ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Adventure of the Dying Detective, by Arthur Conan DoyleThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost andwithalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook oronline at www.gutenberg.netTitle: The Adventure of the Dying DetectiveAuthor: Arthur Conan DoylePosting Date: October 23, 2008 [EBook #2347]Release Date:October, 2000[Last updated: May 3, 2011]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ADVENTURE OF DYING DETECTIVE ***Producedby David Brannan.  HTML version by Al Haines.The Adventure of the Dying DetectiveBySir Arthur Conan DoyleMrs. Hudson, the landlady of Sherlock Holmes, wasa long-sufferingwoman.  Not only was her first-floor flat invaded at all hours bythrongs of singular and often undesirable characters but her remarkablelodgershowed an eccentricity and irregularity in his life which musthave sorely tried her patience. His incredible untidiness, hisaddiction to music at strange hours, hisoccasional revolver practicewithin doors, his weird and often malodorous scientific experiments,and the atmosphere of violence and danger which hung aroundhim madehim the very worst tenant in London.  On the other hand, his paymentswere princely. I have no doubt that the house might have been purchasedat theprice which Holmes paid for his rooms during the years that Iwas with him.The landlady stood in the deepest awe of him and never dared tointerfere with him,however outrageous his proceedings might seem.  Shewas fond of him, too, for he had a remarkable gentleness and courtesyin his dealings with women.  Hedisliked and distrusted the sex, but hewas always a chivalrous opponent. Knowing how genuine was her regardfor him, I listened earnestly to her story when shecame to my rooms inthe second year of my married life and told me of the sad condition towhich my poor friend was reduced."He's dying, Dr. Watson," saidshe.  "For three days he has beensinking, and I doubt if he will last the day.  He would not let me geta doctor.  This morning when I saw his bones sticking out ofhis faceand his great bright eyes looking at me I could stand no more of it.'With your leave or without it, Mr. Holmes, I am going for a doctorthis very hour,' saidI.  'Let it be Watson, then,' said he.  Iwouldn't waste an hour in coming to him, sir, or you may not see himalive."I was horrified for I had heard nothing of hisillness.  I need not saythat I rushed for my coat and my hat.  As we drove back I asked for thedetails."There is little I can tell you, sir.  He has been working at acasedown at Rotherhithe, in an alley near the river, and he has broughtthis illness back with him.  He took to his bed on Wednesday afternoonand has nevermoved since.  For these three days neither food nor drinkhas passed his lips.""Good God!  Why did you not call in a doctor?""He wouldn't have it, sir.  You knowhow masterful he is.  I didn'tdare to disobey him.  But he's not long for this world, as you'll seefor yourself the moment that you set eyes on him."He was indeeda deplorable spectacle.  In the dim light of a foggyNovember day the sick room was a gloomy spot, but it was that gaunt,wasted face staring at me from the bedwhich sent a chill to my heart.His eyes had the brightness of fever, there was a hectic flush uponeither cheek, and dark crusts clung to his lips; the thin handsuponthe coverlet twitched incessantly, his voice was croaking andspasmodic.  He lay listlessly as I entered the room, but the sight ofme brought a gleam ofrecognition to his eyes."Well, Watson, we seem to have fallen upon evil days," said he in afeeble voice, but with something of his old carelessness of manner."Mydear fellow!" I cried, approaching him."Stand back!  Stand right back!" said he with the sharp imperiousnesswhich I had associated only with moments of crisis."If you approachme, Watson, I shall order you out of the house.""But why?""Because it is my desire.  Is that not enough?"Yes, Mrs. Hudson was right.  He wasmore masterful than ever.  It waspitiful, however, to see his exhaustion."I only wished to help," I explained."Exactly!  You will help best by doing what you aretold.""Certainly, Holmes."He relaxed the austerity of his manner."You are not angry?" he asked, gasping for breath.Poor devil, how could I be angry when I sawhim lying in such a plightbefore me?"It's for your own sake, Watson," he croaked."For MY sake?""I know what is the matter with me.  It is a coolie diseasefromSumatra--a thing that the Dutch know more about than we, though theyhave made little of it up to date.  One thing only is certain.  It isinfallibly deadly, andit is horribly contagious."He spoke now with a feverish energy, the long hands twitching andjerking as he motioned me away."Contagious by touch,Watson--that's it, by touch.  Keep your distanceand all is well.""Good heavens, Holmes!  Do you suppose that such a consideration weighswith me of aninstant?  It would not affect me in the case of astranger.  Do you imagine it would prevent me from doing my duty to soold a friend?"Again I advanced, but herepulsed me with a look of furious anger."If you will stand there I will talk.  If you do not you must leave theroom."I have so deep a respect for the extraordinaryqualities of Holmes thatI have always deferred to his wishes, even when I least understoodthem.  But now all my professional instincts were aroused.  Let himbemy master elsewhere, I at least was his in a sick room."Holmes," said I, "you are not yourself.  A sick man is but a child,and so I will treat you.  Whether youlike it or not, I will examineyour symptoms and treat you for them."He looked at me with venomous eyes."If I am to have a doctor whether I will or not, let me atleast havesomeone in whom I have confidence," said he."Then you have none in me?""In your friendship, certainly.  But facts are facts, Watson, and,after all, youare only a general practitioner with very limitedexperience and mediocre qualifications.  It is painful to have to saythese things, but you leave me no choice."I wasbitterly hurt."Such a remark is unworthy of you, Holmes.  It shows me very clearlythe state of your own nerves.  But if you have no confidence in me Iwould notintrude my services.  Let me bring Sir Jasper Meek or PenroseFisher, or any of the best men in London.  But someone you MUST have,and that is final.  If youthink that I am going to stand here and seeyou die without either helping you myself or bringing anyone else tohelp you, then you have mistaken your man.""Youmean well, Watson," said the sick man with something between a soband a groan.  "Shall I demonstrate your own ignorance? What do youknow, pray, ofTapanuli fever?  What do you know of the black Formosacorruption?""I have never heard of either.""There are many problems of disease, many strangepathologicalpossibilities, in the East, Watson."  He paused after each sentence tocollect his failing strength.  "I have learned so much during somerecentresearches which have a medico-criminal aspect.  It was in thecourse of them that I contracted this complaint.  You can do nothing.""Possibly not.  But I happento know that Dr. Ainstree, the greatestliving authority upon tropical disease, is now in London.  Allremonstrance is useless, Holmes, I am going this instant tofetch him."I turned resolutely to the door.Never have I had such a shock!  In an instant, with a tiger-spring, thedying man had intercepted me.  I heard the sharpsnap of a twisted key.The next moment he had staggered back to his bed, exhausted and pantingafter his one tremendous outflame of energy."You won't takethe key from me by force, Watson, I've got you, myfriend.  Here you are, and here you will stay until I will otherwise.But I'll humour you."  (All this in little gasps,with terriblestruggles for breath between.)  "You've only my own good at heart.  Ofcourse I know that very well.  You shall have your way, but give metime to getmy strength.  Not now, Watson, not now.  It's four o'clock.At six you can go.""This is insanity, Holmes.""Only two hours, Watson.  I promise you will go atsix.  Are youcontent to wait?""I seem to have no choice.""None in the world, Watson.  Thank you, I need no help in arranging theclothes.  You will please keepyour distance.  Now, Watson, there isone other condition that I would make.  You will seek help, not fromthe man you mention, but from the one that Ichoose.""By all means.""The first three sensible words that you have uttered since you enteredthis room, Watson.  You will find some books over there. I amsomewhatexhausted; I wonder how a battery feels when it pours electricity intoa non-conductor?  At six, Watson, we resume our conversation."But it wasdestined to be resumed long before that hour, and incircumstances which gave me a shock hardly second to that caused by hisspring to the door.  I had stood forsome minutes looking at the silentfigure in the bed.  His face was almost covered by the clothes and heappeared to be asleep.  Then, unable to settle down toreading, Iwalked slowly round the room, examining the pictures of celebratedcriminals with which every wall was adorned.  Finally, in my aimlessperambulation, Icame to the mantelpiece.  A litter of pipes,tobacco-pouches, syringes, penknives, revolver-cartridges, and otherdebris was scattered over it.  In the midst ofthese was a small blackand white ivory box with a sliding lid.  It was a neat little thing,and I had stretched out my hand to examine it more closely, when----Itwas a dreadful cry that he gave--a yell which might have been hearddown the street.  My skin went cold and my hair bristled at thathorrible scream.  As I turnedI caught a glimpse of a convulsed faceand frantic eyes.  I stood paralyzed, with the little box in my hand."Put it down!  Down, this instant, Watson--this instant, Isay!" Hishead sank back upon the pillow and he gave a deep sigh of relief as Ireplaced the box upon the mantelpiece.  "I hate to have my thingstouched,Watson.  You know that I hate it.  You fidget me beyondendurance. You, a doctor--you are enough to drive a patient into anasylum.  Sit down, man, and let mehave my rest!"The incident left a most unpleasant impression upon my mind.  Theviolent and causeless excitement, followed by this brutality of speech,so farremoved from his usual suavity, showed me how deep was thedisorganization of his mind.  Of all ruins, that of a noble mind is themost deplorable.  I sat in silentdejection until the stipulated timehad passed.  He seemed to have been watching the clock as well as I,for it was hardly six before he began to talk with the samefeverishanimation as before."Now, Watson," said he.  "Have you any change in your pocket?""Yes.""Any silver?""A good deal.""How many half-crowns?""I havefive.""Ah, too few!  Too few!  How very unfortunate, Watson!  However, suchas they are you can put them in your watchpocket.  And all the rest ofyour money inyour left trouser pocket.  Thank you. It will balance youso much better like that."This was raving insanity.  He shuddered, and again made a sound betweenacough and a sob."You will now light the gas, Watson, but you will be very careful thatnot for one instant shall it be more than half on.  I implore you to becareful,Watson.  Thank you, that is excellent. No, you need not drawthe blind.  Now you will have the kindness to place some letters andpapers upon this table within my


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 costand withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook oronline at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: Agatha's Husband       A NovelAuthor: Dinah Maria Craik (AKA: Dinah Maria Mulock)Posting Date: March 13, 2009 [EBook#21767]Release Date: June 8, 2007Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AGATHA'S HUSBAND ***David WidgerAGATHA'SHUSBANDA NOVELBy The Author Of'John Halifax, Gentleman'DINAH MARIA CRAIK,AKA: Dinah Maria MulockWith Illustrations By Walter CraneMacmillan AndCo.1875INSCRIBED TO M, P.,INMEMORIAL OF THE FRIENDSHIP OF A LIFETIME1852.LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.The husband's farewell"She began leisurely toread""Will you accept it, with my love?"Arrival at Kingcombe HolmOn horsebackAlong the roadAGATHA'S HUSBAND.CHAPTER I.--If there ever was a womanthoroughly 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 theg in her name),which took away all sentimentalism. Then the vowels--the three broadrich a's--which no one can pronounce with nimini-pimini closedlips--howthoroughly they answered to her character!--a character in the which wasnothing small, mean, cramped, or crooked.But if we go on unfolding her in thisway, there will not be theslightest use in writing her history, or that of one in whom her life isbeautifully involved and enclosed--as every married woman's shouldbe--He was still in clouded mystery--an individual yet to be; and two otherindividuals had been "talking him over," feminine-fashion, in MissAgatha Bowen'sdrawing-room, much to that lady's amusement andedification. For, being moderately rich, she had her own suite of roomsin the house where she boarded; andhaving no mother--sorrowful lot fora girl of nineteen!--she sometimes filled her drawing-room with veryuseless and unprofitable acquaintances. These twomarried 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 orlookingscornful, as her mouth had a natural propensity for looking; balancingherself occasionally on the arm of the sofa, which, being rather smalland of a lightfigure, she could do with both impunity and grace; orelse rushing to the open window, ostensibly to let her black kitteninvestigate street-sights from its mistress'sshoulder. 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 feltsure Miss Bowen had thrown away her chance; and youngMrs. Thornycroft had tried hard to persuade her dearest Agatha how verymuch happier she would be ina house of her own, than as a boarder evenin this excellent physician's family. But Agatha only laughed on, anddevoted herself more than ever to the blackkitten.She was, I fear, a damsel who rather neglected the _biensÃ©ances_ oflife. Only, in her excuse, it must be allowed that her friends weredoing what theyhad 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 toherself, and to exact from 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 seriouswords she said--and they were but halfserious; she evidently felt such an irresistible propensity to laugh."Now," continued she, turning the conversation, andputting on adignified aspect, which occasionally she took it into her head toassume, though more in playfulness than earnest--"now let me tell youwho you willmeet here at dinner to-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 have than myguardian?""Trustee, my dear; guardians belong to romances, where youngladies arealways expected to hate, or fall in love with them."Agatha flushed slightly. Now, unlike most girls, Miss Bowen did not lookpretty when she blushed; herskin 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 aconsciousness of thisdeepened the 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 thesame 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 aword more than was necessary."Agatha, how funny you are!" laughed her easily-amused friend. "But,dear, tell me who else is coming?" And she glanceddoubtfully down on agown that looked like a marriage-silk "dyed and renovated.""Oh, no ladies--and gentlemen never see whether one is dressed inbrocade orsackcloth," 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 laughedagain--the quick, light-hearted laugh of nineteen--andher brown eyes brightened with innocent pleasure.Young Mrs. Thornycroft again looked down uneasily ather dress--not fromovermuch vanity, but because her hounded mind recurred instinctivelyfrom extraneous or large interests to individual and lesser ones."Isthere really any one particular coming, my dear? Of course, _you_have no trouble about evening dress; mourning is such easy comfortablewear." (Agatha turnedher head quickly aside.) "That handsome silkof yours looks quite well still; and mamma there," glancing at thecontentedly knitting Mrs. Hill--"old ladies neverrequire much dress;but if you had only told me to prepare for company"----"Pretty company! Merely our own circle--Dr. Ianson, Mrs. Ianson, andMissIanson--you need not mind outshining her now"----"No, indeed! I am married.""Then the 'company' dwindles down to two besides yourselves; MajorHarper andhis 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 thefamily--and I hate boys," replied Agatha,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 on matrimonialthoughts intent."I am sure, Mrs. Hill, I cannot tell. I have never seen any ofthem 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 athing 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, shewasnot one of those mild, amiable heroines who never can give a sharp wordto any one. And now and then, probably from the morbid restlessnessof unsatisfiedyouth--a youth, too, that fate had deprived of thosehome-ties, duties, and sacrifices, which are at once so arduous and sowholesome--she had a habit ofcarrying, not only the real black kitten,but the imaginary and allegorical "little black dog," on her shoulder.It was grinning there invisibly now; shaking her curlswith 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 unlikecrossness.She was looking thus--not her best, it must be allowed--when a servant,opening the drawing-room door, announced "Visitors for Miss Bowen."The firstwho entered, very much in advance of the other, appeared withthat easy, agreeable air which at once marks the gentleman, and one longaccustomed to theworld 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--reallybetter? Are you quite sure you have no coldleft? Nothing to make your friends anxious about you?" (Agatha shook herhead smilingly.) "That's right; I am soglad."And no doubt Major Harper was; for a true kind-heartedness, softenedeven to tender-heartedness, was visible in his handsome face. Which facehad beenfor twenty years the admiration of nearly every woman in everydrawing-room he entered: a considerable trial for any man. Now and thensome independentyoung lady, who had reasons of her own for preferringrosy complexions, turn-up noses, and "runaway" chins, might quarrelwith the Major's fine Roman profileand jet-black moustache and hair;but--there was no denying it--he was, even at forty, a remarkablyhandsome man; one of the old school of Chesterfieldperfection, which isfast dying out.Everybody liked him, more or less; and some people--a few men and not afew women, had either in friendship or in warmerfashion--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. Hewore his honours--as he did a cross won, no one quite knewhow, during a brief service in the Peninsula--neither pompously norboastingly, but with the mildindifference of conscious desert.All this could be at once discerned in his face, voice, and manner;from which likewise a keen observer might draw the safeconclusion 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 tookhonesty as a matter of course in everygentleman, endowed this particular one with a few qualities more than hereally possessed, it was an amiable weakness onher part, for which,as Major Harper would doubtless have said with a seriously troubledcountenance, "no one could possibly blame _him._"In speaking of theMajor 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


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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               DOWNTOWN BOSTON               As we open we see the inside of an enormous church. A young                looking PRIESTin his mid-thirties is finishing the delivery                of the Lords Prayer. In the back of the church, in the last                pew, there are two who kneel on thecold, 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 lengthnavy P-coats, worn leather boots and the                hungry clothes of the poor. The boys heads are shaved and                they have facialhair.                                     MONSIGNOR                              (dismissing young                               priest)                         Thank you FatherMacklepenny, for                          coming all the way across town to be                          our guest speaker today. I hope you                          found our littleparish to your                          liking.               Macklepenny takes his seat on the alter along side the regular                priests of the church. The MacManusbrothers suddenly stand,                as all others remain seated. Each church goer between them                and the aisle shifts his/her position to allow the


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 restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: The ReefAuthor: Edith WhartonPosting Date: July 12, 2008 [EBook #283]Release Date: June, 1995Language: English*** START OFTHIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE REEF ***Produced by Gail Jahn, and John HammTHE REEFby Edith WhartonBOOK II"Unexpected obstacle. Please don'tcome till thirtieth. Anna."All the way from Charing Cross to Dover the train had hammered the wordsof the telegram into George Darrow's ears, ringing everychange of ironyon its commonplace syllables: rattling them out like a discharge ofmusketry, letting them, one by one, drip slowly and coldly into hisbrain, orshaking, tossing, transposing them like the dice in some gameof the gods of malice; and now, as he emerged from his compartment atthe pier, and stood facingthe 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 ofderision."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 allher 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) wouldbe "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 threemonthspreviously, at a dinner at the American Embassy, and when she had caughtsight of him her smile had been like a red rose pinned on herwidow'smourning. He still felt the throb of surprise with which, amongthe stereotyped faces of the season's diners, he had come upon herunexpected face, withthe 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, thedetails of a room he had playedin as a child. And as, in the plumed starred crowd, she had stood outfor him, slender, secluded and different, so he had felt, theinstanttheir glances met, that he as sharply detached himself for her. All thatand more her smile had said; had said not merely "I remember," but "Irememberjust what you remember"; almost, indeed, as though her memoryhad aided his, her glance flung back on their recaptured moment itsmorning brightness.Certainly, when their distracted Ambassadress--withthe cry: "Oh, you know Mrs. Leath? That's perfect, for General Farnhamhas failed me"--had waved themtogether for the march to the dining-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 of most 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, on meeting her again, hadimmediatelyfelt 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 yet frankly, of what had happened to her duringthe years when they had so strangely failed to meet. She had told himof her marriageto Fraser Leath, and of her subsequent life in France,where her husband's mother, left a widow in his youth, had beenre-married to the Marquis de Chantelle, andwhere, partly in consequenceof this second union, the son had permanently settled himself. She hadspoken also, with an intense eagerness of affection, of herlittle 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 hadleft to her care...A porter, stumbling against Darrow's bags, roused him to the fact thathe still obstructed the platform, inert and encumbering as hisluggage."Crossing, sir?"Was he crossing? He really didn't know; but for lack of any morecompelling impulse he followed the porter to the luggage van, singledouthis 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 anew thederision 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 earthly reason why Darrowshould cross.While he pushed on in the wake of his luggage his thoughts slipped backintothe old groove. He had once or twice run across the man whom AnnaSummers had preferred to him, and since he had met her again he had beenexercising hisimagination 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 whomone is 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-colourpainting,but he practised it furtively, almost clandestinely, with the disdain ofa man of the world for anything bordering on the professional, whilehe devotedhimself more openly, and with religious seriousness, to thecollection of enamelled snuff-boxes. He was blond and well-dressed, withthe physical distinction thatcomes from having a straight figure, athin nose, and the habit of looking slightly disgusted--as who shouldnot, in a world where authentic snuff-boxes weregrowing daily harder tofind, and the market was flooded with flagrant forgeries?Darrow had often wondered what possibilities of communion there couldhavebeen between Mr. Leath and his wife. Now he concluded that therehad probably been none. Mrs. Leath's words gave no hint of her husband'shaving failed tojustify her choice; but her very reticence betrayedher. She spoke of him with a kind of impersonal seriousness, as if hehad been a character in a novel or a figurein history; and what shesaid sounded as though it had been learned by heart and slightly dulledby repetition. This fact immensely increased Darrow's impressionthathis meeting with her had 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. As a result, he had taken leave of her with thesense that he was a being singledout and privileged, to whom she hadentrusted something precious to keep. It was her happiness in theirmeeting that she had given him, had frankly left him todo with as hewilled; and the frankness of the gesture doubled the beauty of the gift.Their next meeting had prolonged and deepened the impression. Theyhadfound 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 largeparty, 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 ofcommunion, 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 tocome too soon. It was not that she showed any hesitation as tothe issue, but rather that she seemed to wish not to miss any stage inthe gradual reflowering oftheir intimacy.Darrow, for his part, was content to wait if she wished it. Heremembered that once, in America, when she was a girl, and he hadgone to stay withher 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 ithe had seen her approaching down along shady path. Without hastening her step she had smiled and signed tohim to wait; and charmed by the lights andshadows that played upon heras she moved, and by the pleasure of watching her slow advance towardhim, he had obeyed her and stood still. And so she seemednow to bewalking to him down the years, the light and shade of old memories andnew hopes playing variously on her, and each step giving him the visionof adifferent 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 obeyedand waited.On the fourth day an unexpected event threw out his calculations.Summoned to town by the arrival in England of her husband's mother, sheleftwithout giving Darrow the chance he had counted on, and he cursedhimself for a dilatory blunderer. Still, his disappointment was temperedby the certainty ofbeing with her again before she left for France;and they did in fact see each other in London. There, however, theatmosphere had changed with 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 tooreadilyresigned to them.The Marquise de Chantelle, as Darrow soon perceived, had the samemild formidableness as the late Mr. Leath: a sort ofinsistentself-effacement before which every one about her gave way. It wasperhaps the shadow of this lady's presence--pervasive even during heractual briefeclipses--that subdued and silenced Mrs. Leath. The latterwas, moreover, preoccupied about her stepson, who, soon after receivinghis degree at Harvard, hadbeen rescued 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 ayear of supplementarystudy. Thither Mrs. Leath went once or twice to visit him, and herremaining days were packed with family obligations: getting, asshephrased it, "frocks and governesses" for her little girl, who hadbeen left in France, and having to devote the remaining hours to longshopping expeditions withher 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 someinevitable hour; and thelast evening, at the theatre, between the overshadowing Marquise and theunsuspicious Owen, they had had an almost decisive exchangeof words.Now, in the rattle of the wind about his ears, Darrow continued tohear the mocking echo of her message: "Unexpected obstacle." In such anexistence asMrs. Leath's, at once so ordered and so exposed, he knewhow small a complication might assume the magnitude of an "obstacle;"yet, even allowing as impartiallyas his state of mind permitted forthe fact that, with her mother-in-law always, and her stepsonintermittently, under her roof, her lot involved a hundredsmallaccommodations generally foreign to the freedom of widowhood--even so,he could not but think that the very ingenuity bred of such conditionsmight have


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lothair, by Benjamin DisraeliThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: LothairAuthor: Benjamin DisraeliRelease Date: April, 2005  [EBook #7835]Posting Date: July 27, 2009Language: English*** START OFTHIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOTHAIR ***Produced by K. Kay ShearinLOTHAIRBy Benjamin DisraeliCHAPTER 1"I remember him a little boy," said theduchess, "a pretty little boy,but very shy. His mother brought him to us one day. She was a dearfriend of mine; you know she was one of my bridesmaids?""Andyou have never seen him since, mamma?" inquired a married daughter,who looked like the younger 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 rather savage 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 themorning-room of Brentham, where themistress of the mansion sat surrounded by her daughters, all occupiedwith various works. One knitted a purse, anotheradorned a slipper athird emblazoned a page. Beautiful forms in counsel leaned over framesembroidery, while two fair sisters more remote occasionally burstintomelody 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 greatestheiresses of Britain, singularlybeautify and gifted with native grace, had married in her teens one ofthe wealthiest and most powerful of our nobles, and scarcelyorder thanherself. Her husband was as distinguished for his appearance and hismanners as his bride, and those who speculate on race were interestedin watchingthe development of their progeny, who in form and color, andvoice, and manner, and mind, were a reproduction of their parents,who seemed only the elderbrother 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 werepresented, andimmediately married; and all to personages of high consideration. Afterthe first conquest, this fate seemed as regular as the order of Nature.Thencame a son, who was now at Christchurch, and then several others,some at school, and some scarcely out of the nursery. There was onedaughter unmarried, andshe was to be presented next season. Thoughthe family likeness was still apparent in Lady Corisande, in generalexpression she differed from her sisters. Theywere 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, anditsexpression was grave and perhaps pensive.The duke, though still young, and naturally of a gay and joyoustemperament, had a high sense of duty, and strongdomestic feelings. Hewas never wanting in his public place, and he was fond of his wife andhis children; still more, proud of them. Every day when he lookedintothe 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 wasaccustomed to say that 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 inwhich hisheart, in the bustle and tumult of existence, could take refuge.Brentham was the original seat of his family, and he was evenpassionately fond of it; butit 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 theseason was over, andhe would exact from his children, that, however short might be the time,they would be his companions under those circumstances. Thedaughtersloved 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 itmay seem, scarcely less attached to their legalparents, did not fall very easily into this arrangement. The countryin August without sport was unquestionably tothem a severe trial:nevertheless, they rarely omitted making their appearance, and, if theydid occasionally vanish, sometimes to Cowes, sometimes toSwitzerland,sometimes to Norway, they always wrote to their wives, and alwaysalluded to their immediate or approaching return; and their lettersgracefullycontributed to the fund of domestic amusement.And yet it would be difficult to find a fairer scene than Brenthamoffered, especially in the lustrous effulgence of aglorious Englishsummer. It was an Italian palace of freestone; vast, ornate, and inscrupulous condition; its spacious and graceful chambers filled withtreasures ofart, and rising itself from statued and stately terraces.At their foot spread a gardened domain of considerable extent, brightwith flowers, dim with coverts of rareshrubs, and musical withfountains. Its limit reached a park, with timber such as the midlandcounties only can produce. The fallow deer trooped among itsfernysolitudes and gigantic oaks; but, beyond the waters of the broad andwinding lake, the scene became more savage, and the eye caught the darkforms of thered deer on some jutting mount, shrinking with scorn fromcommunion with his gentler brethren.CHAPTER 2Lothair was the little boy whom the duchessremembered. He was aposthumous child, and soon lost a devoted mother. His only relation wasone of his two guardians, a Scotch noble--a Presbyterian and aWhig.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 fatherwas a keen, hard man, honorable and just but with nosoftness of heart or manner. He guarded with precise knowledge and withunceasing vigilance over Lothair'svast inheritance, which was in manycounties and in more than one kingdom; but he educated him in a Highlandhome, and when he had reached boyhood thoughtfit to send him to theHigh School of Edinburgh. Lothair passed a monotonous, if not a dull,life; but he found occasional solace in the scenes of a wild andbeautifulnature, and delight in all the sports of the field and forest,in which he was early initiated and completely indulged. Although anEnglishman, he was fifteen beforehe re-visited his country, and thenhis glimpses of England were brief, and to him scarcely satisfactory. Hewas hurried sometimes to vast domains, which he heardwere his own; andsometimes whisked to the huge metropolis, where he was shown St. Paul'sand the British-Museum. These visits left a vague impression ofbustlewithout kindness and exhaustion without excitement; and he was glad toget back to his glens, to the moor and the mountain-streams.His father, in theselection of his guardians, had not contemplatedthis system of education. While he secured by the appointment of hisbrother-in-law, the most competent andtrustworthy steward of his son'sfortune, he had depended on another for that influence which shouldmould the character, guide the opinions, and form the tastesof hischild. The other guardian was a clergyman, his father's private tutorand heart-friend; scarcely his parent's senior, but exercising overhim irresistibleinfluence, for he was a man of shining talents andabounding knowledge, brilliant and profound. But unhappily, shortlyafter Lothair became an orphan, thisdistinguished man seceded from theAnglican communion, and entered the Church of Rome. From this momentthere was war between the guardians. The uncleendeavored to drive hiscolleague from the trust: in this he failed, for the priest would notrenounce his office. The Scotch noble succeeded, however, in making itafruitless one: he thwarted every suggestion that emanated from theobnoxious quarter; and, indeed, the secret reason of the almost constantresidence of Lothairin Scotland, and of his harsh education, was thefear of his relative, that the moment he crossed the border he might, bysome mysterious process, fall under theinfluence that his guardian somuch dreaded and detested.There was however, a limit to these severe precautions, 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. His unclewas 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 conditionof the will. The uncle looked uponthis movement as a popish plot, and had recourse to every availableallegation 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 Catholic guardian,thelord-chancellor decided that Lothair should be sent to Christchurch.Here Lothair, who had never been favored with a companion of his ownage and station, soonfound a congenial one in the heir of Brentham.Inseparable in pastime, not dissociated even in study, sympathizingcompanionship soon ripened into ferventfriendship. They lived somuch together that the idea of separation became not only painful butimpossible; and, when vacation arrived, and Brentham was to bevisitedby its future lord, what more natural than that it should be arrangedthat Lothair should be a visitor to his domain?CHAPTER 3Although Lothair was thepossessor 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 hadbeen a guest at theoccasional banquets of his uncle; but these were festivals of thePicts and Scots; rude plenty and coarse splendor, with noise insteadofconversation, and a tumult of obstructive defendants, who impeded, bytheir want of skill, the very convenience which they were purposed tofacilitate. Howdifferent the surrounding scene! A table covered withflowers, bright with fanciful crystal, and porcelain that had belongedto sovereigns, who had given a name toits color or its form. Asfor those present, all seemed grace and gentleness, from the radiantdaughters of the house to the noiseless attendants that anticipatedallhis wants, and sometimes seemed to suggest his wishes.Lothair sat between two of the married daughters. They addressed himwith so much sympathy that hewas quite enchanted. When they asked theirpretty questions and made their sparkling remarks, roses seemed to dropfrom their lips, and sometimes diamonds. Itwas a rather large party,for the Brentham family were so numerous that they themselves madea festival. There were four married daughters, the duke and


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 norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: Rainbow ValleyAuthor: Lucy Maud MontgomeryRelease Date: March, 2004 [EBook #5343]This file was first posted on July 3, 2002LastUpdated: April 15, 2013Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAINBOW VALLEY ***Produced by Bernard J. Farber, CarmenBaxter, Dona Rucci,Elizabeth Morton, Rebekah Neely, Joe Johnson, Joan Chovan,Judith Fetterolf, Mary Nuzzo, Sally Drake, Sally Starks,Steve Callis, VirginiaMohlere-Dellinger, Mary MarkOckerbloom and Ben CrowderRAINBOW VALLEYBy L. M. MontgomeryAuthor of "Anne of Green Gables," "Anne of the Island," "Anne'sHouse ofDreams," "The Story Girl," "The Watchman," etc.________________________________________________________________________This book hasbeen put on-line as part of the BUILD-A-BOOK Initiative atthe Celebration of Women Writers through the combined 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, longthoughts."               --LONGFELLOWTO THE MEMORY OFGOLDWIN LAPP, ROBERT BROOKES AND MORLEY SHIERWHO MADE THE SUPREME SACRIFICE THAT THEHAPPY VALLEYS OF THEIR HOME LANDMIGHT BE KEPT SACRED FROM THE RAVAGE OF THE INVADERCONTENTS      I. Home Again     II. Sheer Gossip    III. TheIngleside Children     IV. The Manse Children      V. The Advent of Mary Vanse     VI. Mary Stays at the Manse    VII. A Fishy Episode   VIII. Miss CorneliaIntervenes     IX. Una Intervenes      X. The Manse Girls Clean House     XI. A Dreadful Discovery    XII. An Explanation and a Dare   XIII. The House on theHill    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 Charitable Impulse    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 WeirdTale    XXX. The Ghost on the Dyke   XXXI. Carl Does Penance  XXXII. Two Stubborn People XXXIII. Carl Is--not--whipped  XXXIV. Una Visits the Hill   XXXV. "Letthe Piper Come"RAINBOW VALLEYCHAPTER I. HOME AGAINIt was a clear, apple-green evening in May, and Four Winds Harbour wasmirroring back the clouds ofthe 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 for thirteen years, but evenyet more people referred to her as Miss Cornelia than as Mrs.Elliott. The old namewas dear to her old friends, only one of themcontemptuously dropped it. Susan Baker, the gray and grim and faithfulhandmaiden of the Blythe family atIngleside, 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 shallbe with 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 a famous medical congress in London; andcertain things, which Miss Cornelia was anxiousto discuss, had takenplace in the Glen during their absence. For one thing, there was a newfamily in the manse. And such a family! Miss Cornelia shook herheadover 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 atIngleside, enjoying the charm of the cat'slight, the sweetness of sleepy robins whistling among the twilit maples,and the dance of a gusty group of daffodilsblowing against the old,mellow, red brick wall of the lawn.Anne was sitting on the steps, her hands clasped over her knee, looking,in the kind dusk, as girlish as amother of many has any right to be;and the beautiful gray-green eyes, gazing down the harbour road, wereas full of unquenchable sparkle and dream 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 redhairand hazel eyes that were now buttoned up after the funny, wrinkledfashion in which Rilla always went to sleep.Shirley, "the little brown boy," as he was known inthe family "Who'sWho," was asleep in Susan's arms. He was brown-haired, brown-eyed andbrown-skinned, with very rosy cheeks, and he was Susan'sespeciallove. After his birth Anne had been very ill for a long time, and Susan"mothered" the baby with a passionate tenderness which none of the otherchildren,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 as much my baby as he is yours." And, indeed, it wasalways to Susan that Shirley ran, to be kissed for bumps, androckedto sleep, and protected from well-deserved spankings. Susan hadconscientiously spanked all the other Blythe children when she thoughtthey needed it fortheir 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 Shirleywith her to her brother's home during his parents'absence, while all the other children had gone to Avonlea, and she hadthree blessed months of him all toherself. Nevertheless, Susan was veryglad to find herself back at Ingleside, with all her darlings around heragain. Ingleside was her world and in it she reignedsupreme. 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 three months' 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--who has got born, ormarried, or drunk; who hasdied, 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 aboutthem. Why, Iremember wondering, as I walked through Westminster Abbey which of hertwo especial beaux Millicent Drew would finally marry. Do youknow,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 amrather interested in Millicent Drew's casemyself. I never had a beau, much less two, and I do not mind now, forbeing an old maid does not hurt when you getused 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.""That may very well be, Mrs. Dr. dear. The Good Book says that favour isdeceitful and beauty is vain, but I should not have mindedfinding thatout for myself, if it had been so ordained. I have no doubt we willall be beautiful when we are angels, but what good will it do us then?Speaking ofgossip, however, they do say that poor Mrs. Harrison Millerover harbour tried to hang herself last week.""Oh, Susan!""Calm yourself, Mrs. Dr. dear. She did notsucceed. 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 clearforhim to marry some other woman. If I had been in her shoes, Mrs. Dr.dear, I would have gone to work to worry him so that he would tryto hang himself insteadof me. Not that I hold with people hangingthemselves under any circumstances, Mrs. Dr. dear.""What is the matter with Harrison Miller, anyway?" saidAnneimpatiently. "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 using such 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 isfore-ordained to eternalpunishment. And then there are days when he says he does not care andgoes and gets drunk. My own opinion is that he is not sound inhisintellect, for none of that branch of the Millers were. His grandfatherwent out of his mind. He thought he was surrounded by big black spiders.They crawledover 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 anall-wise Providence should decreeit, 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 shereallydeserves pity or not. There are some who say she just married Harrisonto spite Richard Taylor, which seems to me a very peculiar reasonfor gettingmarried. 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 blessed brown babyon 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 dignified onSusan's--were over."Shirley is in bed and Jem and Walter and the twins are down in theirbeloved Rainbow Valley," saidAnne. "They just came home this afternoon,you know, and they could hardly wait until supper was over beforerushing down to the valley. They love it aboveevery 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 he wouldrather 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 MissCornelia."Enormous. Marilla does spoil them terribly. Jem, in particular, 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 hands were employed always had the advantageover


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Eagle Cliff, by R.M. BallantyneThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Eagle CliffAuthor: R.M. BallantyneRelease Date: November 6, 2007 [EBook #23373]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECTGUTENBERG EBOOK THE EAGLE CLIFF ***Produced by Nick Hodson of London, EnglandThe Eagle Cliff, by R.M.Ballantyne.________________________________________________________________________This is a truly delightful book by this prolific author.  I knowof noother of his books that leaves so many images in the mind, so freshafter many a year.  The scene starts with a young man cycling on hispenny-farthingtowards London.  On the way he has an accident, knockingdown an elderly lady, but fleeing the scene when he sees a policemancoming.  But when he gets homehe finds a telegram informing him thathis friends will be departing very soon in a yacht, to visit theislands on the North-West of Britain, so he joinsthem.Unfortunately there is a fog and the yacht is damaged but all the youngmen and their crew manage to get ashore, finding themselves in theneighbourhoodof a large house, the residence of a gentleman and hisfamily.  They are invited to stay there as his guests, and it is atthis point that the adventures begin,involving fishing, shooting,bird-watching, sailing and so forth.  There is a charming young ladyalso staying in the house, and deploying her hobby ofpainting.  Ourhero falls in love with her, but is very much taken aback when she isjoined by her mother, who turns out to be none other than the elderlylady hehad knocked down back in London.  Even more disastrous was thefire that destroyed the house.  This is a brilliant book, and you willlove it.As a footnote you maybe surprised that one of the children is calledJunkie.  This certainly does not mean that same as it does today:instead it is a nickname given to a favouriteboy-child, and you willfind several examples of this in Ballantyne'sbooks.________________________________________________________________________THE EAGLE CLIFF, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE.CHAPTER ONE.BEGINSTHE TALE--NATURALLY.From the earliest records of history we learn that man has ever beenenvious of the birds, and of all other winged creatures.  He haslongedand striven to fly.  He has also signally failed to do so.We say "failed" advisedly, because his various attempts in thatdirection have usually resulted indisappointment and broken bones.  Asto balloons, we do not admit that they fly any more than do ships;balloons merely float and glide, when not otherwiseengaged in tumbling,collapsing, and bursting.This being so, we draw attention to the fact that the nearest approachwe have yet made to the sensation of flying isthat achieved by rushingdown a long, smooth, steep hill-road on a well-oiled and perfectball-bearings bicycle!  Skating cannot compare with this, for thatrequiresexertion; bicycling down hill requires none.  Hunting cannot,no matter how splendid the mount, for that implies a certain element ofbumping, which, howeverpleasant in itself, is not suggestive of thesmooth swift act of flying.We introduce this subject merely because thoughts somewhat similar tothose which we haveso inadequately expressed were burning in the brainof a handsome and joyful young man one summer morning not long ago, as,with legs over the handles, heflashed--if he did not actually fly--downone of our Middlesex hills on his way to London.Urgent haste was in every look and motion of that young man's fineeyesand lithe body.  He would have bought wings at any price had that beenpossible; but, none being yet in the market, he made the most of hiswheel--afifty-eight inch one, by the way, for the young man's legs werelong, as well as strong.Arrived at the bottom of the hill the hilarious youth put his feet tothetreadles, and drove the machine vigorously up the opposite slope.It was steep, but he was powerful.  He breathed hard, no doubt, but henever flagged until hegained the next summit.  A shout burst from hislips as he rolled along the level top, for there, about ten miles off,lay the great city, glittering in the sunshine, andwith only anamber-tinted canopy of its usual smoke above it.Among the tall elms and in the flowering hedgerows between which heswept, innumerable birdswarbled or twittered their astonishment that hecould fly with such heedless rapidity through that beautiful country,and make for the dismal town in suchmagnificent weather.  One aspiringlark overhead seemed to repeat, with persistent intensity, its trill ofself gratulation that it had not been born a man.  Even thecattleappeared to regard the youth as a sort of ornithological curiosity, forthe sentiment, "Well, you are a goose!" was clearly written on theirmild faces as he flewpast them.Over the hill-top he went--twelve miles an hour at the least--until hereached the slope on the other side; then down he rushed again, drivingat the firstpart of the descent like an insane steam-engine, till thepace must have increased to twenty miles, at which point, the whirl ofthe wheel becoming too rapid, hewas obliged once more to rest his legson the handles, and take to repose, contemplation, and wiping his heatedbrow--equivalent this, we might say, to thefloating descent of thesea-mew.  Of course the period of rest was of brief duration, for,although the hill was a long slope, with many a glimpse oflovelinessbetween the trees, the time occupied in its flight was short, and, atthe bottom a rustic bridge, with an old inn and a thatched hamlet, withan awkwardlysharp turn in the road beyond it, called for wary andintelligent guidance of this lightning express.Swiftly but safely to the foot of the hill went John Barret (thatwasthe youth's name), at ever-increasing speed, and without check; for noone seemed to be moving about in the quiet hamlet, and the old Englishinn hadapparently fallen asleep.A delicious undulating swoop at the bottom indicates the crossing of thebridge.  A flash, and the inn is in rear.  The hamlet displays nosignof life, nevertheless Barret is cautious.  He lays a finger on the brakeand touches the bell.  He is half-way through the hamlet and all goeswell; still no sign oflife except--yes, this so-called proof of everyrule is always forthcoming, except that there is the sudden appearanceof one stately cock.  This is followedimmediately by its sudden andunstately disappearance.  A kitten also emerges from somewhere, glares,arches, fuffs, becomes indescribable, and--is not!  Two orthreechildren turn up and gape, but do not recover in time to insult, or toincrease the dangers of the awkward turn in the road which is now athand.Barret looksthoughtful.  Must the pace be checked here?  The road isopen and visible.  It is bordered by grass banks and ditches on eitherside.  He rushes close to the leftbank and, careering gracefully to theright like an Algerine felucca in a white squall, dares the laws ofgravitation and centrifugal force to the utmost limitation,anddescribes a magnificent segment of a great circle.  Almost before youcan wink he is straight again, and pegging along with irresistiblepertinacity.Just beyondthe hamlet a suburban lady is encountered, with claspedhands and beseeching eyes, for a loose hairy bundle, animated by thespirit of a dog, stands in the middleof the road, bidding defiance tothe entire universe!  The hairy bundle loses its head all at once,likewise its heart: it has not spirit left even to get out of the way.Amomentary lean of the bicycle first to the left and then to the rightdescribes what artists call "the line of beauty," in a bight of whichthe bundle remains behind,crushed in spirit, but unhurt in body.At the bottom of the next hill a small roadside inn greets our cyclist.That which cocks, kittens, dangers, and dogs could noteffect, the innaccomplishes.  He "slows."  In front of the door he describes an airycirclet, dismounting while yet in motion, leans the lightning expressagainst thewall, and enters.  What! does that vigorous, handsome,powerful fellow, in the flush of early manhood, drink?  Ay, truly hedoes."Glass of bitter, sir?" asks theexuberant landlord."Ginger," says the young man, pointing significantly to a bit of blueribbon in his button-hole."Come far to-day, sir?" asks the host, as he poursout the liquid."Fifty miles--rather more," says Barret, setting down the glass."Fine weather, sir, for bicycling," says the landlord, sweeping in thecoppers."Very;good-day."Before that cheery "Good-day" had ceased to affect the publican's brainBarret was again spinning along the road to London.It was the road on whichthe mail coaches of former days used to whirl,to the merry music of bugle, wheel, and whip, along which so many menand women had plodded in days gone by,in search of fame and fortune andhappiness: some, to find these in a greater or less degree, with much ofthe tinsel rubbed off, others, to find none of them, butinsteadthereof, wreck and ruin in the mighty human whirlpool; and not a few todiscover the fact that happiness does not depend either on fortune orfame, but onspiritual harmony with God in Jesus Christ.Pedestrians there still were on that road, bound for the same goal, and,doubtless, with similar aims; but mail and othercoaches had been drivenfrom the scene.Barret had the broad road pretty much to himself.Quickly he ran into the suburban districts, and here his urgent hastehadto be restrained a little."What if I am too late!" he thought, and almost involuntarily put on aspurt.Soon he entered the crowded thoroughfares, and wascompelled to curbboth steed and spirit.  Passing through one of the less-frequentedstreets in the neighbourhood of Finchley Road, he ventured to give therein tohis willing charger.But here Fortune ceased to smile--and Fortune was to be commended forher severity.Barret, although kind, courteous, manly, sensitive, andreasonablycareful, was not just what he ought to have been.  Although a hero, hewas not perfect.  He committed the unpardonable sin of turning a streetcornersharply!  A thin little old lady crossed the road at the sameidentical moment, slowly.  They met!  Who can describe that meeting?Not the writer, for he did not seeit; more's the pity!  Very few peoplesaw it, for it was a quiet corner.  The parties concerned cannot be saidto have seen, though they felt it.  Both went down.  Itwas awful,really, to see a feeble old lady struggling with an athlete and abicycle!Two little street boys, and a ragged girl appeared as if by magic.  Theyalwaysdo!"Oh!  I say!  Ain't he bin and squashed 'er?"Such was the remark of one of the boys."Pancakes is plump to 'er," was the observation of the other.The raggedgirl said nothing, but looked unspeakable things.Burning with shame, trembling with anxiety, covered with dust andconsiderably bruised, Barret sprang up, lefthis fallen steed, and,raising the little old lady with great tenderness in his arms, sat heron the pavement with her back against the railings, while he pouredoutabject apologies and earnest inquiries.Strange to say the old lady was not hurt in the least--only a good dealshaken and very indignant.Stranger still, a


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                           IT'S COMPLICATED                              Writtenby                             Nancy Meyers     FADE IN:1   EXT. BEACH HOUSE -MONTECITO, CALIFORNIA - DAY                1        A late afternoon sky, a red tile roof and the Santa Barbara    coast line frame this party of old friends. Atrio plays               Brazilian music as guests carry drinks and nibble on dessert.      2   CLOSE - ON A FOURSOME OFFRIENDS                              2    The Couple who live in this house, SALLY AND TED, drink    champagne as they chat with their closest friends, JANEAND            JAKE.    JANE is mid-fifties and has embraced that fact. She knows 50    is not the new 40 and because of that, she is stilldescribed    by all who know her as beautiful. Everything about this    woman's appearance screams "solid."    The years have been good to JAKE. He'snever lost his looks,    his killer smile, or his ability to charm. He lifts his    glass ofchampagne.                                                                         JAKE               Happy happyhappy...                         JANE                   (reminding him)               -- Anniversary.    Jake pauses, wryly turns to Jane, makingher smile.                         JAKE               Some things never change.                            SALLY               Thank


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                                                                OBSERVE ANDREPORT                                                                  Written by                                              JodyHill                                                                      FADEIN:                                                                       EXT. CAROLINA MALL - MORNING                    ONE LONG TRACKINGSHOT FROM THE BACK.                    A PERVERT in a trench coat runs along the edge of the          mall. A group of OLD WOMEN is coming towardthe MAIN          ENTRANCE. The Pervert opens his trench coat and flashes          the old women. They SCREAM!                    The Pervert ducks behindthe bushes and runs with the          skill of a Navy SEAL. A FAMILY is walking down the          sidewalk. The Pervert opens his trench coat andflashes          them.                    The Pervert ducks behind a dumpster. He keeps running          and sees a car driving by. The Pervert flashes theCAR.                    The Pervert takes a two-step run, sees ANOTHER LADY,          flashes her. He dives behind a car. Then pops up and          flashesANOTHER GIRL.                    It's an all-out Pervert assault!                    The Pervert then runs across the parking lot, jumps a          fence,and darts from the property -- vanishing as          quickly as a Ninja who just perfectly executed


The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Coming Race, by Edward Bulwer LyttonThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Coming RaceAuthor: Edward Bulwer LyttonRelease Date: February 18, 2006 [EBook #1951]Last Updated: August 28,2016Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: UTF-8*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COMING RACE ***Produced by Fred Ihde and DavidWidgerTHE COMING RACEby Edward Bulwer, Lord LyttonChapter I.I am a native of _____, in the United States of America. My ancestorsmigrated from England inthe reign of Charles II.; and my grandfatherwas not undistinguished in the War of Independence. My family,therefore, enjoyed a somewhat high social position inright of birth;and being also opulent, they were considered disqualified for the publicservice. My father once ran for Congress, but was signally defeated byhistailor. After that event he interfered little in politics, and livedmuch in his library. I was the eldest of three sons, and sent at the ageof sixteen to the old country,partly to complete my literary education,partly to commence my commercial training in a mercantile firm atLiverpool. My father died shortly after I wastwenty-one; and being leftwell off, and having a taste for travel and adventure, I resigned, fora time, all pursuit of the almighty dollar, and became adesultorywanderer over the face of the earth.In the year 18__, happening to be in _____, I was invited by aprofessional engineer, with whom I had madeacquaintance, to visit therecesses of the ________ mine, upon which he was employed.The reader will understand, ere he close this narrative, my reasonforconcealing all clue to the district of which I write, and will perhapsthank me for refraining from any description that may tend to itsdiscovery.Let me say, then,as briefly as possible, that I accompanied theengineer into the interior of the mine, and became so strangelyfascinated by its gloomy wonders, and so interestedin my friendsexplorations, that I prolonged my stay in the neighbourhood, anddescended daily, for some weeks, into the vaults and galleries hollowedby natureand art beneath the surface of the earth. The engineer waspersuaded that far richer deposits of mineral wealth than had yet beendetected, would be found in anew shaft that had been commenced underhis operations. In piercing this shaft we came one day upon a chasmjagged and seemingly charred at the sides, as ifburst asunder at somedistant period by volcanic fires. Down this chasm my friend causedhimself to be lowered in a cage, having first tested theatmosphereby the safety-lamp. He remained nearly an hour in the abyss. When hereturned he was very pale, and with an anxious, thoughtful expressionof face,very different from its ordinary character, which was open,cheerful, and fearless.He said briefly that the descent appeared to him unsafe, and leading tono result;and, suspending further operations in the shaft, we returnedto the more familiar parts of the mine.All the rest of that day the engineer seemed preoccupied bysomeabsorbing thought. He was unusually taciturn, and there was a scared,bewildered look in his eyes, as that of a man who has seen a ghost. Atnight, as wetwo were sitting alone in the lodging we shared togethernear the mouth of the mine, I said to my friend,--Tell me frankly what you saw in that chasm: I amsure it was somethingstrange and terrible. Whatever it be, it has left your mind in a stateof doubt. In such a case two heads are better than one. Confide inme.The engineer long endeavoured to evade my inquiries; but as, while hespoke, he helped himself unconsciously out of the brandy-flask to adegree to whichhe was wholly unaccustomed, for he was a very temperateman, his reserve gradually melted away. He who would keep himself tohimself should imitate the dumbanimals, and drink water. At last hesaid, I will tell you all. When the cage stopped, I found myself ona ridge of rock; and below me, the chasm, taking a slantingdirection,shot down to a considerable depth, the darkness of which my lamp couldnot have penetrated. But through it, to my infinite surprise, streamedupward asteady brilliant light. Could it be any volcanic fire? In thatcase, surely I should have felt the heat. Still, if on this there wasdoubt, it was of the utmost importanceto our common safety to clear itup. I examined the sides of the descent, and found that I could ventureto trust myself to the irregular projection of ledges, atleast for someway. I left the cage and clambered down. As I drew nearer and nearer tothe light, the chasm became wider, and at last I saw, to myunspeakableamaze, a broad level road at the bottom of the abyss, illumined as faras the eye could reach by what seemed artificial gas-lamps placed atregularintervals, as in the thoroughfare of a great city; and I heardconfusedly at a distance a hum as of human voices. I know, of course,that no rival miners are at workin this district. Whose could be thosevoices? What human hands could have levelled that road and marshalledthose lamps?The superstitious belief, common tominers, that gnomes or fiends dwellwithin the bowels of the earth, began to seize me. I shuddered at thethought of descending further and braving theinhabitants of this nethervalley. Nor indeed could I have done so without ropes, as from the spotI had reached to the bottom of the chasm the sides of the rocksank downabrupt, smooth, and sheer. I retraced my steps with some difficulty. NowI have told you all.You will descend again?I ought, yet I feel as if Idurst not.A trusty companion halves the journey and doubles the courage. I willgo with you. We will provide ourselves with ropes of suitable lengthandstrength--and--pardon me--you must not drink more to-night, our handsand feet must be steady and firm tomorrow.Chapter II.With the morning myfriends nerves were rebraced, and he was notless excited by curiosity than myself. Perhaps more; for he evidentlybelieved in his own story, and I feltconsiderable doubt of it; not thathe would have wilfully told an untruth, but that I thought he must havebeen under one of those hallucinations which seize on ourfancy or ournerves in solitary, unaccustomed places, and in which we give shape tothe formless and sound to the dumb.We selected six veteran miners to watchour descent; and as the cageheld only one at a time, the engineer descended first; and when he hadgained the ledge at which he had before halted, the cagerearose for me.I soon gained his side. We had provided ourselves with a strong coil ofrope.The light struck on my sight as it had done the day before onmyfriends. The hollow through which it came sloped diagonally: it seemedto me a diffused atmospheric light, not like that from fire, but softand silvery, as froma northern star. Quitting the cage, we descended,one after the other, easily enough, owing to the juts in the side, tillwe reached the place at which my friend hadpreviously halted, and whichwas a projection just spacious enough to allow us to stand abreast. Fromthis spot the chasm widened rapidly like the lower end of avast funnel,and I saw distinctly the valley, the road, the lamps which my companionhad described. He had exaggerated nothing. I heard the sounds hehadheard--a mingled indescribable hum as of voices and a dull tramp as offeet. Straining my eye farther down, I clearly beheld at a distance theoutline of somelarge building. It could not be mere natural rock, itwas too symmetrical, with huge heavy Egyptian-like columns, and thewhole lighted as from within. I had aboutme a small pocket-telescope,and by the aid of this, I could distinguish, near the building Imention, two forms which seemed human, though I could not be sure.Atleast they were living, for they moved, and both vanished within thebuilding. We now proceeded to attach the end of the rope we had broughtwith us to theledge on which we stood, by the aid of clamps andgrappling hooks, with which, as well as with necessary tools, we wereprovided.We were almost silent in ourwork. We toiled like men afraid to speak toeach other. One end of the rope being thus apparently made firm to theledge, the other, to which we fastened afragment of the rock, rested onthe ground below, a distance of some fifty feet. I was a younger man anda more active man than my companion, and havingserved on board ship inmy boyhood, this mode of transit was more familiar to me than to him. Ina whisper I claimed the precedence, so that when I gained theground Imight serve to hold the rope more steady for his descent. I got safelyto the ground beneath, and the engineer now began to lower himself.But he hadscarcely accomplished ten feet of the descent, when thefastenings, which we had fancied so secure, gave way, or rather therock itself proved treacherous andcrumbled beneath the strain; and theunhappy man was precipitated to the bottom, falling just at my feet,and bringing down with his fall splinters of the rock, oneof which,fortunately but a small one, struck and for the time stunned me. When Irecovered my senses I saw my companion an inanimate mass beside me,lifeutterly extinct. While I was bending over his corpse in grief andhorror, I heard close at hand a strange sound between a snort and ahiss; and turning instinctivelyto the quarter from which it came, I sawemerging from a dark fissure in the rock a vast and terrible head,with open jaws and dull, ghastly, hungry eyes--the headof a monstrousreptile resembling that of the crocodile or alligator, but infinitelylarger than the largest creature of that kind I had ever beheld in mytravels. Istarted to my feet and fled down the valley at my utmostspeed. I stopped at last, ashamed of my panic and my flight, andreturned to the spot on which I had leftthe body of my friend. Itwas gone; doubtless the monster had already drawn it into its den anddevoured it. The rope and the grappling-hooks still lay where theyhadfallen, but they afforded me no chance of return; it was impossible tore-attach them to the rock above, and the sides of the rock were toosheer and smoothfor human steps to clamber. I was alone in this strangeworld, amidst the bowels of the earth.Chapter III.Slowly and cautiously I went my solitary way down thelamplit road andtowards the large building I have described. The road itself seemed likea great Alpine pass, skirting rocky mountains of which the onethroughwhose chasm I had descended formed a link. Deep below to the left laya vast valley, which presented to my astonished eye the unmistakeableevidencesof art and culture. There were fields covered with a strangevegetation, similar to none I have seen above the earth; the colour ofit not green, but rather of a dulland leaden hue or of a golden red.There were lakes and rivulets which seemed to have been curved intoartificial banks; some of pure water, others that shonelike pools ofnaphtha. At my right hand, ravines and defiles opened amidst the rocks,with passes between, evidently constructed by art, and bordered bytreesresembling, for the most part, gigantic ferns, with exquisite varietiesof feathery foliage, and stems like those of the palm-tree. Others weremore like the