, much to the disgust of Mrs. RachelLynde of Green Gables, who gloomily told Anne, whenever she visitedFourWinds, that she was letting Susan get to be entirely too much of a bossand would live to rue it."Here is Cornelia Bryant coming up the harbour road, Mrs. Dr. dear,"said Susan. "She will be coming up to unload threemonths' gossip onus.""I hope so," said Anne, hugging her knees. "I'm starving for Glen St.Mary gossip, Susan. I hope Miss Cornelia can tell me everything thathas happened while we've been away--EVERYTHING--whohas got born, ormarried, or drunk; who has died, or gone away, or come, or fought, orlost a cow, or found a beau. It's so delightful to be home again withall the dear Glen folks, and I want to know all about them. Why,Iremember wondering, as I walked through Westminster Abbey which of hertwo especial beaux Millicent Drew would finally marry. Do you know,Susan, I have a dreadful suspicion that I love gossip.""Well, of course,Mrs. Dr. dear," admitted Susan, "every proper womanlikes to hear the news. I am rather interested in Millicent Drew's casemyself. I never had a beau, much less two, and I do not mind now, forbeing an old maid doesnot hurt when you get used to it. Millicent'shair always looks to me as if she had swept it up with a broom. But themen do not seem to mind that.""They see only her pretty, piquant, mocking, little face, Susan.""Thatmay very well be, Mrs. Dr. dear. The Good Book says that favour isdeceitful and beauty is vain, but I should not have minded finding thatout for myself, if it had been so ordained. I have no doubt we willall be beautifulwhen we are angels, but what good will it do us then?Speaking of gossip, however, they do say that poor Mrs. Harrison Millerover harbour tried to hang herself last week.""Oh, Susan!""Calm yourself, Mrs. Dr. dear. Shedid not succeed. But I really do notblame her for trying, for her husband is a terrible man. But she wasvery foolish to think of hanging herself and leaving the way clear forhim to marry some other woman. If I had beenin her shoes, Mrs. Dr.dear, I would have gone to work to worry him so that he would tryto hang himself instead of me. Not that I hold with people hangingthemselves under any circumstances, Mrs. Dr. dear.""What isthe matter with Harrison Miller, anyway?" said Anneimpatiently. "He is always driving some one to extremes.""Well, some people call it religion and some call it cussedness, beggingyour pardon, Mrs. Dr. dear, for usingsuch a word. It seems they cannotmake out which it is in Harrison's case. There are days when hegrowls at everybody because he thinks he is fore-ordained to eternalpunishment. And then there are days when he sayshe does not care andgoes and gets drunk. My own opinion is that he is not sound in hisintellect, for none of that branch of the Millers were. His grandfatherwent out of his mind. He thought he was surrounded by bigblack spiders.They crawled over him and floated in the air about him. I hope I shallnever go insane, Mrs. Dr. dear, and I do not think I will, because it isnot a habit of the Bakers. But, if an all-wise Providence shoulddecreeit, I hope it will not take the form of big black spiders, for I loathethe animals. As for Mrs. Miller, I do not know whether she reallydeserves pity or not. There are some who say she just married Harrisonto spiteRichard Taylor, which seems to me a very peculiar reasonfor getting married. But then, of course, _I_ am no judge of thingsmatrimonial, Mrs. Dr. dear. And there is Cornelia Bryant at the gate, soI will put this blessedbrown baby on his bed and get my knitting."CHAPTER II. SHEER GOSSIP"Where are the other children?" asked Miss Cornelia, when the firstgreetings--cordial on her side, rapturous on Anne's, and dignifiedonSusan's--were over."Shirley is in bed and Jem and Walter and the twins are down in theirbeloved Rainbow Valley," said Anne. "They just came home this afternoon,you know, and they could hardly wait until supperwas over beforerushing down to the valley. They love it above every spot on earth. Eventhe maple grove doesn't rival it in their affections.""I am afraid they love it too well," said Susan gloomily. "Little Jemsaid once hewould rather go to Rainbow Valley than to heaven when hedied, and that was not a proper remark.""I suppose they had a great time in Avonlea?" said Miss Cornelia."Enormous. Marilla does spoil them terribly. Jem, inparticular, can dono wrong in her eyes.""Miss Cuthbert must be an old lady now," said Miss Cornelia, getting outher knitting, so that she could hold her own with Susan. Miss Corneliaheld that the woman whose handswere employed always had the advantageover the woman whose hands were not."Marilla is eighty-five," said Anne with a sigh. "Her hair issnow-white. But, strange to say, her eyesight is better than it was whenshewas sixty.""Well, dearie, I'm real glad you're all back. I've been dreadfullonesome. But we haven't been dull in the Glen, believe ME. There hasn'tbeen such an exciting spring in my time, as far as church mattersgo.We've got settled with a minister at last, Anne dearie.""The Reverend John Knox Meredith, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan, resolvednot to let Miss Cornelia tell all the news."Is he nice?" asked Anne interestedly.MissCornelia sighed and Susan groaned."Yes, he's nice enough if that were all," said the former. "He is VERYnice--and very learned--and very spiritual. But, oh Anne dearie, he hasno common sense!"How was it you calledhim, then?""Well, there's no doubt he is by far the best preacher we ever had inGlen St. Mary church," said Miss Cornelia, veering a tack or two. "Isuppose it is because he is so moony and absent-minded that he nevergota town call. His trial sermon was simply wonderful, believe ME. Everyone went mad about it--and his looks.""He is VERY comely, Mrs. Dr. dear, and when all is said and done, I DOlike to see a well-looking man in thepulpit," broke in Susan, thinkingit was time she asserted herself again."Besides," said Miss Cornelia, "we were anxious to get settled. And Mr.Meredith was the first candidate we were all agreed on. Somebody hadsomeobjection to all the others. There was some talk of calling Mr.Folsom. He was a good preacher, too, but somehow people didn't care forhis appearance. He was too dark and sleek.""He looked exactly like a great blacktomcat, that he did, Mrs. Dr.dear," said Susan. "I never could abide such a man in the pulpit everySunday.""Then Mr. Rogers came and he was like a chip in porridge--neither harmnor good," resumed Miss Cornelia."But if he had preached like Peter andPaul it would have profited him nothing, for that was the day old CalebRamsay's sheep strayed into church and gave a loud 'ba-a-a' just as heannounced his text. Everybodylaughed, and poor Rogers had no chanceafter that. Some thought we ought to call Mr. Stewart, because he was sowell educated. He could read the New Testament in five languages.""But I do not think he was any surerthan other men of getting to heavenbecause of that," interjected Susan."Most of us didn't like his delivery," said Miss Cornelia, ignoringSusan. "He talked in grunts, so to speak. And Mr. Arnett couldn't preachAT ALL.And he picked about the worst candidating text there is in theBible--'Curse ye Meroz.'""Whenever he got stuck for an idea, he would bang the Bible and shoutvery bitterly, 'Curse ye Meroz.' Poor Meroz got thoroughlycursed thatday, whoever he was, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan."The minister who is candidating can't be too careful what text hechooses," said Miss Cornelia solemnly. "I believe Mr. Pierson would havegot the call if hehad picked a different text. But when he announced 'Iwill lift my eyes to the hills' HE was done for. Every one grinned, forevery one knew that those two Hill girls from the Harbour Head have beensetting their caps forevery single minister who came to the Glen forthe last fifteen years. And Mr. Newman had too large a family.""He stayed with my brother-in-law, James Clow," said Susan. "'How manychildren have you got?' I askedhim. 'Nine boys and a sister for each ofthem,' he said. 'Eighteen!' said I. 'Dear me, what a family!' And thenhe laughed and laughed. But I do not know why, Mrs. Dr. dear, and I amcertain that eighteen children wouldbe too many for any manse.""He had only ten children, Susan," explained Miss Cornelia, withcontemptuous patience. "And ten good children would not be much worsefor the manse and congregation than the four whoare there now. ThoughI wouldn't say, Anne dearie, that they are so bad, either. I likethem--everybody likes them. It's impossible to help liking them. Theywould be real nice little souls if there was anyone to look aftertheirmanners and teach them what is right and proper. For instance, at schoolthe teacher says they are model children. But at home they simply runwild.""What about Mrs. Meredith?" asked Anne."There's NO Mrs.Meredith. That is just the trouble. Mr. Meredith isa widower. His wife died four years ago. If we had known that I don'tsuppose we would have called him, for a widower is even worse ina congregation than a single man.But he was heard to speak of hischildren and we all supposed there was a mother, too. And when they camethere was nobody but old Aunt Martha, as they call her. She's a cousinof Mr. Meredith's mother, I believe, andhe took her in to save her fromthe poorhouse. She is seventy-five years old, half blind, and very deafand very cranky.""And a very poor cook, Mrs. Dr. dear.""The worst possible manager for a manse," said Miss Corneliabitterly."Mr. Meredith won't get any other housekeeper because he says it wouldhurt Aunt Martha's feelings. Anne dearie, believe me, the state of thatmanse is something terrible. Everything is thick with dust andnothingis ever in its place. And we had painted and papered it all so nicebefore they came.""There are four children, you say?" asked Anne, beginning to mother themalready in her heart."Yes. They run up just like thesteps of a stair. Gerald's the oldest.He's twelve and they call him Jerry. He's a clever boy. Faith is eleven.She is a regular tomboy but pretty as a picture, I must say.""She looks like an angel but she is a holy terror formischief, Mrs. Dr.dear," said Susan solemnly. "I was at the manse one night last week andMrs. James Millison was there, too. She had brought them up a dozen eggsand a little pail of milk--a VERY little pail, Mrs. Dr.dear. Faithtook them and whisked down the cellar with them. Near the bottom of thestairs she caught her toe and fell the rest of the way, milk and eggsand all. You can imagine the result, Mrs. Dr. dear. But that childcameup laughing. 'I don't know whether I'm myself or a custard pie,' shesaid. And Mrs. James Millison was very angry. She said she would nevertake another thing to the manse if it was to be wasted and destroyedinthat fashion.""Maria Millison never hurt herself taking things to the manse,"sniffed Miss Cornelia. "She just took them that night as an excuse forcuriosity. But poor Faith is always getting into scrapes. She issoheedless and impulsive.""Just like me. I'm going to like your Faith," said Anne decidedly."She is full of spunk--and I do like spunk, Mrs. Dr. dear," admittedSusan."There's something taking about her," conceded MissCornelia. "You neversee her but she's laughing, and somehow it always makes you wantto laugh too. She can't even keep a straight face in church. Una isten--she's a sweet little thing--not pretty, but sweet. AndThomasCarlyle is nine. They call him Carl, and he has a regular mania forcollecting toads and bugs and frogs and bringing them into the house.""I suppose he was responsible for the dead rat that was lying on a chairinthe parlour the afternoon Mrs. Grant called. It gave her a turn,"said Susan, "and I do not wonder, for manse parlours are no places fordead rats. To be sure it may have been the cat who left it, there. HE isas full of theold Nick as he can be stuffed, Mrs. Dr. dear. A manse catshould at least LOOK respectable, in my opinion, whatever he reallyis. But I never saw such a rakish-looking beast. And he walks along theridgepole of the mansealmost every evening at sunset, Mrs. Dr. dear,and waves his tail, and that is not becoming.""The worst of it is, they are NEVER decently dressed," sighed MissCornelia. "And since the snow went they go to schoolbarefooted.Now, you know Anne dearie, that isn't the right thing for mansechildren--especially when the Methodist minister's little girl alwayswears such nice buttoned boots. And I DO wish they wouldn't play in theoldMethodist graveyard.""It's very tempting, when it's right beside the manse," said Anne. "I'vealways thought graveyards must be delightful places to play in.""Oh, no, you did not, Mrs. Dr. dear," said loyal Susan,determined toprotect Anne from herself. "You have too much good sense and decorum.""Why did they ever build that manse beside the graveyard in the firstplace?" asked Anne. "Their lawn is so small there is no placefor themto play except in the graveyard.""It WAS a mistake," admitted Miss Cornelia. "But they got the lot cheap.And no other manse children ever thought of playing there. Mr. Meredithshouldn't allow it. But he hasalways got his nose buried in a book,when he is home. He reads and reads, or walks about in his study in aday-dream. So far he hasn't forgotten to be in church on Sundays, buttwice he has forgotten about theprayer-meeting and one of the eldershad to go over to the manse and remind him. And he forgot about FannyCooper's wedding. They rang him up on the 'phone and then he rushedright over, just as he was, carpetslippers and all. One wouldn'tmind if the Methodists didn't laugh so about it. But there's onecomfort--they can't criticize his sermons. He wakes up when he's in thepulpit, believe ME. And the Methodist minister can'tpreach at all--sothey tell me. _I_ have never heard him, thank goodness."Miss Cornelia's scorn of men had abated somewhat since her marriage,but her scorn of Methodists remained untinged of charity. Susansmiledslyly."They do say, Mrs. Marshall Elliott, that the Methodists andPresbyterians are talking of uniting," she said."Well, all I hope is that I'll be under the sod if that ever comes topass," retorted Miss Cornelia. "I shall